Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow, Loud rage, and fear's snatched whisper, quick and low; The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief, And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief; The change of voice, and emphasis that threw Light on obscurity, and brought to view Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood, Or mingled humors, terse and new, elude Common perception, as earth's smallest things To size and form the vesting hoar-frost brings, That seemed as if some secret voice, to clear 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!