 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
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DRYBURGH ABBEY.
'Twas morn—but not the ray which falls the summer boughs among,
When beauty walks in gladness forth, with all her light and song;
'Twas morn—but mist and cloud hung deep upon the lonely vale,
And shadows, like the wings of death, were out upon the gale.
When beauty walks in gladness forth, with all her light and song;
'Twas morn—but mist and cloud hung deep upon the lonely vale,
And shadows, like the wings of death, were out upon the gale.
For He whose spirit woke the dust of nations into life—
That o'er the waste and barren earth spread flowers and fruitage rife—
Whose genius, like the sun, illumed the mighty realms of mind—
Had fled for ever from the fame, love, friendship of mankind!
That o'er the waste and barren earth spread flowers and fruitage rife—
Whose genius, like the sun, illumed the mighty realms of mind—
Had fled for ever from the fame, love, friendship of mankind!
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To wear a wreath in glory wrought his spirit swept afar,
Beyond the soaring wing of thought, the light of moon or star;
To drink immortal waters, free from every taint of earth—
To breathe before the shrine of life, the source whence worlds had birth!
Beyond the soaring wing of thought, the light of moon or star;
To drink immortal waters, free from every taint of earth—
To breathe before the shrine of life, the source whence worlds had birth!
There was wailing on the early breeze, and darkness in the sky,
When, with sable plume, and cloak, and pall, a funeral train swept by;
Methought—St. Mary shield us well!—that other forms moved there,
Than those of mortal brotherhood, the noble, young, and fair!
When, with sable plume, and cloak, and pall, a funeral train swept by;
Methought—St. Mary shield us well!—that other forms moved there,
Than those of mortal brotherhood, the noble, young, and fair!
Was it a dream?—how oft, in sleep, we ask, “Can this be true?”
Whilst warm Imagination paints her marvels to our view;—
Earth's glory seems a tarnished crown to that which we behold,
When dreams enchant our sight with things whose meanest garb is gold!
Whilst warm Imagination paints her marvels to our view;—
Earth's glory seems a tarnished crown to that which we behold,
When dreams enchant our sight with things whose meanest garb is gold!
Was it a dream?—methought the “dauntless Harold” passed me by—
The proud “Fitz-James,” with martial step, and dark intrepid eye;
That “Marmion's” haughty crest was there, a mourner for his sake;
And she,—the bold, the beautiful!—sweet “Lady of the Lake.”
The proud “Fitz-James,” with martial step, and dark intrepid eye;
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And she,—the bold, the beautiful!—sweet “Lady of the Lake.”
The “Minstrel” whose last lay was o'er, whose broken harp lay low,
And with him glorious “Waverley,” with glance and step of wo;
And “Stuart's” voice rose there, as when, 'mid fate's disastrous war,
He led the wild, ambitious, proud, and brave “Vich Ian Vohr.”
And with him glorious “Waverley,” with glance and step of wo;
And “Stuart's” voice rose there, as when, 'mid fate's disastrous war,
He led the wild, ambitious, proud, and brave “Vich Ian Vohr.”
Next, marvelling at his sable suit, the “Dominie” stalk'd past,
With “Bertram,” “Julia,” by his side, whose tears were flowing fast;
“Guy Mannering,” too, moved there, o'erpowered by that afflicting sight;
And “Merrilies,” as when she wept on Ellangowan's height.
With “Bertram,” “Julia,” by his side, whose tears were flowing fast;
“Guy Mannering,” too, moved there, o'erpowered by that afflicting sight;
And “Merrilies,” as when she wept on Ellangowan's height.
Solemn and grave, “Monkbarns” appeared, amidst that burial line;
And “Ochiltree” leant o'er his staff, and mourned for “Auld lang syne!”
Slow march'd the gallant “Mc. Intyre,” whilst “Lovel” mused alone;
For once, “Miss Wardour's” image left that bosom's faithful throne.
And “Ochiltree” leant o'er his staff, and mourned for “Auld lang syne!”
Slow march'd the gallant “Mc. Intyre,” whilst “Lovel” mused alone;
For once, “Miss Wardour's” image left that bosom's faithful throne.
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With coronach, and arms reversed, forth came “Mac Gregor's” clan—
Red “Dougal's” cry peal'd shrill and wild—“Rob Roy's” bold brow look'd wan:
The fair “Diana” kissed her cross, and bless'd its sainted ray;
And “Wae is me” the “Baillie” sighed, “that I should see this day!”
Red “Dougal's” cry peal'd shrill and wild—“Rob Roy's” bold brow look'd wan:
The fair “Diana” kissed her cross, and bless'd its sainted ray;
And “Wae is me” the “Baillie” sighed, “that I should see this day!”
Next rode, in melancholy guise, with sombre vest and scarf,
Sir Edward, Laird of Ellieslaw, the far-renowned “Black Dwarf;”
Upon his left, in bonnet blue, and white locks flowing free—
The pious sculptor of the grave—stood “Old Mortality!”
Sir Edward, Laird of Ellieslaw, the far-renowned “Black Dwarf;”
Upon his left, in bonnet blue, and white locks flowing free—
The pious sculptor of the grave—stood “Old Mortality!”
“Balfour of Burley,” “Claverhouse,” the “Lord of Evandale,”
And stately “Lady Margaret,” whose wo might nought avail!
Fierce “Bothwell” on his charger black, as from the conflict won;
And pale “Habakkuk Mucklewrath,” who cried “God's will be done!”
And stately “Lady Margaret,” whose wo might nought avail!
Fierce “Bothwell” on his charger black, as from the conflict won;
And pale “Habakkuk Mucklewrath,” who cried “God's will be done!”
And like a rose, a young white rose, that blooms mid wildest scenes,
Passed she,—the modest, eloquent and virtuous “Jeanie Deans;”
And “Dumbiedikes,” that silent laird, with love too deep to smile,
And “Effie,” with her noble friend, the good “Duke of Argyle.”
Passed she,—the modest, eloquent and virtuous “Jeanie Deans;”
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And “Effie,” with her noble friend, the good “Duke of Argyle.”
With lofty brow, and bearing high, dark “Ravenswood” advanced,
Who on the false “Lord Keeper's” mien with eye indignant glanced:—
Whilst graceful as a lonely fawn, 'neath covert close and sure,
Approached the beauty of all hearts—the “Bride of Lammermoor!”
Who on the false “Lord Keeper's” mien with eye indignant glanced:—
Whilst graceful as a lonely fawn, 'neath covert close and sure,
Approached the beauty of all hearts—the “Bride of Lammermoor!”
Then “Annot Lyle,” the fairy queen of light and song, stepped near,
The “Knight of Ardenvhor,” and he, the gifted Hieland Seer;
“Dalgetty,” “Duncan,” “Lord Monteith,” and “Ranald,” met my view;
The hapless “Children of the Mist,” and bold “Mhich-Connel Dhu!”
The “Knight of Ardenvhor,” and he, the gifted Hieland Seer;
“Dalgetty,” “Duncan,” “Lord Monteith,” and “Ranald,” met my view;
The hapless “Children of the Mist,” and bold “Mhich-Connel Dhu!”
On swept “Bois-Guilbert”—“Front de Bœuf”—“De Bracy's” plume of wo;
And “Cœur de Lion's” crest shone near the valiant “Ivanhoe;”
While soft as glides a summer cloud “Rowena” closer drew,
With beautiful “Rebecca,” peerless daughter of the Jew!
And “Cœur de Lion's” crest shone near the valiant “Ivanhoe;”
While soft as glides a summer cloud “Rowena” closer drew,
With beautiful “Rebecca,” peerless daughter of the Jew!
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Still onward like the gathering night advanced that funeral train—
Like billows when the tempest sweeps across the shadowy main;
Where'er the eager gaze might reach, in noble ranks were seen
Dark plume, and glittering mail and crest, and woman's beauteous mien!
Like billows when the tempest sweeps across the shadowy main;
Where'er the eager gaze might reach, in noble ranks were seen
Dark plume, and glittering mail and crest, and woman's beauteous mien!
A sound thrill'd through that length'ning host! methought the vault was clos'd,
Where, in his glory and renown, fair Scotia's bard reposed!
A sound thrill'd through that length'ning host! and forth my vision fled!
But, ah!—that mournful dream proved true,—the immortal Scott was dead!
Where, in his glory and renown, fair Scotia's bard reposed!
A sound thrill'd through that length'ning host! and forth my vision fled!
But, ah!—that mournful dream proved true,—the immortal Scott was dead!
The vision and the voice are o'er! their influence waned away
Like music o'er a summer lake at the golden close of day:
The vision and the voice are o'er!—but when will be forgot
The buried Genius of Romance—the imperishable Scott?
Like music o'er a summer lake at the golden close of day:
The vision and the voice are o'er!—but when will be forgot
The buried Genius of Romance—the imperishable Scott?
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