Harboured where none can be misled, Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said That such are blest.
And oh for Thee, by pitying grace Checked ofttimes in a devious race, May He who halloweth the place Where Man is laid
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace For which it prayed!
Sighing I turned away; but ere Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, Music that sorrow comes not near, A ritual hymn,
Chaunted in love that casts out fear By Seraphim.
SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE.
'00 frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow Was wreathed-" The Vision " tells us how-
With holly spray,
He faltered, drifted to and fro,
And passed away.
Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng Our minds when, lingering all too long, Over the grave of Burns we hung In social grief-
Indulged as if it were a wrong To seek relief.
But, leaving each unquiet theme Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, And prompt to welcome every gleam Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid Stream Breathe hopeful air.
Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight; Think rather of those moments bright When to the consciousness of right His course was true,
When Wisdom prospered in his sight And Virtue grew.
Yes, freely let our hearts expand, Freely as in youth's season bland, When side by side, his Book in hand, We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command Of each sweet lay.
How oft inspired must he have trode These pathways, yon far-stretching road! There lurks his home; in that Abode, With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly-pensive mood, The Rustic sate.
Proud thoughts that Image overawes, Before it humbly let us pause, And ask of Nature, from what cause And by what rules
She trained her Burns to win applause That shames the Schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glen Are felt the flashes of his pen ; He rules mid winter snows, and when Bees fill their hives;
Deep in the general heart of men His power survives.
What need of fields in some far clime Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, And all that fetched the flowing rhyme From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time Folds up his wings?
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour,
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced for ever.
But why to Him confine the prayer, When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear On the frail heart the purest share With all that live ?-
The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.
(AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.)
WEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; that household lawn ; Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy Abode- In truth together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream: Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But, O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart; God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacèdness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind- Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull For thee, who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality : Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder Brother I would be,
Thy Father-anything to thee !
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