TO SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Since last I saw that countenance so mild,

Slow-stealing age, and a faint line of care,

Had gently touched, methought, some features there;

Yet looked the man as placid as a child,

And the same voice,— whilst mingled with the throng,

Unknowing, and unknown, we passed along,—

That voice, a share of the brief time beguiled!

That voice I ne'er may hear again, I sighed

At parting,— wheresoe'er our various way,

In this great world,— but from the banks of Tweed,

As slowly sink the shades of eventide,

Oh! I shall hear the music of his reed,

Far off, and thinking of that voice, shall say,

A blessing rest upon thy locks of gray!