The calm of evening o'er the dark pine wood Lay with an aureate glow, as we explored Thy classic precincts, hallowed Abbotsford! We felt thou wert the work, the abode of Him Whose fame hath shed a lustre on our age; The mightiest of the mighty! — o'er whose page Thousands shall hang, until Time's eye grow dim;— And then we thought, when shall have passed away The millions, now pursuing Life's career, And SCOTT himself is dust — how, lingering here, Pilgrims from all the lands of earth shall stray Amid thy massy ruins, and survey The scenes around, with reverential fear!
