ABBOTSFORD. 131
And hunting-horn of border knight,
What were such gauds to me ? More dear had been one single word, From those whose veins thy blood had stirred
To Scotia s accents free.
Yet one there was in humble cell,
One poor retainer, lone and old, Who of thy youth remembered well,
And many a treasured story told ; While pride upon her wrinkled face
Mixed strangely with the trickling tear, As memory from its choicest place Brought forth, in wildly varied trace,
Thy boyhood s gambols dear ; Or pointed out, with withered hand, Where erst thy garden-seat did stand, When thou, returned from travel vain, Wrapped in thy plaid, and pale with pain,
Didst gaze with vacant eye, For stern disease had drained the fount
Of mental vision dry.
Ah ! what avails with giant power To wrest the trophies of an hour ; One moment write with flashing eye Our name on castled turrets high, And yield, the next, a broken trust, To earth, to ashes, and to dust.
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