Classic Poem

By Sir George Douglas, Bart.

By Tweed, by Teviot's winding tide,
A form I knew is miss'd to-day!
The woods, the field, the rocks abide,
But he has pass'd away —

Where, pensive — straying without an aim —
As now, once more, these paths I trace
(Familiar haunts found still the same),
I seek him in his place!

For seldom — (whether Tweed ran strong,
Discoloured, swoll'n with melting snows,
Awful with wrecks it bears along
'Twixt banks it overflows;

Whether, with summer-shrunken stream —
Where isles, before unknown, appear —
It sank in sloth, resign'd to dream) —
I failed to meet him here!

Indeed — by drought, fair skies, or flood —
So constant this his walk had been,
He seemed, when met in fancy's mood,
The Genius of the scene.

Or, even — with venerable beard;
In his right hand a willow-rod —
Late sighted where his name was fear'd
The very river-god!

His date was from that Golden Age
When, sprung from Hercules and Mirth,
In manhood and poetic rage,
Giants still dwelt on earth.

In mountain, water, field, and wood,
Their might was felt — empowered, at will,
The broods of earth, the sky, the flood,
To capture, tame, or kill.

Then, by the fair lake's margent clear,
What nights were theirs! how brave a feast!
Ranged all in order, peer by peer,
Where he was not the least.

Methinks the moon was full by night,
When Madness, madder than before,
Drank deep, and kept till broad daylight
That table in a roar!

But envying Time, with marksman's art,
Waging dire war, slew, one by one,
Their race large-limb'd and light of heart —
Till he remained alone:

And lingering, lonely, very old,
Saw baser times, and knew instead
Men in whose veins the blood ran cold,
With hearts where mirth was dead.

Yet still his peaceful craft he plied,
Haunting by river, lake, and rill —
With power to common men denied,
Assiduous, angling still,

Till all in wonderment cried out,
When he, at eve, his ploy forsook —
From head to heel, and round about,
Hung with the spoils he took!

He dipt his fingers in the flood
(I heard an ancient angler tell),
And, nibbling, straight the finny brood
Swarm'd at the charmer's spell.

And sometimes, too, with childlike glee,
In praise of stream and river-side,
He sang. A kindly man was he;
And so, in time, he died.

And thus, by Teviot's rolling flood,
His well-known form we miss to-day —
Gazing on river, field, and wood,
Whence he has passed away!

Dear poet! from that dead hand of thine,
I (oh! not rashly) born too late,
Claiming far kinship in the line,
This legacy await: —

To others other gifts: to me,
If I have praised thee here, at last,
Though ill, not unacceptably,
Thy poet's pipe be pass'd!

Now, sleep! Thy songs thou leavest with us:
Thy story be it our task to tell;
But thee, we now departing, thus,
Salute and bid " Farewell! "