And Love's own strain to him was given, To warble all its ecstasies With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd,— Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life's else bitter cup distill'd Who that has melted o'er his lay That smiled upon their mutual love Who that has felt forgets the song? Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan : His country's high-soul'd peasantry What patriot-pride he taught!-how much To weigh the inborn worth of man! And rustic life and poverty Grow beautiful beneath his touch. Him, in his clay-built cot, the muse Entranced, and show'd him all the forms Of fairy-light and wizard gloom, (That only gifted Poet views,) The Genii of the floods and storms, And martial shades from Glory's tomb. On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse The Swain whom BURNS's song inspires Beat not his Caledonian veins, As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs, With all the spirit of his sires, And all their scorn of death and chains? And see the Scottish exile tann'd By many a far and foreign clime, Bend o'er his homeborn verse, and weep a Burns was born in Clay-cottage, which his father had built with his own hands. In memory of his native land, With love that scorns the lapse of time, And ties that stretch beyond the deep. Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild, The soldier resting on his arms, The scenes that blest him when a child, And glows and gladdens at the charms Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls. O deem not, midst this worldly strife, An idle art the Poet brings: Let high Philosophy control And sages calm the stream of life, 'Tis he refines its fountain-springs, The nobler passions of the soul. It is the muse that consecrates The native banner of the orave, Unfurling at the trumpet's breath, Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates Το sweep the field or ride the wave, A sunburst in the storm of death. And thou, young hero, when thy pall Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume, And only tears of kindred fall, Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb, And greet with fame thy gallant shade? Such was the soldier-BURNS, forgive That sorrows of mine own intrude In verse like thine, oh! could he live, The friend I mourn'd the brave, the good Edward that died at Waterloo ! b b Major Edward Hodge of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers. Farewell, high chief of Scottish song! That couldst alternately impart Wisdom and rapture in thy page, And brand each vice with satire strong, Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, Whose truths electrify the sage. Farewell! and ne'er may Envy dare To wring one baleful poison drop From the crush'd laurels of thy bust: But while the lark sings sweet in air, Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, To bless the spot that holds thy dust. |