Toll’d duly on the desert air,
And crosses deck’d thy summits blue.
Oft, like some lov’d romantic tale,
Oft shall my weary mind recall,
Amid the hum and stir of men,
Thy beechen grove and waterfall,
Thy ferry with its gliding sail,
And Her—the Lady of the Glen!
[Footnote 1: Loch-Lomond.]
[Footnote 2: A famous out-law.]
[Footnote 3: Signifying in the Erse language an Isthmus.]
[Footnote 4: Loch-Long.]
[Footnote 5: A phenomenon described by many navigators.]
Once more, enchanting girl, adieu!
I must be gone while yet I may,
Oft shall I weep to think of you;
But here I will not, cannot stay.
The sweet expression of that face.
For ever changing, yet the same,
Ah no, I dare not turn to trace.
It melts my soul, it fires my frame!
Yet give me, give me, ere I go,
One little lock of those so blest,
That lend your cheek a warmer glow,
And on your white neck love to rest.
—Say, when to kindle soft delight,
That hand has chanc’d with mine to meet,
How could its thrilling touch excite
A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?
O say—but no, it must not be.
Adieu! A long, a long adieu!
—Yet still, methinks, you frown on me;
Or never could I fly from you.
Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight,
Mingling with her thou lov’st in fields of light;
And, where the flowers of paradise unfold,
Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold.
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky,
Expand and shut with silent ecstasy!
—Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept!
And such is man; soon from his cell of clay
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!
VERSES WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. [Footnote 1]
Whoe’er thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.[Footnote 2]
There sleeps the dust of Him for ever gone;
How near the Scene where once his Glory shone!
And, tho’ no more ascends the voice of Prayer,
Tho’ the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful Dream that comes again,
Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,
Still do I see (while thro’ the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving Pomp along the shadowy Isle,
That, like a Darkness, fill’d the solemn Pile;
The illustrious line, that in long order led,
Of those that lov’d Him living, mourn’d Him dead;
Of those, the Few, that for their Country stood
Round Him who dar’d be singularly good;
All, of all ranks, that claim’d Him for their own;
And nothing wanting—but Himself alone!