Heath flowers being a collection of poems, chiefly lyrical, written in the Highlands. By William Glen |
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TO The Memory OF BURNS. |
 | Heath flowers |  |
46
TO The Memory OF BURNS.
That day, O Albyn! set in woe,
When thy sweet Minstrel's spirit fled,
When towering Genius was laid low,
And numbered with the lonely dead;
Strew, lovely Albyn! o'er his head
The “Daizy,” when the spring returns;
For never, never was there laid
In earth, so sweet a bard as Burns.
When thy sweet Minstrel's spirit fled,
When towering Genius was laid low,
And numbered with the lonely dead;
Strew, lovely Albyn! o'er his head
The “Daizy,” when the spring returns;
For never, never was there laid
In earth, so sweet a bard as Burns.
Who now can his high task perform,
And warble where his Genius smiled?
Sweep on the whirlwind and the storm,
Or blythly sing when all is mild?
Sweet minstrel of the lonely wild!
Thy early fate demands a tear;
For, far from hope, from peace exiled,
Thy stay was short and troubled here.
And warble where his Genius smiled?
Sweep on the whirlwind and the storm,
Or blythly sing when all is mild?
Sweet minstrel of the lonely wild!
Thy early fate demands a tear;
For, far from hope, from peace exiled,
Thy stay was short and troubled here.
47
The fairy haunts of winding Doone
Will raise his wild notes full and strong,
Ayr's woody banks will swell the tune,
And Lugar the rich sound prolong:
The melody will roll along,
Mid Catrine groves, so lovely fair;
Mosgiel will bless his sweetest song,
For, O! he mourned the “Daizy” there.
Will raise his wild notes full and strong,
Ayr's woody banks will swell the tune,
And Lugar the rich sound prolong:
The melody will roll along,
Mid Catrine groves, so lovely fair;
Mosgiel will bless his sweetest song,
For, O! he mourned the “Daizy” there.
And Carrick, Cunningham, and Kyle,
Ye lovely gardens of the north!
He bade your heavenly beauties smile,
And called your richest graces forth,
Showed to the world your native worth,
And, ere he bade a last farewel,
He blest the loveliest spot on earth,
And flung o'er you his magic spell.
Ye lovely gardens of the north!
He bade your heavenly beauties smile,
And called your richest graces forth,
Showed to the world your native worth,
And, ere he bade a last farewel,
He blest the loveliest spot on earth,
And flung o'er you his magic spell.
Beats then a heart of Albyn here,
That doth not mourn the Minstrel's doom?
Is there an eye where dwells no tear,
A breast wherein no sigh hath room,
When looking thro' the dreary gloom,
That overhung our Poet's day?—
No! memory rests upon his tomb,
And, mournful, bows to sorrow's sway.
That doth not mourn the Minstrel's doom?
Is there an eye where dwells no tear,
A breast wherein no sigh hath room,
When looking thro' the dreary gloom,
That overhung our Poet's day?—
No! memory rests upon his tomb,
And, mournful, bows to sorrow's sway.
48
That day, O Albyn! set in woe,
When thy sweet Minstrel's spirit fled,
When towering Genius was laid low,
And numbered with the lonely dead:
Strew, lovely Albyn! o'er his head
The “Daizy,” when the spring returns;
For never, never was there laid
In earth, so sweet a bard as Burns.
When thy sweet Minstrel's spirit fled,
When towering Genius was laid low,
And numbered with the lonely dead:
Strew, lovely Albyn! o'er his head
The “Daizy,” when the spring returns;
For never, never was there laid
In earth, so sweet a bard as Burns.
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