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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447592" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sir Walter Scott</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">DEAD!—it was like a thunderbolt <br>To hear that he was dead;<br>Though for long weeks the words of fear<br>Came from his dying bed;<br>Yet hope denied, and would deny—<br>We did not think that he could die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The poet has a glorious hold<br>Upon the human heart,<br>Yet glory is from sympathy<br>A light alone—apart;<br>But there was something in thy name,<br>Which touched us with a dearer claim</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The earnest feeling borne to thee<br>Was like a household tie,<br>A sunshine on our common life,<br>And from our daily sky.<br>Thy works are those familiar things<br>From which so much of memory springs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We talked of them beside the hearth,<br>Till every story blends<br>With some remembered intercourse<br>Of near and dearest friends,<br>Friends that in early youth were ours.<br>Connected with life's happiest hours.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How well I can recall the time<br>When first I turned thy page,<br>The green boughs closed above my head<br>A natural hermitage;<br>And sang a little brook along,<br>As if it heard and caught thy song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I peopled all the walks and shades<br>With images of thine;<br>The lime-tree was a lady's bower,<br>The yew-tree was a shrine:<br>Almost I deemed each sunbeam shone<br>O'er banner, spear, and morion.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Now, not one single trace is left<br>Of that sequestered nook;<br>The very course is turned aside<br>Of that melodious brook:<br>Not so the memories can depart,<br>Then garner'd in my inmost heart.<br>The past was his—his generous song<br>Went back to other days,<br>With filial feeling, which still sees<br>Something to love and praise,<br>And closer drew the ties which bind<br>Man with his country and his kind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It rang throughout his native land,<br>A bold and stirring song,<br>As the merle's hymn at matin sweet,<br>And as the trumpet strong:<br>A touch there was of each degree,<br>Half minstrel and half knight was he.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How many a lonely mountain glade<br>Lives in his verse anew,<br>Linked with associate sympathy,<br>The tender and the true;<br>For nature has fresh beauty brought,<br>When animate with life from thought.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis not the valley nor the hill,<br>Tho' beautiful they be,<br>That can suffice the heart, till touched<br>As they were touched by thee;<br>Thou who didst glorify the whole,<br>By pouring forth the poet's soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who now could stand upon the banks<br>Of thine own 'silver Tweed?'<br>Nor deem they heard thy 'warrior's horn,'<br>Or heard thy 'shepherd's reed?'<br>Immutable as Nature's claim,<br>The ground is hallowed by thy name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot bear to see the shelf<br>Where ranged thy volumes stand,<br>And think that mute is now thy lip,<br>And cold is now thy hand;<br>That, hadst thou been more common clay,<br>So soon thou hadst not passed sway,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For thou didst die before thy time,<br>The tenement o'erwrought,<br>The heart consumed by its desire,<br>The body worn by thought;<br>Thyself the victim of thy shrine,<br>A glorious sacrifice was thine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas, it is too soon for this—<br>The future for thy fame;<br>But now we mourn as if we mourned<br>A father's cherished claim.<br>Ah! time may bid the laurel wave—<br>We can but weep above thy grave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Letitia+Elizabeth+Landon">Letitia Elizabeth Landon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447592" data-title="Sir Walter Scott de Letitia Elizabeth Landon" data-description="DEAD!—it was like a thunderbolt 
To hear that he was dead;
Though for long weeks the words of fear
Came from his dying bed;
Yet hope denied, and would deny—
We did not think that he could die.

The poet has a glorious hold
Upon the human heart..."></div>
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