. A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, <br /> Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light <br /> Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: <br /> Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain <br /> For kindred Power departing from their sight; <br /> While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, <br /> Saddens his voice again, and yet again. <br /> Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might <br /> Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; <br /> Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue <br /> Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, <br /> Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, <br /> Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, <br /> Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-departure-of-sir-walter-scott-from-abbots/
