 | The Poems of Robert Bloomfield |  |
Spirit of Burns! the daring child
Of glorious freedom, rough and wild,
How have I wept o'er all thy ills,
How blest thy Caledonian hills!
How almost worshipp'd in my dreams
Thy mountain haunts,—thy classic streams!
How burnt with hopeless, aimless fire,
To mark thy giant strength aspire
In patriot themes! and tuned the while
Thy “Bonny Doon” or “Balloch Mile.”
Spirit of Burns! accept the tear
That rapture gives thy mem'ry here
On the bleak mountain top. Here thou
Thyself hadst raised the gallant brow
Of conscious intellect, to twine
Th' imperishable verse of thine,
That charms the world. Or can it be,
That scenes like these were nought to thee?
That Scottish hills so far excel,
That so deep sinks the Scottish dell,
That boasted Pen-y-Vale had been
For thy loud northern lyre too mean;
Broad-shoulder'd Blorenge a mere knoll,
And Skyrid, let him smile or scowl,
A dwarfish bully, vainly proud,
Because he breaks the passing cloud?
If even so, thou bard of fame,
The consequences rest the same:
For, grant that to thy infant sight
Rose mountains of stupendous height;
Or grant that Cambrian minstrels taught
'Mid scenes that mock the lowland thought;
Grant that old Talliesen flung
His thousand raptures, as he sung
From huge Plynlimon's awful brow,
Or Cader Idris, capt with snow;
Such Alpine scenes with them or thee
Well suited.—These are Alps to me.
Of glorious freedom, rough and wild,
How have I wept o'er all thy ills,
How blest thy Caledonian hills!
How almost worshipp'd in my dreams
Thy mountain haunts,—thy classic streams!
How burnt with hopeless, aimless fire,
To mark thy giant strength aspire
In patriot themes! and tuned the while
Thy “Bonny Doon” or “Balloch Mile.”
Spirit of Burns! accept the tear
That rapture gives thy mem'ry here
On the bleak mountain top. Here thou
Thyself hadst raised the gallant brow
68
Th' imperishable verse of thine,
That charms the world. Or can it be,
That scenes like these were nought to thee?
That Scottish hills so far excel,
That so deep sinks the Scottish dell,
That boasted Pen-y-Vale had been
For thy loud northern lyre too mean;
Broad-shoulder'd Blorenge a mere knoll,
And Skyrid, let him smile or scowl,
A dwarfish bully, vainly proud,
Because he breaks the passing cloud?
69
The consequences rest the same:
For, grant that to thy infant sight
Rose mountains of stupendous height;
Or grant that Cambrian minstrels taught
'Mid scenes that mock the lowland thought;
Grant that old Talliesen flung
His thousand raptures, as he sung
From huge Plynlimon's awful brow,
Or Cader Idris, capt with snow;
Such Alpine scenes with them or thee
Well suited.—These are Alps to me.
| The Poems of Robert Bloomfield | |