On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for Naples

William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

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!