Lines to Sir Walter Scott, Bart.

Sound, my old Harp, thy boldest key
To strain of high festivity !
Can'st thou be silent in the brake,
Loitering by Altrive's mountain lake,
When he who gave the hand its sway
That now has tuned thee many a day,
Has gained thee honours, trulier won
Than e'er by sword of Albyn's son ?
High guerdon of a soul refined,
The meed of an exalted mind !
Well suits such wreath thy loyal head,
My counsellor, and friend in deed.
Though hard through life I've pressed my way
For many a chill and joyless day,
Since I have lived en rapt to hail
My sovereign's worth, my friend's avail,
And see what more I prize than gain,
Our Forest harp the bays obtain,
I'll ween I have not lived in vain.

Ah ! could I dream when first we met,
When by the scanty ingle set,
Beyond the moors where curlews wheel
In Ettrick's bleakest, loneliest sheil,
Conning old songs of other times,
Most uncouth chants and crabbed rhymes ;-
Could I e'er dream that wayward wight,
Of roguish joke, and heart so light,
In whose oft-changing eye I gazed,
Not without dread the head was crazed,
Should e'er, by genius' force alone,
Skim o'er an ocean sailed by none,
All the hid shoals of envy miss,
And gain such noble port as this ?

I could not: but I cherish still
Mirth at the scene, and ever will ;
When o'er the fells we took our way,
(Tis twenty years, even to a day,
Since we two sought the fabled urn
Of marble blue by Rankleburn) :
No tomb appeared ; but oft we traced
Towns, camps, and battle-lines effaced,
Which never were, nor could remain,
Save in the bold enthusiast's brain :
The same to us, — it turned our lays
To chiefs and tales of ancient days.
One broken pot alone was found
. Deep in the rubbish under ground,
In middle of the ancient fane ,
" A gallant helmet split in twain I"
The truth was obvious ; but in faith
On you all words werfe waste of breath ;
You only looked demure and sly,
And sore the brow fell o'er the eye ;
You could not bear that you should ride
O'er pathless waste and forest wide,
Only to say that you had beeii
To see that nought was to be seen.

The evenings came ; more social mirth
Ne'er flowed around the cottage hearth :
When Maitland's song first met your ear,
How the furled visage up did clear,
Beaming delight ! though now a shade
Of doubt would darken into dread
That some unskilled presumptuous arm
Had marred tradition's mighty charm.

Scarce grew thy lurking dread the less
Till she, the ancient Minstreless,
With fervid voice, and kindling eye,
And withered arms waving on high,
Sung forth these words in eldritch shriek,
While tears stood on thy nut-brown cheek —
" Na, we are nane o' the lads o' France,
Nor e'er pretend to be ;
We be three lads of fair Scotland,
Auld Maitland's sons, a' three !"

Thy fist made all the table ring, —
" By , Sir, but that is the thing !"

Yes, twenty years have come and fled
Since we two met, and time has shed

His riming honours o'er each brow —
My state the same, how changed art thou !
But every year yet overpast
I've loved thee dearer than the last ;
For all the volumes thou hast wrote,
Those that are owned, and that are not,
Let these be conned, even to a grain,
I've said it, and will say't again, —
Who knows thee but by these alone,
The better half is still unknown.

I know thee well — no kinder breast
Beats for the woes of the distrest,
Bleeds for the wounds it cannot heal,
Or yearns more o'er thy country's weal :
Thy love embraces Britain o'er,
And spreads and radiates with her shore ;
Scarce fading on her ocean's foam,
But still 'tis brightest nearest home,
Till those within its central rays,
Rejoicing, bask within the blaze.

Blessed be the act of sovereign grace
That raised thee 'bove the rhyming race ;
Blessed be the heart and head elate,
The noble generous estimate
That marked thy worth, and owned the hand
Resistless in its native land.
Bootless the waste of empty words,
Thy pen is worth ten thousand swords.

Long brook thy honours, gallant Knight,
So firm of soul, so staunch of right,
For had thy form but reached its prime,
Free from mischance in early time,
No stouter sturdier arm of weir
Had wielded sword or battle spear !

For war thy boardly frame was born,
For battle shout, and bugle-horn ;
Thy boyish feats, thy youthful dream —
How thy muse kindles at the theme !

Chance marred the path, or Heaven's decree ;
How blessed for Scotland and for me !

Scarce sounds thy name as 't did before, —
Walter the Abbot now no more :
Well, let it be, I'll not repine,
But love the title since 'tis thine.
Long brook thy honours, firm to stand
As Eildon rock ; and that thy land,
The first e'er won by dint of rhyme,
May bear thy name till latest time ;
And stretch from bourn of Abbot's-lea
To Philhope Cross, and Eildon Tree,
Is the heart's wish of one who's still
Thy grateful Shepherd of the hill !