128 ABBOTSFORD.
clasping tendrils, the overhanging ivy, the melan choly cypress, the mellow song of birds, the distant voice of Tweed, Gothic arches with their solemn shadow, and kindred dust reposing near, hallow the poet s tomb.
Master of Abbotsford !
Magician strange and strong ! Whose voice of power is heard
By an admiring throng, From court to peasant s cot,
We come, but thou art gone, We speak, thou answerest not,
Thy work is done.
Thou slumberest with the noble dead,
In Dryburgh s solemn pile, Amid the peer and warrior bold, And mitered abbots stern and old,
Who sleep in sculptured aisle, While Scotia s skies, with azure gleaming, Are through the oriel window streaming,
Where ivied mosses creep ; And clothed in symmetry sublime,
The moss-clad towers that mock at time, Their mouldering legends keep.
And yet, methinks, Melrose had spread Above her honor d minstrel s head,
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