The Genius of Scotland; or, Sketches of Scottish Scenery, Literature and ReligionTurnbull, Robert
Religion
The Genius of Scotland; or, Sketches of Scottish Scenery, Literature and Religion
Turnbull, Robert
Scotland -- Description and travel
He had expected, in the quiet of his father's home and in the vicinity
of his dear Lochleven, a restoration of health; but in this hope he was
disappointed. The mark of death was upon him. The heart of the beauteous
tree was poisoned by disease, and all its leaves faded and fell to the
ground. It was under the consciousness of this fact, that he wrote his
beautiful and affecting "Ode to Spring," which he sent to a dear friend
to apprise him of his approaching dissolution. The following are its
concluding stanzas.
Now spring returns: but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim in my breast, life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.
Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined,
And count the silent moments as they pass:
The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest;
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them at rest.
Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;
And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true;
Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu.
I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of wo;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly sleep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more.
Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound,
Where melancholy with still silence reigns,
And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.
There let me wander at the shut of eve,
When sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes;
The world and all its busy follies leave,
And talk with Wisdom where my Daphne lies.
There let me sleep, forgotten in the clay,
When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes;
Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,
Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.
He intimated his approaching death to another friend, in prose, as
affecting as his poetry, and if possible, more instructive.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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