A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For 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 might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue Than 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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHURCHILL'S GRAVE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE PROBLEM by RALPH WALDO EMERSON GROWN-UP by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE COLLAR-BONE OF A HARE by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ODE; SUNG BY THE CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS by W. T. ADAMS QUATORZAINS: 3. RIVULETS by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |