 | The Modern Dunciad |  |
337
MONODY
ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.
In Dryburgh's deep romantic shade,
And ruins gray, with ivy crown'd,
A magic harp and wand are laid—
The minstrel sleeps his sleep profound:
Hush'd is the music of the glade,
The wand is broke, the spell unbound.
And ruins gray, with ivy crown'd,
A magic harp and wand are laid—
The minstrel sleeps his sleep profound:
Hush'd is the music of the glade,
The wand is broke, the spell unbound.
Ye stately turrets! arches dim!
Mourn not your ancient glories pass'd,
Though vocal once to choral hymn,
Now to the moanings of the blast!
Ye are become the shrine of him,
The noblest Druid, and the last.
Mourn not your ancient glories pass'd,
Though vocal once to choral hymn,
Now to the moanings of the blast!
Ye are become the shrine of him,
The noblest Druid, and the last.
Wit in her robe of fiction dress'd,
And fancy in her highest mood,
All that a blessing are, and bless'd—
The wise, the generous, and the good,
Shall each repair—a welcome guest,
As pilgrims to thy solitude.
And fancy in her highest mood,
All that a blessing are, and bless'd—
The wise, the generous, and the good,
Shall each repair—a welcome guest,
As pilgrims to thy solitude.
338
And call it not an idle dream,
That fairy footsteps print the ground
By lonely glen, and wizard stream;
That harps unseen a requiem sound,
And spirits by the moon's pale beam,
Their watchful vigils keep around;
That fairy footsteps print the ground
By lonely glen, and wizard stream;
That harps unseen a requiem sound,
And spirits by the moon's pale beam,
Their watchful vigils keep around;
That mountain, woodland, valley green,
To the hoarse breeze responsive sigh;
And soft and gentle dews at e'en
Weep to behold the poet die;
And Scotia, genius of the scene,
Joins the lament, the funeral cry.
To the hoarse breeze responsive sigh;
And soft and gentle dews at e'en
Weep to behold the poet die;
And Scotia, genius of the scene,
Joins the lament, the funeral cry.
For he was cradled in her arms,—
She nurs'd and rear'd the wondrous child;
Her rugged, stern, romantic charms,
Her tales of yore, and legends wild,
And deeds of chivalry and arms,
In youth's gay morn his hours beguil'd.
She nurs'd and rear'd the wondrous child;
Her rugged, stern, romantic charms,
Her tales of yore, and legends wild,
And deeds of chivalry and arms,
In youth's gay morn his hours beguil'd.
And as he trod the heather bloom,
By desert cave, or mountain-steep,
Some holy altar, banner'd tomb,
Or battled tower, or donjon-keep,—
A martyr's fate, a warrior's doom,
Have bade the pilgrim pause to weep.
By desert cave, or mountain-steep,
Some holy altar, banner'd tomb,
Or battled tower, or donjon-keep,—
A martyr's fate, a warrior's doom,
Have bade the pilgrim pause to weep.
339
And then he struck the ready lyre,
And sung the minstrel's parting lay;
And rapt with inspiration higher,
The feuds of Flodden's fatal day;
And bade with undiminish'd fire
The Knight of Snowdoun live for aye.
And sung the minstrel's parting lay;
And rapt with inspiration higher,
The feuds of Flodden's fatal day;
And bade with undiminish'd fire
The Knight of Snowdoun live for aye.
By guilt, despair, and madness driv'n,
A spirit rose at his command—
A fiend from hell, a saint from heav'n,—
And sparkling wit, and humour bland,
And patriot love, to him were giv'n,
For thee, fair Scotia, native land!
A spirit rose at his command—
A fiend from hell, a saint from heav'n,—
And sparkling wit, and humour bland,
And patriot love, to him were giv'n,
For thee, fair Scotia, native land!
His heart, inflexible and true,
Shone brightest in affliction's hour;
Though gentle as the morning dew,
That gems with silver drops the flower;
Heaven spares not the immortal few,
The tempest shakes the loftiest tower.
Shone brightest in affliction's hour;
Though gentle as the morning dew,
That gems with silver drops the flower;
Heaven spares not the immortal few,
The tempest shakes the loftiest tower.
Yet not alone does Scotia mourn
Her noblest son who sleeps beneath:
Assembled nations round his urn
The laurel with the cypress wreathe;
Where arctics freeze, and tropics burn,
A tear shall drop, a sigh shall breathe.
Her noblest son who sleeps beneath:
Assembled nations round his urn
The laurel with the cypress wreathe;
Where arctics freeze, and tropics burn,
A tear shall drop, a sigh shall breathe.
340
And woe is me! for I have seen
The glorious pile his genius rear'd;
The hall antique, superbly sheen!
The social hearth his presence cheer'd,
The classic bow'r, poetic scene,
His virtue, wisdom, wit endear'd.
The glorious pile his genius rear'd;
The hall antique, superbly sheen!
The social hearth his presence cheer'd,
The classic bow'r, poetic scene,
His virtue, wisdom, wit endear'd.
Have mark'd his eye with dewy lid
A tear distil, a smile unfold;
Have heard his voice, that welcome bid
In token of remembrance old,
Or long delay, or absence chid—
And press'd his hand that now is cold.
A tear distil, a smile unfold;
Have heard his voice, that welcome bid
In token of remembrance old,
Or long delay, or absence chid—
And press'd his hand that now is cold.
Not mine to build the lofty verse—
Yet had I left the song unsung,
(Garland unmeet for such a hearse!
Or lay for such a tuneful tongue!)
Of deep ingratitude the curse,
My harp had broke, my lyre unstrung.
Yet had I left the song unsung,
(Garland unmeet for such a hearse!
Or lay for such a tuneful tongue!)
Of deep ingratitude the curse,
My harp had broke, my lyre unstrung.
Ye ruin'd altars! shrines o'erthrown
By sacrilegious hands of old,
Now shapeless heaps of crumbling stone—
That sacred dust, that hallow'd mould
Shall make ye still a mark, and known,
When thrones have wan'd, and ages roll'd.
By sacrilegious hands of old,
Now shapeless heaps of crumbling stone—
That sacred dust, that hallow'd mould
Shall make ye still a mark, and known,
When thrones have wan'd, and ages roll'd.
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