Is greater than the greatest thing that lives—
Haloed by veneration, wonder, love—
Whose very tombs stand in life’s calendar
Eras of thought once seen. Is there an eye
Could coldly gaze on aught that bears a trace
Of Avon’s matchless master of the breast?
Who could approach old Dryburgh’s tombs, and feel not
The illustrious presence of his great compeer,
Whose tomb yet moistens with a nation’s woe,
Whose star is young in heaven? Or who can walk