Poems Sigourney 1834/Sir Walter Scott
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Magician of old Scotia's clime,
The sweet, the powerful, the sublime,
Whose lyre could rule even wrinkled care,
And stir the reverie of Despair,
Who shall its broken strings repair?
Who wake the lay, so high resounding
With clash of lance and war-horse bounding,
And bannered host, with trumpet shrieking,
And battle-field, in carnage reeking?
Who touch with cadence, soft and clear,
The minstrel song to lady's ear,
While the young moonbeam faintly throws
Its silver light o'er fair Melrose.
Then haughty Marmion's fitful strife,
The canvas glowing into life,
The gliding bark from hallowed shore,
That Hilda's cloistered maidens bore,
The dungeon vault, the stifled wail,
The sightless judge, the victim pale,
King James, amid the festive throng,
The wily Lady Heron's song,
The marshalled field, the stirring drum,
The smoke-wrapped hosts, that rushing come,
The fallen knight's forsaken sigh,
His reinless war-steed sweeping by—
Thy mighty strain the palm hath won
From earthquake-echoing Marathon,
And flaming Ilion's horrors yield
To pictured Flodden's fatal field.
Hush! 'tis old Alan's plaintive lay,
That faithful harper, sad and gray,
Hark! to black Roderick's boastful song,
That rolls the trosach-glens along,
And lo! with proud, unbending frame,
Comes Douglas forth, with Malcolm Graeme,
While she, by whose light footstep prest,
The uncrushed harebell rears its breast,
With brow averted, blushing, hears
A father's praise to lover's ears.
The spell is broke, the illusion fled,
And he, whose strong, enchanting wand
Made the rude mountains of his land,
The tiny lake, the tangled dell,
And outlaw's cave, and hermit's cell,
A classic haunt, a Mecca shrine,
To pilgrim throngs, a Palestine,
Is with the dead.