Eve's tinted shadows slowly fill the fane
Where Art has taken almost Nature's room,
While still two objects clear in light remain,
An alien pilgrim at an alien tomb.--
--A sculptured tomb of regal heads discrown'd,
Of one heart--worshipped, fancy--haunted, name,
Once loud on earth, but now scarce else renown'd
Than as the offspring of that stranger's fame.
There lie the Stuarts!--There lingers Walter Scott!
Strange congress of illustrious thoughts and things!
A plain old moral, still too oft forgot,--
The power of Genius and the fall of Kings.
The curse on lawless Will high--planted there,
A beacon to the world, shines not for him;
He is with those who felt their life was sere,
When the full light of loyalty grew dim.
He rests his chin upon a sturdy staff,
Historic as that sceptre, theirs no more;
His gaze is fixed; his thirsty heart can quaff,
For a short hour, the spirit--draughts of yore.
Each figure in its pictured place is seen,
Each fancied shape his actual vision fills,
From the long--pining, death--delivered, Queen,
To the worn Outlaw of the heathery hills.
O grace of life, which shame could never mar!
O dignity, that circumstance defied!
Pure is the neck that wears the deathly scar,
And sorrow has baptised the front of pride.
But purpled mantle, and blood--crimson'd shroud,
Exiles to suffer and returns to woo,
Are gone, like dreams by daylight disallow'd;
And their historian,--he is sinking too!
A few more moments and that labouring brow
Cold as those royal busts and calm will lie;
And, as on them his thoughts are resting now,
His marbled form will meet the attentive eye.
Thus, face to face, the dying and the dead,
Bound in one solemn ever--living bond,
Communed; and I was sad that ancient head
Ever should pass those holy walls beyond.
