Poetics :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Author, after various excursions through the finest parts of Scotland, is reminded of several Scottish poets, to whom the scenes which he visited, were once familiar: and while contemplating the shortness of life, he proclaims the triumph of Poetry.

Where is the King of Songs? He sleeps in death:
No more around him press the mail-clad throng;
He rolls no more the death-denouncing song:
Calm'd is the storm of war, and hush'd the poet's breath.
Ossian now sleeps: but still near Caron-stream
Resounds in Fancy's ear, his mournful lyre;
And oft where Clytha's crystal waters gleam,
Shall pilgrim poets burn with kindred fire:
The poet's eye rolls not;—but still his fame
Spreads wide, as, 'midst a cloud, shines forth the solar flame.

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Lermont, too, sleeps, tho' still at Melrose tower,
(By Scott so sweetly sung) methought I heard
The old minstrel's voice:—and he, who whilom cheer'd
The banks of Dee, shall cheer those banks no more;
(Nor there in friendly converse may I stray
With Dawnie, nor more weigh the sage remark
Of Ogilvie:) nor chanting on his way
Of Wallace, Henry wander poor and dark;
No more, tho' still his hero's name shall rise,
Suppliant the bard shall stroll, waking fond minstrelsies.

216

And where's old Scotland's chronicler? He's sped.
Some trace of ancient days still Leven shews:
Still frowns St. Rules, and near it ebbs and flows
Ocean; but Scotland's chronicler is dead.—
—And may not death spare kings? No: kings must fall;
Death scales alike the cot and regal seat;
Else James, as wont, had still grac'd bower and hall,
And charm'd his native fields with numbers sweet.
But still his Peblis lives, and Scotland pays,
Proud of one royal bard, the meed of rapturous praise.

Where now Dunbar? He too has run his race;
But glitters still The Golden Terge on high;
Nor shall the thunder-storm which sweeps the sky,
Nor lightning's flash, the glorious orb deface.

217

Dunkeld! no more the heaven-directed chant
Within thy sainted walls may sound again;
But thou, as once the poet's favorite haunt,
Shalt shine in Douglas's Virgilian strain;
While Time the crumbling castle undermines,
Tottering to its fall, and, lo! the roofless abbey pines.

Oh! Tweed, say do thy busy waters glide,
With patriot ardour, or with bigot rage?
In union dost thou distant friends engage?
Or flow, a boundary river to divide?

218

If love direct, flow on, thou generous stream;
Thy banks, oh! Tweed, I bless, and hail thee friend:
But, while thy waters serpent-winding gleam,
Should serpent treacheries on thy course attend,
Thy banks, disdainful, would I rove along,
Tho' every bard that sings should raise thee in his song.

But no—be mine, the critic's page to muse,
And trace the footsteps of a generous mind;
Be mine, to bind with chaplets Scotia's brows,
While England's bards shall Scotland's thoughts engage.
The Highland nymph shall melt with England's lays,
And English ears be charm'd with Scotland's song;
For, tho' near Hawthornden Esk sweetly strays,
More sweetly Drummond's numbers flow along.
Still, Ramsay, shall thy Gentle Shepherd please,
Still, Burns, thy rustic mirths, and amorous minstrelsies.

219

Oh! might I view again, with ravish'd sight,
As when with candid Anderson I stray'd,
And all the wonder-varying scene survey'd,
Sea, hills, and city fair, from Calton's height;
And hear, (for Scotland's rhimes, ah! soon may fail)
Some Ednam bard awake the trembling string;
Some tuneful youth of charming Tiviotdale;
Some Kelso songstress love's dear raptures sing.

220

Language may fail, but love shall never die,
Till beauty fails to charm, till love forgets to sigh.