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 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 the 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 trod
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 THE SONS OF BURNS

AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER

"The Poet's grave is in a corner of the churchyard. We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses

'Is there a man whose judgment clear,' etc."

-Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-traveller.

'MID crowded obelisks and urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the bard, my heart still mourns
With sorrow true;

And more would grieve, but that it turns
Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill,

And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display;

If ye would give the better will
Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if the poet's wit ye share,
Like him can speed

The social hour, of tenfold care
There will be need;

For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you, and fool and rake
Your steps pursue;

And of your father's name will make
A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire,
And add your voices to the quire

That sanctify the cottage fire
With service meet;

There seek the genius of your sire,
His spirit greet ;

Or where 'mid "lonely heights and hows,"
He paid to Nature tuneful vows;
Or wiped his honourable brows
Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay
Let faith be given;

Nor deem that "light which leads astray
Is light from heaven.”

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your father such example gave,

And such revere ;

But be admonished by his grave,
And think, and fear!

ELLEN IRWIN ;

OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE 1

FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,

Was lovely as a Grecian maid

Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;

1 The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of Scotland, on the

banks of which the events here related took place.

Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there they did beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce had loved sincerely,

The Gordon loves as dearly.

But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses?
Alas that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;

Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce He launched a deadly javelin !

Fair Ellen saw it as it came,

And, starting up to meet the same,
Did with her body cover

The Youth, her chosen Lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love,
The mortal spear repelling.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain ;
And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish crescent.