STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS,

BY EDWARD RUSHTON.

POOR wildly sweet uncultur'd flow'r,
Thou lowliest of the Muse's bow'r,

"Stern ruin's ploughshare, 'mang the stowre, "Has crush'd thy stem,"

"And sorrowing verse shall mark the hour, "Thou bonnie gem."

'Neath the green turf, dear Nature's child,
Sublime, pathetic, artless, wild,

Of all thy quips and cranks despoil'd,
Cold dost thou lie!

And many a youth and maiden mild
Shall o'er thee sigh!

Those pow'rs that eagle-wing'd could soar,
That heart which ne'er was cold before,
That tongue which caus'd the table roar,
Are now laid low,

And Scotia's sons shall hear no more
Thy rapt'rous flow.

Warm'd with " a spark o' Nature's fire,"
From the rough plough thou didst aspire

To make a sordid world admire;

And few like thee,

Oh! BURNS, have swept the minstrel's lyre With ecstasy.

Ere winter's icy vapours fail,
The violet in the uncultur'd dale,
So sweetly scents the passing gale,
That shepherd boys,

Led by the fragrance they inhale,

Soon find their prize.

So when to life's chill glens confin’d,
Thy rich, tho' rough untutor'd mind,
Pour'd on the sense of each rude hind
Such sonsy lays,

That to thy brow was soon assign'd
The wreath of praise.

Anon, with nobler daring blest,

The wild notes throbbing at thy breast,
Of friends, wealth, learning unpossess'd,
Thy fervid mind

Tow'rds fame's proud turrets boldy press'd,
And pleas'd mankind.

But what avail'd thy pow'rs to please, When want approach'd and pale disease; Could these thy infant brood appease

That wail'd for bread?

Or could they, for a moment, ease

Thy wo-worn head?

Applause, poor child of minstrelsy,
Was all the world e'er gave to thee;
Unmov'd, by pinching penury

They saw thee torn,

And now, kind souls! with sympathy,

Thy loss they mourn.

Oh how I loath the bloated train,
Who oft had heard thy dulcet strain;
Yet, when thy frame was rack'd with pain,

Could keep aloof,

And eye with opulent disdain

Thy lowly roof.

Yes, proud Dumfries, oh! would to Heaven Thou hadst from that cold spot been driven, Thou might'st have found some shelt'ring haven On this side Tweed :

:

Yet, ah! e'en here, poor Bards have striven,
And died in need.

True genius scorns to flatter knaves,
Or crouch amidst a race of slaves;
His soul, while fierce the tempest raves,
No tremor knows,

And with unshaken nerve he braves

Life's pelting woes.

No wonder, then, that thou shouldst find

Th' averted glance of half mankind;

Shouldst see the sly, slow, supple mind

To wealth aspire,

While scorn, neglect, and want combin'd

To quench thy fire.

While wintry winds pipe loud and strong, The high-perch'd storm-cock pours his song; So thy Eolian lyre was strung

'Midst chilling times;

Yet clearly didst thou roll along

Thyrouth of rhymes."

And oh! that routh of rhymes shall raise
For thee a lasting pile of praise.

Haply some wing, in these our days,

Has loftier soar'd;

But from the heart more melting lays
Were never pour'd.

Where Ganges rolls his yellow tide,
Where blest Columbus' waters glide!
Old Scotia's sons, spread far and wide,
Shall oft rehearse,

With sorrow some, but all with pride,
Thy 'witching verse.

In early spring, thy earthly bed

Shall be with many a wild flow'r spread;

The violet there her sweets shall shed,

In humble guise,

And there the mountain-daisy's head

Shall duly rise.