To Sir Walter Scott. -

Since last I saw that countenance so mild, Slow-stealing age, and a faint line of care, Had gently touched, methought, some features there; Yet looked the man as placid as a child, And the same voice,—whilst mingled with the throng, Unknowing, and unknown, we passed along,— That voice, a share of the brief time beguiled! That voice I ne'er may hear again, I sighed At parting,—wheresoe'er our various way, In this great world,—but from the banks of Tweed, As slowly sink the shades of eventide, Oh! I shall hear the music of his reed, Far off, and thinking of that voice, shall say, A blessing rest upon thy locks of gray!