The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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ELEGY ON STELLA |
 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
ELEGY ON STELLA
I
Strait is the spot, and green the sod,From whence my sorrows flow;
And soundly sleeps the ever dear
Inhabitant below.
II
Pardon my transport, gentle shade,While o'er the turf I bow!
Thy earthly house is circumscrib'd,
And solitary now!
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III
Not one poor stone to tell thy nameOr make thy virtues known!
But what avails to thee—to me—
The sculpture of a stone?
IV
I'll sit me down upon this turf,And wipe away this tear.
The chill blast passes swiftly by,
And flits around thy bier.
V
Dark is the dwelling of the dead,And sad their house of rest:
Low lies the head by Death's cold arm
In awful fold embraced.
VI
I saw the grim Avenger standIncessant by thy side;
Unseen by thee, his deadly breath
Thy lingering frame destroy'd.
VII
Pale grew the roses on thy cheek,And wither'd was thy bloom,
Till the slow poison brought thy youth
Untimely to the tomb.
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VIII
Thus wasted are the ranks of men—Youth, health, and beauty fall!
The ruthless ruin spreads around,
And overwhelms us all.
IX
Behold where, round thy narrow house,The graves unnumber'd lie!
The multitude, that sleep below,
Existed but to die.
X
Some with the tottering steps of AgeTrod down the darksome way;
And some in Youth's lamented prime,
Like thee, were torn away.
XI
Yet these, however hard their fate,Their native earth receives:
Amid their weeping friends they died,
And fill their fathers' graves.
XII
From thy lov'd friends, when first thy heart,Was taught by Heaven to glow,
Far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke
Surpris'd, and laid thee low.
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XIII
At the last limits of our Isle,Wash'd by the western wave,
Touch'd by thy fate, a thoughtful Bard
Sits lonely on thy grave!
XIV
Pensive he eyes, before him spread,The deep, outstretch'd and vast.
His mourning notes are borne away
Along the rapid blast.
XV
And while, amid the silent dead,Thy hapless fate he mourns,
His own long sorrows freshly bleed,
And all his grief returns.
XVI
Like thee, cut off in early youthAnd flower of beauty's pride,
His friend, his first and only joy,
His much-lov'd Stella died.
XVII
Him, too, the stern impulse of FateResistless bears along,
And the same rapid tide shall whelm
The Poet and the Song.
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XVIII
The tear of pity, which he shed,He asks not to receive:
Let but his poor remains be laid
Obscurely in the grave!
XIX
His grief-worn heart with truest joyShall meet the welcome shock;
His airy harp shall lie unstrung
And silent on the rock.
XX
O my dear maid, my Stella, whenShall this sick period close,
And lead the solitary Bard
To his belov'd repose?
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |