Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: Bellevue Cottage on Sunday the 2ist, to find him unconscious; and, at four o'clock on Monday morning, he passed into the painless life with a gentle sigh. He sleeps in the Kelso Cemetery, in a spot chosen some months before his death by himself, " where I can hear the Tweed," he said;—and five years later, the wife whom he had wooed with love so sudden and yet so true half a century before, was laid beside him. ELEGY ON THE LATE THOMAS TOD STODDART, By Sir George Douglas, Bart. By Tweed, by Teviot's winding tide, A form I knew is miss'd to-day ! The woods, the field, the rocks abide, But he has pass'd away— Where, pensive—straying without an aim— As now, once more, these paths I trace (Familiar haunts found still the same), I seek him in his place ! For seldom—(whether Tweed ran strong, Discoloured, swoll'n with melting snows, Awful with wrecks it bears along 'Twixt banks it overflows ; Whether, with summer-shrunken stream— Where isles, before unknown, appear— It sank in sloth, resign'd to dream)— I failed to meet him here ! Indeed—by drought, fair skies, or flood— So constant this his walk had been, He seemed, when met in fancy's mood, The Genius of the scene. Or, even—with venerable beard ; In his right hand a willow-rod— Late sighted where his name was fear'd The very river-god ! His date was from that Golden Age When, sprung from Hercules and Mirth, In manhood and poetic rage, Giants still dwelt on earth. A In mountain, water, field, and wood, Their might was felt—empowered, at will, The broods of earth, the sky, the flood, To capture, tame, or kill. Then, by the fair lake's margent clear, What nights were theirs ! how brave a feast! Ranged all in order, peer by peer, Where he was not ...