 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
220
DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Dead! Is he then silent, and pale and cold,
Like common, unenveid clay?
That golden bowl broken, and loosed the hold
Of the silver cord?—as a tale that 's told,
Has that brilliant star passed away?
Like common, unenveid clay?
That golden bowl broken, and loosed the hold
Of the silver cord?—as a tale that 's told,
Has that brilliant star passed away?
Has the great magician so soon resigned
The wand that he used at will,
To move the springs of the strongest mind,
The deepest fount of the soul to find,
And the world by its touch to thrill?
The wand that he used at will,
To move the springs of the strongest mind,
The deepest fount of the soul to find,
And the world by its touch to thrill?
It parted the sable waves that sweep
Across oblivion's sea,
And brought up to light, from that fearful deep,
The things that for ages it had to keep,
In their primal identity.
Across oblivion's sea,
And brought up to light, from that fearful deep,
The things that for ages it had to keep,
In their primal identity.
It broke the seal of the secret tomb!—
It opened the graves of men,
It made their ashes their fire resume,
And touched them with beauty and life and bloom,
Till they breathed and they moved again!
It opened the graves of men,
It made their ashes their fire resume,
And touched them with beauty and life and bloom,
Till they breathed and they moved again!
Time! what hast thou to do with one,
Who knew not a wasted hour—
Whose pen with the sands of thy glass could run
And show at each turning a miracle done,
A work that defies thy power?
Who knew not a wasted hour—
221
And show at each turning a miracle done,
A work that defies thy power?
And bright is the lustre his hand has shed
O'er the world that must claim him still;
For, though from our vision his form has fled,
His mind is here, and we own not dead,
What death has not power to kill.
O'er the world that must claim him still;
For, though from our vision his form has fled,
His mind is here, and we own not dead,
What death has not power to kill.
No—while the earth for the tale of wo
Has a bosom to heave a sigh;
An eye to beam, or a heart to glow
At the debt of joy that to thee we owe,
Sir Walter, thou canst not die!
Has a bosom to heave a sigh;
An eye to beam, or a heart to glow
At the debt of joy that to thee we owe,
Sir Walter, thou canst not die!
Thou 'lt still give wings to the lonely hour,
A spell to the calm retreat,—
Thou 'lt be the charm in the lady's bower,
And life's rude path with many a flower
Bestrew for the pilgrim's feet!
A spell to the calm retreat,—
Thou 'lt be the charm in the lady's bower,
And life's rude path with many a flower
Bestrew for the pilgrim's feet!
Yes, mighty spirit! most warm and free
Are our thanks for so blest a lot,
As gave us our day upon earth with thee;
And thousands and thousands, yet to be,
Will honor the Shade of Scott!
Are our thanks for so blest a lot,
As gave us our day upon earth with thee;
And thousands and thousands, yet to be,
Will honor the Shade of Scott!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |