THE HALL OF GLENNAQUOICH.
o more the voice of feasting is heard amid those halls,
The grass grows o’er the hearthstone, the fern o’ertops the walls;
And yet those scenes are present, as they were of our age—
Such is the mighty mastery of one enchanted page.
The name of Scott awakens a world within the heart;
The scenes are not more real wherein ourselves have part.
Beneath the tree in sunshine—beside the hearth in snow,
What hours of deep enjoyment to him and his we owe!
And yet recall the giver—recall him as those saw
Before his glorious being obeyed our nature’s law;
His strength has soon departed—his cheek in sunk and wan—
He is, before his season, a worn and weary man.
The fine creative spirit that lit his path of yore,
Its light remains for others—it warms himself no more.
The long and toilsome midnight, the fever and the haste,
The trouble and the trial, have done their work of waste.
And such is still the recompense appointed for the mind,
That seeketh, with its eyes afar, the glory of its kind.
The poet yields the beautiful that in his being lives:
Unthankful, cold, and careless, are they to whom he gives.
They dwell amid his visions—for new delights they cry;
But he who formed the lovely may lay him down and die.
Then comes the carved marble—then late remorse is shown,
And the poet’s search for sympathy ends in a funeral stone.
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