A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,Nor of the setting sun's pathetic lightEngendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:Spirits of Power, assembled there, complainFor kindred Power departing from their sight;While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,Saddens his voice again, and yet again.Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the mightOf the whole world's good wishes with him goes;Blessings and prayers in nobler retinueThan sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for Napleswritten by
© William Wordsworth