 | St. Augustine's Holiday and Other Poems |  |
125
ROBERT BURNS.
A Fragment.
Scotland, meet nurse of the poetic spirit,
Gave to the boy his lyre;
From whose wild heart her ballad-bards inherit
Their pathos and their fire.
Gave to the boy his lyre;
From whose wild heart her ballad-bards inherit
Their pathos and their fire.
She did but touch them with her inspiration,
Put harps into their hand;
There was enough of love, and indignation,
And legend in the land.
Put harps into their hand;
There was enough of love, and indignation,
And legend in the land.
To them the “gurly” ocean brought a wailing
Of girls in “kames o' goud;”
“Sir Patrick and our true loves are not sailing”
Home, for the sea's their shroud.
Of girls in “kames o' goud;”
“Sir Patrick and our true loves are not sailing”
Home, for the sea's their shroud.
Fair Elfland's Queen, when summer twilight brought her,
Rode through the diamond dew;
The jingling spurs were out by Eden water,
Moss-troopers not a few.
Rode through the diamond dew;
The jingling spurs were out by Eden water,
Moss-troopers not a few.
The slow pathetic strain went dying, dying,
Griefless at last to be,
Turf-happ'd and sound asleep, with Helen lying
On fair Kirkconnel lea.
Griefless at last to be,
Turf-happ'd and sound asleep, with Helen lying
On fair Kirkconnel lea.
126
She lends its crimson glory to the heather,
Mist wraps the hills afar,
Blends natural and human things together,
Storm, sunshine, love, and war.
Mist wraps the hills afar,
Blends natural and human things together,
Storm, sunshine, love, and war.
Mother of many songs on field and ocean,
Lost love that weeps and yearns,
Mother of homely faith and high devotion,
And most of Robert Burns.
Lost love that weeps and yearns,
Mother of homely faith and high devotion,
And most of Robert Burns.
All Scottish legends did his fancy fashion,
All airs that richly flow,
Laughing with frolic, tremulous with passion,
Broken with love-lorn woe:
All airs that richly flow,
Laughing with frolic, tremulous with passion,
Broken with love-lorn woe:
Ballads whose beauties years have long been stealing
And left few links of gold,
Under his quaint and subtle touch of healing
Grew fairer, not less old.
And left few links of gold,
Under his quaint and subtle touch of healing
Grew fairer, not less old.
Grey Cluden, and the vestals' choral cadence,
His might awoke therewith;
Till boatmen hung their oars to hear the maidens
Upon the banks of Nith.
His might awoke therewith;
Till boatmen hung their oars to hear the maidens
Upon the banks of Nith.
His, too, the strains of battle nobly coming
From Bruce, or Wallace wight,
Such as the Highlander shall oft be humming
Before some famous fight.
From Bruce, or Wallace wight,
Such as the Highlander shall oft be humming
Before some famous fight.
Nor only these—for him the hawthorn hoary
Was with new wreaths enwrought,
The crimson-tippèd daisy wore fresh glory,
Born of poetic thought.
Was with new wreaths enwrought,
The crimson-tippèd daisy wore fresh glory,
Born of poetic thought.
127
From the “wee cow'ring beastie” he could borrow
A moral strain sublime,
A noble tenderness of human sorrow,
In wondrous wealth of rhyme.
A moral strain sublime,
A noble tenderness of human sorrow,
In wondrous wealth of rhyme.
Oh but the mountain breeze must have been pleasant,
Upon the sunburnt brow
Of that poetic and triumphant peasant
Driving his laurell'd plough!
Upon the sunburnt brow
Of that poetic and triumphant peasant
Driving his laurell'd plough!
Him on whom Heav'n bestow'd the heart's fine flashes,
The lyrist's delicate art;
While man wrote out for symbol on his ashes
A broken lyre and heart.
The lyrist's delicate art;
While man wrote out for symbol on his ashes
A broken lyre and heart.
Yea, and himself of wassail, praise, and passion,
Drank deeply in his years,
And thereof for his future fame did fashion
A veil of smiles and tears.
Drank deeply in his years,
And thereof for his future fame did fashion
A veil of smiles and tears.
Smiles for the song that hath such rare beguilement,
Laughter, and love to win;
Tears for the dust, and ashes, and defilement,
Tears for the shame and sin.
Laughter, and love to win;
Tears for the dust, and ashes, and defilement,
Tears for the shame and sin.
O the wild wit that mars the holy hymning!
The stains upon the stole!
The spray-drops from the sea of passion dimming
The windows of the soul!
The stains upon the stole!
The spray-drops from the sea of passion dimming
The windows of the soul!
Hush! the man's sighs, his longings, and his laughter
Are silent now by Doun;
The music of the immortal song lives after,
A many mingled tune.
Are silent now by Doun;
The music of the immortal song lives after,
A many mingled tune.
128
And all at last, with solemn sweet surprises,
In anthems die away,
And o'er the glee of Tam O' Shanter rises
The “Cotter's Saturday.”
In anthems die away,
And o'er the glee of Tam O' Shanter rises
The “Cotter's Saturday.”
And from a multitude beside the river,
And on the mountain sod,
Sweetly goes up for ever, and for ever,
“Come, let us worship God.”
And on the mountain sod,
Sweetly goes up for ever, and for ever,
“Come, let us worship God.”
| St. Augustine's Holiday and Other Poems | |