# Scenes and Hymns of Life, with Other Religious Poems/The Funeral Day of Sir Walter Scott

THE
FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Many an eye May wail the dimming of our shining star. Shakspeare.
A glorious voice hath ceased!— Mournfully, reverently—the funeral chant Breathe reverently!—There is a dreamy sound, A hollow murmur of the dying year, In the deep woods:—Let it be wild and sad! A more Æolian melancholy tone Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing! For that is passing from the darken'd land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back— Though all her songs return.—The funeral chant Breathe reverently!—They bear the mighty forth, The kingly ruler in the realms of mind— They bear him through the household paths, the groves, Where every tree had music of its own To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love— And he is silent!—Past the living stream They bear him now; the stream, whose kindly voice On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hear— And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills, Which his own soul had mantled with a light Richer than autumn's purple, now they move— And he is silent!—he, whose flexile lips Were but unseal'd, and, lo! a thousand forms, From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height, In glowing life upsprang:—Vassal and chief, Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal, Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the wild huntsman's band. And still they live, To those fair scenes imperishably bound, And, from the mountain mist still flashing by, Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there To the seer's voice: phantoms of colour'd thought, Surviving him who raised.—O eloquence! O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead! Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past! And art thou there—to those dim nations join'd, Thy subject host so long?—The wand is dropp'd, The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand Touch'd, and the genii came!—Sing reverently The funeral chant!—The mighty is borne home— And who shall be his mourners?—Youth and age, For each hath felt his magic—love and grief, For he hath communed with the heart of each: Yes—the free spirit of humanity May join the august procession, for to him Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known:—from field or wave, Never was conqueror on his battle bier, By the vail'd banner and the muffled drum, And the proud drooping of the crested head, More nobly follow'd home.—The last abode, The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd: A still majestic spot! girt solemnly With all th' imploring beauty of decay; A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him With his bright fame to rest in, as a king Of other days, laid lonely with his sword Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant Over the honour'd grave!—the grave!—oh, say Rather the shrine!—An altar for the love, The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths Of years unborn—a place where leaf and flower, By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things—where every weed Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift From buried glory breath'd. And now, what strain,
Making victorious melody ascend High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid— The crown'd of men? A lowly, lowly song.
Lowly and solemn be Thy children's cry to thee,  Father divine! A hymn of suppliant breath, Owning that life and death  Alike are thine!
A spirit on its way, Sceptred the earth to sway,  From thee was sent: Now call'st thou back thine own— Hence is that radiance flown—  To earth but lent.
Watching in breathless awe, The bright head bow'd we saw,  Beneath thy hand! Fill'd by one hope, one fear, Now o'er a brother's bier,  Weeping we stand.
How hath he pass'd!—the lord Of each deep bosom chord,  To meet thy sight, Unmantled and alone, On thy blest mercy thrown,  O Infinite!
So, from his harvest home, Must the tir'd peasant come;  So, in one trust, Leader and king must yield The naked soul, reveal'd  To thee, All Just!
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!
Tremblers beside the grave, We call on thee to save,  Father divine! Hear, hear our suppliant breath, Keep us, in life and death,  Thine, only thine!