Janet Hamilton

1795-1873 / Scotland

The Seven Stars: A Constellation Of Scottish Poets

Sweet minstrel! from thy hermit's cell
Rich strains of sacred truth are flowing,
The haughty sceptic's pride to quell;
Thy harp is tuned to numbers glowing.

Bard of the grave; o'er death's domain
Thy awful muse for ever hovers,
Chaunting in sad and solemn strain
Each ghastly scene she there discovers.

Poet of hope, of love, and woe,
Of thought refined, and tender feeling,
Thy notes of love-sad, sweet, and low,
Swell high when Poland's wrongs revealing.

O weird and wild in legend old,
In dark tradition! dim and hoary-
Thy witching muse doth revel hold
In magic, song, and haunted story.

True child of nature, heir of fame,
On thy true heart the muse's altar
Burned high-the poet's, patriot's flame,
A fire unknown to fail or falter.

On Ettrick's banks, her Doric lays
The shepherd's Muse sat sweetly singing,
Till Scotia's raptured meed of praise
O'er all her hills and glens was ringing.

He sung of feudal halls and towers,
Of knights and chiefs, in olden story;
Of beauteous dames in tapestried bowers;
High chivalry and deeds of glory.
The heaven of song is studded o'er
With puny twinklers, faintly gleaming;
But these shall shine for evermore,
Bright in their native radiance beaming.
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