THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

The genial call dead Nature hears,

       And in her glory reappears.

       But oh! my country’s wintry state

       What second spring shall renovate?

       What powerful call shall bid arise

       The buried warlike and the wise;

       The mind that thought for Britain’s weal,

       The hand that grasped the victor steel?

       The vernal sun new life bestows

       Even on the meanest flower that blows;

       But vainly, vainly may he shine,

       Where glory weeps o’er Nelson’s shrine;

       And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,

       That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed tomb!

      Deep graved in every British heart,

       Oh never let those names depart!

       Say to your sons—Lo, here his grave,

       Who victor died on Gadite wave;

       To him, as to the burning levin,

       Short, bright, resistless course was given.

       Where’er his country’s foes were found,

       Was heard the fated thunder’s sound,

       Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,

       Rolled, blazed, destroyed—and was no more.

      Nor mourn ye less his perished worth,

       Who bade the conqueror go forth,

       And launched that thunderbolt of war

       On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;

       Who, born to guide such high emprize,

       For Britain’s weal was early wise;

       Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,

       For Britain’s sins, an early grave!

       His worth, who, in his mightiest hour,

       A bauble held the pride of power,

       Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf,

       And served his Albion for herself;

       Who, when the frantic crowd amain

       Strained at subjection’s bursting rein,

       O’er their wild mood full conquest gained,

       The pride he would not crush restrained,

       Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause,

       And brought the freeman’s arm to aid the freeman’s laws.

      Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power,

       A watchman on the lonely tower,

       Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,

       When fraud or danger were at hand;

       By thee, as by the beacon-light,

       Our pilots had kept course aright;

       As some proud column, though alone,

       Thy strength had propped the tottering throne:

       Now is the stately column broke,

       The beacon-light is quenched in smoke,

       The trumpet’s silver sound is still,

       The warder silent on the hill!

      Oh think, how to his latest day,

       When Death, just hovering, claimed his prey,

       With Palinure’s unaltered mood,

       Firm at his dangerous post he stood;

       Each call for needful rest repelled,

       With dying hand the rudder held,

       Till in his fall, with fateful sway,

       The steerage of the realm gave way!

       Then, while on Britain’s thousand plains

       One unpolluted church remains,

       Whose peaceful bells ne’er sent around

       The bloody tocsin’s maddening sound,

       But still, upon the hallowed day,

       Convoke the swains to praise and pray;

       While faith and civil peace are dear,

       Grace this cold marble with a tear -

       He who preserved them, Pitt, lies here!

      Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,

       Because his rival slumbers nigh;

       Nor be thy requiescat dumb,

       Lest it be said o’er Fox’s tomb.

       For talents mourn, untimely lost

       When best employed, and wanted most;

       Mourn genius high, and lore profound,

       And wit that loved to play, not wound;

       And all the reasoning powers divine,

       To penetrate, resolve, combine;

       And feelings keen, and fancy’s glow -

       They sleep with him who sleeps below:

       And if thou mourn’st they could not save

       From error him who owns this grave,

       Be every harsher thought suppressed,

       And sacred be the last long rest.

       HERE, where the end of earthly things

       Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;

       Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,

       Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung;

       HERE, where the fretted aisles prolong

       The distant notes of holy song,

       As if some angel spoke again,

       “All peace on earth, goodwill to men;”

       If ever from an English heart,

       Oh, HERE let prejudice depart,

       And, partial feeling cast aside,

       Record that Fox a Briton died!

       When Europe crouched to France’s yoke,

       And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,

       And the firm Russian’s purpose brave

       Was bartered by a timorous slave,

       Even then dishonour’s peace he spurned,

       The sullied olive-branch returned,

       Stood for his country’s glory fast,

       And nailed her colours to the mast!

       Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave

       A portion in this honoured grave,

       And ne’er held marble in its trust

       Of two such wondrous men the dust.

      With more than mortal powers endowed,

       How high they soared above the crowd!

       Theirs was no common party race,

       Jostling by dark intrigue for place;

       Like fabled gods, their mighty war

       Shook realms and nations in its jar;

       Beneath each banner proud to stand,

       Looked up the noblest of the land,

       Till through the British world were known

       The names of Pitt and Fox alone.

       Spells of such force no wizard grave

       E’er framed in dark Thessalian cave,

       Though his could