 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
Burns.—F. G. Halleck.
The memory of Burns—a name
That calls, when brimmed her festal cup,
A nation's glory, and her shame,
In silent sadness up.
That calls, when brimmed her festal cup,
A nation's glory, and her shame,
In silent sadness up.
A nation's glory—be the rest
Forgot—she's canonized his mind;
And it is joy to speak the best
We may of human kind.
Forgot—she's canonized his mind;
And it is joy to speak the best
We may of human kind.
164
I've stood beside the cottage bed
Where the bard-peasant first drew breath,
A straw-thatched roof above his head,
A straw-wrought couch beneath.
Where the bard-peasant first drew breath,
A straw-thatched roof above his head,
A straw-wrought couch beneath.
And I have stood beside the pile,
His monument—that tells to Heaven
The homage of earth's proudest isle
To that bard-peasant given.
His monument—that tells to Heaven
The homage of earth's proudest isle
To that bard-peasant given.
[OMITTED]
There have been loftier themes than his,
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres,
And lays lit up with Poesy's
Purer and holier fires.
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres,
And lays lit up with Poesy's
Purer and holier fires.
Yet read the names that know not death,—
Few nobler ones than Burns are there,
And few have won a greener wreath
Than that which binds his hair.
Few nobler ones than Burns are there,
And few have won a greener wreath
Than that which binds his hair.
His is that language of the heart,
In which the answering heart would speak,
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,
Or the smile light the cheek;
In which the answering heart would speak,
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,
Or the smile light the cheek;
And his, that music, to whose tone
The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cot or castle's mirth or moan,
In cold or sunny clime.
The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cot or castle's mirth or moan,
In cold or sunny clime.
[OMITTED]
What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
What wild vows falter on the tongue,
When “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,”
Or “Auld lang Syne” is sung!
What wild vows falter on the tongue,
When “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,”
Or “Auld lang Syne” is sung!
Pure hopes, that lift the soul above,
Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise,
And dreams of youth, and truth, and love,
With “Logan's” banks and braes.
Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise,
And dreams of youth, and truth, and love,
With “Logan's” banks and braes.
And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall,
All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call.
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall,
All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call.
165
Imagination's world of air,
And our own world, its gloom and glee,
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,
And death's sublimity.
And our own world, its gloom and glee,
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,
And death's sublimity.
[OMITTED]
Praise to the bard!—His words are driven,
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown,
Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven,
The birds of fame have flown.
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown,
Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven,
The birds of fame have flown.
Praise to the man!—A nation stood
Beside his coffin with wet eyes,
Her brave, her beautiful, her good,
As when a loved one dies.
Beside his coffin with wet eyes,
Her brave, her beautiful, her good,
As when a loved one dies.
And still, as on his funeral day,
Men stand his cold earth-couch around,
With the mute homage that we pay
To consecrated ground.
Men stand his cold earth-couch around,
With the mute homage that we pay
To consecrated ground.
And consecrated ground it is,
The last, the hallowed home of one
Who lives upon all memories,
Though with the buried gone.
The last, the hallowed home of one
Who lives upon all memories,
Though with the buried gone.
Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined,—
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.
Shrines to no code or creed confined,—
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.
Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed,
Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power,
And warriors, with their bright swords sheathed,
The mightiest of the hour;
Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power,
And warriors, with their bright swords sheathed,
The mightiest of the hour;
And lowlier names, whose humble home
Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star,—
Are there—o'er wave and mountain come,
From countries near and far;
Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star,—
Are there—o'er wave and mountain come,
From countries near and far;
Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have pressed
The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand,
Or trod the piled leaves of the West,
My own green forest-land.
The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand,
Or trod the piled leaves of the West,
My own green forest-land.
166
All ask the cottage of his birth,
Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,
And gather feelings not of earth
His fields and streams among.
Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,
And gather feelings not of earth
His fields and streams among.
They linger by the Doon's low trees,
And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr,
And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries!
The poet's tomb is there.
And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr,
And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries!
The poet's tomb is there.
But what to them the sculptor's art,
His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns?
Wear they not, graven on the heart,
The name of Robert Burns?
His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns?
Wear they not, graven on the heart,
The name of Robert Burns?
| The American common-place book of poetry | |