No Nightingale did ever chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian Sands :

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;-
I listened till I had my fill,
And when I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS,

1803.

SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.

I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold:
As vapours breathed from dungeons cold
Strike pleasure dead,

So sadness comes from out the mould
Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that's here
I shrink with pain;

And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.

Off weight-nor press on weight!-away Dark thoughts!-they came, but not to stay; With chastened feelings would I pay

The tribute due

To him, and aught that hides his clay
From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
He sang, his genius "glinted" forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,

Doth glorify its humble birth

With matchless beams.

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now?-
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
The prompt, the brave,

Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
And silent grave.

Well might I mourn that He was gone,
Whose light I hail'd when first it shone,
When, breaking forth as nature's own,
It showed my youth

How Verse may build a princely throne
On humble truth.

Alas! where'er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends,—
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends
By Skiddaw seen,-

Neighbours we were, and loving friends
We might have been :

True friends though diversely inclined; But heart with heart and mind with mind, Where the main fibres are entwined,

Through Nature's skill,

May even by contraries be joined
More closely still.

The tear will start, and let it flow;
Thou "poor Inhabitant below,"
At this dread moment-even so-
Might we together

Have sate and talked where gowans blow,
Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!

But why go on ?—

Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-grown.

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father's side,

Soul-moving sight!

Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight.

For he is safe, a quiet bed

Hath early found among the dead,
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 oft-times 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.

THOUGHTS

SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF

NITH, NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE.

Too frail to keep the lofty vow

That must have followed when his brow

Was wreathed-"The Vision" tells us how--
With holly spray,

He faultered, 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.