Classic Poem

Is Scotia's bard and great magician gone?
Has his exhaustless spirit winged away,
And left unstrung that lyre which was his own,
To hang in silence o'er his honoured clay.
No other fingers e'er shall on it play,
With half the skill with which he touched its strings;
Unlike his bones its tones shall ne'er decay,
While mankind breathe, or verdant nature springs,
Or Philomel her mimic midnight carol sings.

Yes, he is gone! the noble soul has fled.
To him who gave it in the highest heaven;
His kingly name enrolled is with the dead,
And to the icy urn his clay is given.
With pains and sickened heart long had he striven, —
That heart so full of feeling, love, and song,
But, ah! anon its golden cords were riven,
And soared away his shade on pinions strong,
To join the angelic choir, — bright, glorious, godly throng!

What has he left behind? a world of wonder!
An inexhaustible and princely store!
His fame has echo as the pealing thunder,
Or the wild winds which o'er the ocean roar.
And generations, yet unborn, shall pore
With eyes of rapture o'er his breathing page,
And sigh that such a genius is no more,"
Or that he eked not out a greater age —
He, whose magnetic pen could charm both gay or sage!

How sweetly has he sung of Ladye fair,
Of love, of revelry, and minstrel sound;
Or the return of some forgotten heir,
Who, at the last, his castle turrets found.
Or holy pilgrimage, through weary round
Of labyrinth, and cave, and wood, and dell,
Where subterraneous passages abound,
And Nature's works all artifice excel;
These, has he sung with truth, how wisely and how well!

And he has sung of lake and mountain-stream,
Of haunted halls, and many a gallant knight
Who passed not life away in empty dream,
But scion's who could flourish in the fight, —
Who wave on high the falchion gleaming bright,
And bade defiance to the Despot's laws; —
Who valued Freedom and their Homes aright,
And scorned to writhe like Lambs in vulture's claws,
Or suffer to be crushed as bones in Lion's jaws.

But his responsive bosom heaves not now,
His brilliant eyes shed not their mental light;
His portly look, and high expressive brow,
Are hid in the eternal shades of night. —
His thought-worn cheek is cold, his lips are white,
His chilly hands lie folded by his side,
And all the powers which in him did unite,
Have swam away on life's last ebbing tide,
Even while his virtuous Muse sate smiling in her pride!

No more his fingers grasp the magic pen,
Dipt in the stream of Helicon, — no more
His thoughts flow — as the gush of mountain glen —
Rich with the jewels of poetic lore. —
His fancy's wing unplumed no more shall soar,
High in the regions of airial bliss,
And thence return with more than golden store,
From where it gave the radiant sun a kiss,
Or rose from out the sea's deep, secret, dark abyss.

All these have ceased forever to exist,
The skeleton — grim Death! — has closed the strife,
And from the clayey mansion it possessed,
Has freed the soul from tasting mortal life. —
Where even among our sweets our sours are rife,
And toils and troubles mingle with our joys; —
Where haggard Care's too keenly pointed knife,
With sad and varied murmurings destroys,
And Pleasure's fleeting cup, our senses still annoys.

No monument need mark the honoured spot
Where thy blest relics solemnly repose,
No stately pile may be thy Memory's lot,
And tell thy noble breast no longer glows,
There be a greater dower, — a Nation's woes,
That monument which lingers in the heart,
And spreads thy praise in all its heaving, throes,
Without the learned assistance of an art,
And can to future life thy sacred worth impart.

Then rest thee weary frame, blest, doubly blest!
By kindred love, and washed by friendly tear;
What though the reptile-worms creep o'er thy breast,
And all that's loathsome revel round thy bier;
The soul may smile from yonder happy sphere,
On such vain trifles as afflict on earth,
And throw a pitying glance on those once dear
To it in hours of sorrow and of mirth,
Ere he had breathed adieu unto this lowly vale of birth.