Sir Walter’s memory, which, in spite of the slight failure of brain and the mild illusions to which, on the subject of his own prospects, he was now liable, had as yet been little impaired—­indeed, he could still quote whole pages from all his favourite authors—­must have recurred to those favourite Wordsworthian lines of his with singular force, as, with Wordsworth for his companion, he gazed on the refuge of the last Minstrel of his imagination for the last time, and felt in himself how much of joy in the sight, age had taken away, and how much, too, of the habit of expecting it, it had unfortunately left behind.  Whether Sir Walter recalled this poem of Wordsworth’s on this occasion or not—­and if he recalled it, his delight in giving pleasure would assuredly have led him to let Wordsworth know that he recalled it—­the mood it paints was unquestionably that in which his last day at Abbotsford was passed.  In the evening, referring to the journey which was to begin the next day, he remarked that Fielding and Smollett had been driven abroad by declining health, and that they had never returned; while Wordsworth—­willing perhaps to bring out a brighter feature in the present picture—­regretted that the last days of those two great novelists had not been surrounded by due marks of respect.  With Sir Walter, as he well knew, it was different.  The Liberal Government that he had so bitterly opposed were pressing on him signs of the honour in which he was held, and a ship of his Majesty’s navy had been placed at his disposal to take him to the Mediterranean.  And Wordsworth himself added his own more durable token of reverence.  As long as English poetry lives, Englishmen will know something of that last day of the last Minstrel at Newark:—­

    “Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,
      Their dignity installing
    In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
      Were on the bough or falling;
    But breezes play’d, and sunshine gleam’d
      The forest to embolden,
    Redden’d the fiery hues, and shot
      Transparence through the golden.

    “For busy thoughts the stream flow’d on
      In foamy agitation;
    And slept in many a crystal pool
      For quiet contemplation: 
    No public and no private care
      The free-born mind enthralling,
    We made a day of happy hours,
      Our happy days recalling.

* * * * *

    “And if, as Yarrow through the woods
      And down the meadow ranging,
    Did meet us with unalter’d face,
      Though we were changed and changing;
    If then some natural shadow spread
      Our inward prospect over,
    The soul’s deep valley was not slow
      Its brightness to recover.

    “Eternal blessings on the Muse
      And her divine employment,
    The blameless Muse who trains her sons
      For hope and calm enjoyment;
    Albeit sickness lingering yet
      Has o’er their pillow brooded,
    And care waylays their steps—­a sprite
      Not easily eluded.