ODE

ΤΟ

THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

SOUL of the Poet! wheresoe'er

Reclaim'd from earth thy genius plume

Her wings of immortality;

Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,

And with thine influence illume

The gladness of our jubilee.

And fly like fiends from secret spell,
Discord and strife, at BURNS's name,
Exorcis'd by his memory;

For he was chief of bards that swell

The heart with songs of social flame,
And high delicious revelry.

And Love's own strain to him was giv'n

To warble all its extacies,

With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd,

Love the surviving gift of Heaven,

The choicest sweet of Paradise

In life's else bitter cup distill'd.

Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul in Heav'n above,
But pictur'd sees in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smil'd upon their mutual love, —
Who that has felt forgets the song?

Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan

His country's high-soul'd peasantry
What patriot-pride he taught!—how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man!

And rustic life and poverty

Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him in his clay-built cot * the muse

Entranc'd and shew'd him all the forms,

Of fairy-light and wizard gloom,

(That only gifted Poet views,)

The Genii of the floods and storms,
And martial shades from glory's tomb.

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse
The Swain whom BURNS's song inspires ?
Beat not his Caledonian veins,

As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs,

With all the spirit of his sires,

And all their scorn of death and chains?

And see the Scottish exile tann'd

By many a far and foreign clime,

Bend o'er his homeborn verse and weep,

In memory of his native land,

With love that scorns the lapse of time,

And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

* Burns was born in Clay-cottage, which his father had built with his own hands.

Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild
The soldier resting on his arms,
In BURNS'S carrol sweet recals

The scenes that blest him when a child,
And glows and gladdens at the charms
Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.

O deem not, midst this worldly strife,
An idle art the Poet brings,

Let high Philosophy controul
And sages calm the stream of life,
'Tis he refines its fountain springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.

It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling at the trumpet's breath,
Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.

And thou, young hero, when thy pall

Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume,
When public grief begins to fade,

And only tears of kindred fall,

Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb,

And greet with fame thy gallant shade ?

Such was the soldier,- BURNS forgive
That sorrows of mine own intrude,
In strains to thy great memory due.

In verse like thine, Oh! could he live,
The friend I mourn'd-the brave, the good
Edward that died at Waterloo !*

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song,

That couldst alternately impart

Wisdom and rapture in thy page,
And brand each vice with satire strong,

Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,

Whose truths electrify the sage.

* Major Edward Hodge of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.