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314

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE BURNS FESTIVAL.

Held at Ayr, August 6th, 1844.

“Him who walk'd in glory and in joy,
Following his plough along the mountain side.”
wordsworth.

Sweet Ayr sing gaily 'midst thy bowers,
Nith, murmur with thy gentlest roar,
Doon, “bonny Doon,” kiss all thy flowers,
Old Coila ring from shore to shore!
This glorious day, this heavenly hour,
Shall kindle through a nation's ranks!
All England, Europe, waft a shower
Of joyous, gratulating, thanks.
Scotland, he was thy noblest,—thine—
A Comet blazing in the skies:
If frail and human, still divine
With heaven's and Nature's sympathies
All fears, all hopes, all tenderness,
In Burns' bosom shared a part;
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The pangs that rend, the loves that bless
Possess'd in turns bold Robin's heart.
And, if along his dark career
Shone lurid gleams like hues of even,
'Twas such as gilds yon starry sphere,
Celestial splendour, “light from heaven.

Read the impressive and eloquent defence of Burns, by Burns himself,

“I saw thy pulse's maddening play,
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way,
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray,
By passion driven;
But yet the light that led astray
Was light from heaven.


Old Scotland's hills, her “banks and braes,”
Her branching woods, and silv'ry streams,
Her Hawthorn glades drank in the rays,
Like sunlight from a land of dreams.
Her peasants felt the bnrning glow,
Her maidens drank the rapturous flame—
Mid scorching suns, and frozen snow
Shines forth his beacon-light of fame!
Yea, Scotland's “symbol” spared by him
“I turn'd aside my weeding-hook
And spared the symbol dear.”

The daisy perch'd in Nature's nook,

See “Lines to a mountain-daisy, on turning one down with the Plough, in April, 1786.


The “primrose by the river's brim,”
Imbib'd heav'ns sunshine from his look.
Proud lords and ladies of renown
With humble peasants linger'd there,
And Poets weav'd the lilac-crown
For Burns, immortal Bard of Ayr!
Yes, Scotland's second Burns attended,
The seraph-lipp'd, the eagle-eyed
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Whilst rank, from lofty state descended,

The Earl of Eglintoun presided, and Professor Wilson, Editor of Blackwood's Magazine, occupied the Vice Chair,—a delightful union of nobility of rank and aristocracy of talent. A better selection than Professor Wilson could not have been made,—kindred with Burns in passion, genius, enthusiasm, and nobility of nature.


And sat with Wilson side by side.
Most festal, most triumphant sight!
The snow-white tents, the banner'd sky,
Gay cavalcades, processions bright,
And woman's soft approving eye.
And, Scotland, if despair's keen dart
E'er pierced thy Poet's manly frame,
If cold neglect disturb'd his heart,
This hour eradicates thy shame.
Pale Envy, Hatred's hideous brood,
Mean warfare with the loftiest wage,

See also Childe Harold:—

“He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
The loftiest heights are most enwrapt in snow,
He who surpasses or subdues mankind
Must look down on the hate of those below.

But, independent, unsubdued,
Burns eagle-like outsoar'd their rage.
Now, lo, as Ocean waves they come,
To wash the ungenerous stain away,
Whilst Burns from his cerulean home
Forgives them—for this glorious day.
Then fear not, ye of kindred clay,
Illumined with Promethean fire,
Though clouds obscure the heavenly ray,
And earthly dews relax your lyre.
Though hell-born Furies shriek with pain,
And lash you with a rod of flame,
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Your present loss is future gain,
And myriads yet shall bless your name.
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