The raveled meaning, whispered in thine ear,
     And thou hadst e’en with him communion kept,
     Who hath so long in Stratford’s chancel slept;
     Whose lines, where nature’s brightest traces shine,
     Alone were worthy deemed of powers like thine;—­
     They who have heard all this, have proved full well
     Of soul-exciting sound the mightiest spell. 
     But though time’s lengthened shadows o’er thee glide,
     And pomp of regal state is cast aside,
     Think not the glory of thy course is spent,
     There’s moonlight radiance to thy evening lent,
     That to the mental world can never fade,
     Till all who saw thee, in the grave are laid. 
     Thy graceful form still moves in nightly dreams,
     And what thou wast, to the lulled sleeper seems;
     While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace
     Within her curtained couch thy wondrous face. 
     Yea; and to many a wight, bereft and lone,
     In musing hours, though all to thee unknown,
     Soothing his earthly course of good and ill,
     With all thy potent charm, thou actest still. 
     And now in crowded room or rich saloon,
     Thy stately presence recognized, how soon
     On thee the glance of many an eye is cast,
     In grateful memory of pleasures past! 
     Pleased to behold thee, with becoming grace,
     Take, as befits thee well, an honored place;
     Where blest by many a heart, long mayst thou stand,
     Among the virtuous matrons of our land!

A SCOTCH SONG

The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock’s in the sky,
And collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by. 
Oh no! sad and slow
And lengthened on the ground,
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound that I lo’e best,
Alack!  I canna’ hear. 
Oh no! sad and slow,
The shadow lingers still,
And like a lanely ghaist I stand
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi’ clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae her door,
To ca’ the bairnies in. 
Oh no! sad and slow,
These are na’ sounds for me,
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It creeps so drearily!

I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tarn,
A snood of bonny blue,
And promised when our trysting cam’,
To tie it round her brow. 
Oh no! sad and slow,
The mark it winna’ pass;
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tethered on the grass.

Oh, now I see her on the way,
She’s past the witch’s knowe,
She’s climbing up the Browny’s brae,
My heart is in a lowe! 
Oh no! ‘tis no’ so,
’Tis glam’rie I have seen;
The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move na’ mair till e’en.

My book o’ grace I’ll try to read,
Though conn’d wi’ little skill,
When collie barks I’ll raise my head,
And find her on the hill. 
Oh no! sad and slow,
The time will ne’er be gane,
The shadow of the trysting bush
Is fixed like ony stane.