FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
101
The sword of many a fight—
What then shall be its might?
The lofty lay,
That rush'd on eagle wing—
What shall its memory bring?
What hope, what stay?
O Father! in that hour,
When earth all succouring power
Shall disavow;
When spear, and shield, and crown,
In faintness are cast down—
Sustain us, Thou!
By Him who bow'd to take
The death-cup for our sake,
The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass away—
Aid us, O God!
