 | Robert Burns |  |
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ROBERT BURNS.
A CENTENARY SONG.
A vagrant Wild Flow'r, sown of God, out in the waste was born;It sprang up as a Corn-flow'r in the golden fields of Corn:
The Corn all strong and stately in its bearded bravery grew,—
Gathered the gold for harvest-time—grew ripe in sun and dew;
And when it bowed the head—as Wind and Shadow ran their race,
Like influences from Heaven come to Earth, for playing place—
It seem'd to look down on the Flower as in a smiling scorn,
Poor thing, you grow no food, no grain for garner! said the Corn.
The lonely Flow'r still bloomed its best, contented with its place,
God's blessing fell upon it as it lookt up in his face!
And there they grew together till the white-winged Reapers came—
The Sickles shining in their hands, their faces were aflame!
The Corn they reapt for earthly use, but an Angel fell in love
With that wild Flow'r, and wore it at the Harvest-home above.
Our world of Money-makers is that fabled field of Corn!
Our Poet is the sweet wild Flow'r that won their smiling scorn.
Burns came not to be richly clothed, and sumptuously fed;
He came to wear the hodden grey, and eat sweat-sweetened bread;
To live what only poor men know, and share their sternest lot;
He came to our tear-watered world, born in a Poor Man's Cot.
There, in the bonny Bairn-time, knelt he at his Mother's knee,
With such a face as might have drawn down saintly souls to see
The rosy Innocent at prayer, just ready to the hand
Of Slumber's guardian Angel for the blessed Silent land!
There young Love came and brought rare balms that do bewitch the blood,
And make it dance, while spirits sing, with life in hey-day flood!
And there she found her favourite Child, the robust, ruddy Muse,
Who gathered her brown health afield, and washt in Morning dews;
Aye, there she rockt his infant thought with Visions glorious
That hallow now the Poor Man's Cot for evermore to us.
Angelic playmates in disguise were those still dreams of youth
That drew it to great things, and there we find they live in truth.
He came to wear the hodden grey, and eat sweat-sweetened bread;
To live what only poor men know, and share their sternest lot;
He came to our tear-watered world, born in a Poor Man's Cot.
There, in the bonny Bairn-time, knelt he at his Mother's knee,
With such a face as might have drawn down saintly souls to see
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Of Slumber's guardian Angel for the blessed Silent land!
There young Love came and brought rare balms that do bewitch the blood,
And make it dance, while spirits sing, with life in hey-day flood!
And there she found her favourite Child, the robust, ruddy Muse,
Who gathered her brown health afield, and washt in Morning dews;
Aye, there she rockt his infant thought with Visions glorious
That hallow now the Poor Man's Cot for evermore to us.
Angelic playmates in disguise were those still dreams of youth
That drew it to great things, and there we find they live in truth.
Burns knew the sorrows of poor folks, and for their patient pain,
His soul was kind as Mercy's, and his words were soft as rain.
At the presence of Oppression in his face the white fire seethed,
But at the gentlest touch the lion lineament was sheathed.
His eyes, dilated large with heart, and flashing as the levin,
Grew sweet and clear, and calm and grand, as are the eyes of Heaven.
On hands and knees in Life's low ways the Poor must often creep
Where Manhood may not walk full height; and this made Robin weep.
Heaven-mirroring deep tenderness that big brave heart doth hold,
Meek as the beautiful blue lake which stern high Hills enfold;
And quick as Mother's milk at thrill of her Babe's touch, and strong,
It floods his heart, and fills his eyes, and overflows his song.
But none dare sneer that sees the tear in Burns's honest eye,
It tells you clearly that it comes from where the thunders lie!
Such passionate ardours quiver in the precious pearl of pain,
As lurks the spirit of lightning in the drop of tempest rain.
His soul was kind as Mercy's, and his words were soft as rain.
At the presence of Oppression in his face the white fire seethed,
But at the gentlest touch the lion lineament was sheathed.
His eyes, dilated large with heart, and flashing as the levin,
Grew sweet and clear, and calm and grand, as are the eyes of Heaven.
On hands and knees in Life's low ways the Poor must often creep
Where Manhood may not walk full height; and this made Robin weep.
Heaven-mirroring deep tenderness that big brave heart doth hold,
Meek as the beautiful blue lake which stern high Hills enfold;
And quick as Mother's milk at thrill of her Babe's touch, and strong,
It floods his heart, and fills his eyes, and overflows his song.
But none dare sneer that sees the tear in Burns's honest eye,
It tells you clearly that it comes from where the thunders lie!
Such passionate ardours quiver in the precious pearl of pain,
As lurks the spirit of lightning in the drop of tempest rain.
How Robin loved the noble land that gave such heroes birth,
Its wee blue bit of Heaven, and its dear green nook of Earth!
O'er which God droops a bridal veil of mist for softer grace,
To keep her beauty virginal and make more fair her face.
So stands she meek and reverent in the shadow of God's love,
More loveable than Lands whose brave, bold beauty stares above!
Auld Scotland's Music long had wailed and wailed about this land,
So yearning in her sweetness and so sorrowfully grand;
And many grieved to tears, yet could not tell what she would say,
But Robin wed her with his words, and they were one for aye.
Ah, how some old sweet cradle song the wandering heart still brings
Home, Home again, so strongly drawn in Love's own leading-strings!
Of all the Birds the Robin is the darling of the poor,
His nest is sacred, he goes free by window or by door;
His lot is very lowly, and his coat is homely brown,
But in the rainy day he sings when gayer birds have flown;
And hoarded up for us he brings in his breast of bonny red,
A gathered glory of the Springs and Summers long fled!
And so of all the Birds of Song to which the poor Man turns,
The darling of his listening love is gentle Robin Burns.
His summer soul our winter warms, makes glory in our gloom,
His nest is safe for ever in the poor man's home.
Its wee blue bit of Heaven, and its dear green nook of Earth!
O'er which God droops a bridal veil of mist for softer grace,
To keep her beauty virginal and make more fair her face.
So stands she meek and reverent in the shadow of God's love,
More loveable than Lands whose brave, bold beauty stares above!
Auld Scotland's Music long had wailed and wailed about this land,
So yearning in her sweetness and so sorrowfully grand;
And many grieved to tears, yet could not tell what she would say,
But Robin wed her with his words, and they were one for aye.
Ah, how some old sweet cradle song the wandering heart still brings
Home, Home again, so strongly drawn in Love's own leading-strings!
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His nest is sacred, he goes free by window or by door;
His lot is very lowly, and his coat is homely brown,
But in the rainy day he sings when gayer birds have flown;
And hoarded up for us he brings in his breast of bonny red,
A gathered glory of the Springs and Summers long fled!
And so of all the Birds of Song to which the poor Man turns,
The darling of his listening love is gentle Robin Burns.
His summer soul our winter warms, makes glory in our gloom,
His nest is safe for ever in the poor man's home.
His Ministrants of Music run where night is all so mirk,
You scarce can see the Devil in the Darkness at his work,
Or tell the face of friend from foe, but these song-spirits come
And bring some little light of heaven into the meanest home:—
Weave flowers of radiant relief in life's grey common woof,
And make the vine of Patience twine about the barest roof!
They set them singing at their work, or where no voice is found,
Out smiles the soft mind-music that is all too fine for sound.
The inner glow enriches life with tints of pictured bloom,
Like firelight warm upon the walls against the outer gloom.
On either side the hearth they glide into the seat of Care,
Make an immortal presence of abiding beauty there.
You scarce can see the Devil in the Darkness at his work,
Or tell the face of friend from foe, but these song-spirits come
And bring some little light of heaven into the meanest home:—
Weave flowers of radiant relief in life's grey common woof,
And make the vine of Patience twine about the barest roof!
They set them singing at their work, or where no voice is found,
Out smiles the soft mind-music that is all too fine for sound.
The inner glow enriches life with tints of pictured bloom,
Like firelight warm upon the walls against the outer gloom.
On either side the hearth they glide into the seat of Care,
Make an immortal presence of abiding beauty there.
More welcome than cool sods of earth, cut ere the sun be risen,
To the caged Lark, are Robin's songs in smoky City prison!
The Sailor warms his heart with them, out on the wintry sea,
The Serf stands up ennobled in the knighthood of the Free!
The Soldier sad on Midnight watch, or weary march by day,
Grows cheery at their tidings from the old land far away!
We hug the homestead closer and the fresh love-tendrils twine,
And make our clasp more fond for fear our dear ones we may tine.
When Hesper with his sparkling eye sees lovers face to face,
Where droopt lids shade a burning beauty with their shyer grace,
And husht and holy is the hour and silent is the Night
Lest even the breath of faery stir that poise so feather-light
In which two hearts are weighed for life, and like a humming hive,
The inner world of happiness with music grows alive,
There, as life aches so heart in heart, and hand in hand so yearns,
Love shakes his wings and soars and sings some song of Robin Burns.
Think how that poor worn Lucknow band listened across the strife,
And held the breath which seem'd their last they had to draw in life,
To hear the music asking in the battle pauses brief,
As Havelock and his mighty men swept on to their relief,
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot? through flaming hell we come
To keep the pledge so often given around the hearth at home!
We'll take a cup of kindness yet for Auld Lang Syne.
Aye, tho' that cup be filled with dear heart's blood instead of wine!
And here's a hand, my trusty friend:” and lo! the dear old Land
From out that smoke of carnage reacht and claspt them with her hand.
To the caged Lark, are Robin's songs in smoky City prison!
The Sailor warms his heart with them, out on the wintry sea,
The Serf stands up ennobled in the knighthood of the Free!
The Soldier sad on Midnight watch, or weary march by day,
Grows cheery at their tidings from the old land far away!
We hug the homestead closer and the fresh love-tendrils twine,
And make our clasp more fond for fear our dear ones we may tine.
When Hesper with his sparkling eye sees lovers face to face,
Where droopt lids shade a burning beauty with their shyer grace,
And husht and holy is the hour and silent is the Night
Lest even the breath of faery stir that poise so feather-light
In which two hearts are weighed for life, and like a humming hive,
The inner world of happiness with music grows alive,
There, as life aches so heart in heart, and hand in hand so yearns,
Love shakes his wings and soars and sings some song of Robin Burns.
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And held the breath which seem'd their last they had to draw in life,
To hear the music asking in the battle pauses brief,
As Havelock and his mighty men swept on to their relief,
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot? through flaming hell we come
To keep the pledge so often given around the hearth at home!
We'll take a cup of kindness yet for Auld Lang Syne.
Aye, tho' that cup be filled with dear heart's blood instead of wine!
And here's a hand, my trusty friend:” and lo! the dear old Land
From out that smoke of carnage reacht and claspt them with her hand.
Burns had the natural touch that thrills to the deep heart of things,
A rootage down to where Life feeds at the eternal springs.
Clear as this Magic Crystal in its shining Mirror shows
The dappling shadows of the clouds, the Dawnlight's ruddy rose,
The smiling sapphire of the noon, and Sundown's golden close,
The Midnight's burning bush of beauty where God's glory glows,—
Did he reflect the changeful looks that pass o'er Nature's face,
The grandeur and the homeliness, her glory and her grace.
And sweeter is the honey breath of heather on the wold!
And dearer is the bonny broom with its bloom of beamless gold.
The Daisy opes its eye, and straight from Nature's heart so true,
The tear of Burns peeps sparkling, an immortal drop of dew.
And Robin did not bend his soul till blind in search of pelf,
He did not walk worm-eaten with eternal thoughts of self!
In natural kingliness he stood before the Lords of earth,
And set the majesty of Man above the badge of Birth.
A rootage down to where Life feeds at the eternal springs.
Clear as this Magic Crystal in its shining Mirror shows
The dappling shadows of the clouds, the Dawnlight's ruddy rose,
The smiling sapphire of the noon, and Sundown's golden close,
The Midnight's burning bush of beauty where God's glory glows,—
Did he reflect the changeful looks that pass o'er Nature's face,
The grandeur and the homeliness, her glory and her grace.
And sweeter is the honey breath of heather on the wold!
And dearer is the bonny broom with its bloom of beamless gold.
The Daisy opes its eye, and straight from Nature's heart so true,
The tear of Burns peeps sparkling, an immortal drop of dew.
And Robin did not bend his soul till blind in search of pelf,
He did not walk worm-eaten with eternal thoughts of self!
In natural kingliness he stood before the Lords of earth,
And set the majesty of Man above the badge of Birth.
A hundred years ago to-day the glorious stranger came,
And men lookt up in wonder at the wild and wandering flame.
The fiercer the life-fire confined, with higher heave it breaks,
And higher will the mountain mind up-thrust its star-ward peaks;
Then often is the kindling flesh with its red lightnings riven,
And Earth holds up a radiant wreck to pray for healing Heaven.
But now we know that he was one of high and shining race;
All gone the mortal mists that dimmed the fair immortal face!
The splendour of a thousand suns follows the tearful rain
That ran adown his human cheeks, and there is no more pain:
All gone the sorrow and sadness! soil and stain away have passed,
High in the heaven of fame he sits quietly crowned at last!
The prowling Ghoul hath left his grave, and praying Pharisee;
His frailties fade, his virtues live, and work immortally.
And men lookt up in wonder at the wild and wandering flame.
The fiercer the life-fire confined, with higher heave it breaks,
And higher will the mountain mind up-thrust its star-ward peaks;
Then often is the kindling flesh with its red lightnings riven,
And Earth holds up a radiant wreck to pray for healing Heaven.
But now we know that he was one of high and shining race;
All gone the mortal mists that dimmed the fair immortal face!
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That ran adown his human cheeks, and there is no more pain:
All gone the sorrow and sadness! soil and stain away have passed,
High in the heaven of fame he sits quietly crowned at last!
The prowling Ghoul hath left his grave, and praying Pharisee;
His frailties fade, his virtues live, and work immortally.
Weep tears of exultation that the Peasant's princely son,
Born in an old Clay-Biggin, such a peerless throne hath won,
And such a crown so fair, so brave, thy Child hath wrought for Thee,
Thou gray old nurse of heroes! thou proud Mother Poverty!
Look up! and let the solemn tears be toucht with sparks of pride!
Look up! in his great glory we are also glorified!
Or weep the tears of sorrow that his brightness e'er should dim;
Then 't is the tear of sorrow brings us nearer unto him:
'T is here we touch his garment hem, 't is here the lowliest earns
The right to call him Brother, one of us, our Robin Burns.
In suffering's fire we always forge our dearest bond of love.
Ah, Robin! if God hear our prayer, 't is all made well above!
And you who comforted His poor in this world, have your home
With those He comforteth, His poor, in all the world to come.
Born in an old Clay-Biggin, such a peerless throne hath won,
And such a crown so fair, so brave, thy Child hath wrought for Thee,
Thou gray old nurse of heroes! thou proud Mother Poverty!
Look up! and let the solemn tears be toucht with sparks of pride!
Look up! in his great glory we are also glorified!
Or weep the tears of sorrow that his brightness e'er should dim;
Then 't is the tear of sorrow brings us nearer unto him:
'T is here we touch his garment hem, 't is here the lowliest earns
The right to call him Brother, one of us, our Robin Burns.
In suffering's fire we always forge our dearest bond of love.
Ah, Robin! if God hear our prayer, 't is all made well above!
And you who comforted His poor in this world, have your home
With those He comforteth, His poor, in all the world to come.
Dear Robin! could'st thou come again, how changed it all would be,
The proudest heart, the poorest home, would open now to thee!
Warm eyes would shine at windows, hands of welcome at the door
Would greet thee where they let thee pass so heedlessly of yore;
And they would have thee wear the Crown who bade thee bear the Cross,
They knew not of their glorious gain without the bitter loss!
How we would comfort thy distress, and wipe thy tears away,
By silent pressure of a hand, tell all the heart could say,
But strive to speak the words that make the measure of great grief—
In tears that suck the sting of soul—run over with relief:
Thy poor heart heaving like a sea that moaneth evermore,
And tries to creep into the caves of Rest, but finds no shore.
Poor heart! come rest thee, would we plead, come rest thee in the calm;
And we would bathe thy weary life with love's immortal balm:
The tremulous sweetness round thy mouth should smile as once it smiled,
Thou great strong man, with woman soul, and heart of a little Child.
The proudest heart, the poorest home, would open now to thee!
Warm eyes would shine at windows, hands of welcome at the door
Would greet thee where they let thee pass so heedlessly of yore;
And they would have thee wear the Crown who bade thee bear the Cross,
They knew not of their glorious gain without the bitter loss!
How we would comfort thy distress, and wipe thy tears away,
By silent pressure of a hand, tell all the heart could say,
But strive to speak the words that make the measure of great grief—
In tears that suck the sting of soul—run over with relief:
Thy poor heart heaving like a sea that moaneth evermore,
And tries to creep into the caves of Rest, but finds no shore.
Poor heart! come rest thee, would we plead, come rest thee in the calm;
And we would bathe thy weary life with love's immortal balm:
The tremulous sweetness round thy mouth should smile as once it smiled,
Thou great strong man, with woman soul, and heart of a little Child.
We cannot see your face, Robin! nor your free, fearless brow!
We cannot hear your voice, Robin! but you are with us now!
Altho' your mortal face is veiled behind the spirit-wings:
You draw us up as Heaven the Lark when its music in him sings:
You fill our souls with tender awe, you make our faces shine,
You brim our cup with kindness here for sake of Auld lang Syne.
We are all one at heart To-day because you join our hands,
While one electric feeling runs thro' all the English lands.
Each party wall doth fade or fall, and in our world-home we
United stand a Brother band, rooft with Infinity:
But near or far where Britons are the leal and true heart turns
More fond to the dear Fatherland for love of Robin Burns.
We cannot hear your voice, Robin! but you are with us now!
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You draw us up as Heaven the Lark when its music in him sings:
You fill our souls with tender awe, you make our faces shine,
You brim our cup with kindness here for sake of Auld lang Syne.
We are all one at heart To-day because you join our hands,
While one electric feeling runs thro' all the English lands.
Each party wall doth fade or fall, and in our world-home we
United stand a Brother band, rooft with Infinity:
But near or far where Britons are the leal and true heart turns
More fond to the dear Fatherland for love of Robin Burns.
| Robert Burns | |