On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for Naples

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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!

© William Wordsworth