THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
“Many an eye
May wail the dimming of our shining star.”—Shakspeare.
A glorious voice hath ceased!
Mournfully, reverently—the funeral chant
Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound,
A hollow murmur of the dying year,
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!
A more Æolian, melancholy tone
Than ever wail’d o’er bright things perishing!
For that is passing from the darken’d land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back—
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently! They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind;
They bear him through the household paths, the groves,
Where every tree had music of its own
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love—
And he is silent! Past the living stream
They bear him now; the stream whose kindly voice,
On alien shores, his true heart burn’d to hear—
And he is silent! O’er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn’s purple, now they move—
And he is silent!—he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal’d, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang,—vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast-rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the Wild Huntsman’s band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And, from the mountain-mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen’d there
To the seer’s voice: phantoms of colour’d thought,
Surviving him who raised. O eloquence!
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past!
And art thou there—to those dim nations join’d,
Thy subject-host so long? The wand is dropp’d,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch’d, and the genii came! Sing reverently
The funeral chant! The mighty is borne home,
And who shall be his mourners? Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic—love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each:
Yes—the free spirit of humanity
May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known. From field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle-bier,
By the veil’d banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow’d home. The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach’d:
A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly
With all th’ imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honour’d grave! The grave!—oh, say
Rather the shrine!—an altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn—a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things, where every weed
Shall have its portion of th’ inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now what strain
Making victorious melody ascend
High above sorrow’s dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway’d the nations thus is laid—
The crown’d of men?
A lowly, lowly song.
Lowly and solemn be
Thy children’s cry to thee,
Father divine!
A hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
Alike are thine!
A spirit on its way,
Sceptred the earth to sway,
From thee was sent:
Now call’st thou back thine own—
Hence is that radiance flown—
To earth but lent.
Watching in breathless awe,
The bright head bow’d we saw,
Beneath thy hand!
Fill’d by one hope, one fear,
Now o’er a brother’s bier
Weeping we stand.
How hath he pass’d!—the lord
Of each deep bosom-chord,
To meet thy sight,
Unmantled and alone,
On thy bless’d mercy thrown,
O Infinite!
So, from his harvest-home,
Must the tired peasant come;
So, in one trust,
Leader and king must yield
The naked soul reveal’d
To thee, All Just!
The sword of many a fight—
What then shall be its might?
The lofty lay
That rush’d on eagle wing—
What shall its memory bring?
What hope, what stay?
O Father! in that hour,
When earth all succouring power
Shall disavow;
When spear, and shield, and crown
In faintness are cast down—
Sustain us, Thou!
By Him who bow’d to take
The death-cup for our sake,
The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass away—
Aid us, O God!
Tremblers beside the grave,
We call on thee to save,
Father divine!
Hear, hear our suppliant breath!
Keep us, in life and death,
Thine, only thine!