Sonnets - Sir Walter Scott

The Bard of ancient lore! Like one forlorn, He turned, enamoured, to the silent Past; And searching down its mazes gray and vast, As you might find the blossom by the thorn, He found fair things in barren places cast And brought them up into the light of morn. Lo! Truth, resplendent, as a tropic dawn, Shines always through his wond'rous pictures! Hence The many quick emotions which are born Of an Imagination so intense! The chargers' hoofs come tearing up the sward— The claymores rattle in the restless sheath; You close his page, and almost look abroad For Highland glens and windy leagues of heath.