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That to thy brow was soon assign’d
The wreath of praise.
Anon, with nobler daring blest,
Thy fervid mind Tow'rds fame's proud turrets boldly pressid,
And pleas'd mankind.
But what avail'd thy pow'rs to please,
That wail'd for bread? Or could they, for a moment, ease
Thy wo-worn head?
Applause, poor child of minstrelsy,
They saw thee torn,
Thy loss they mourn.
Oh! how I loath the bloated train,
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 mightst 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,
No tremor knows,
Life's pelting woes.
No wonder, then, that thou shouldst find
To wealth aspire,
To quench thy fire. VOL. II.
While wintry winds pipe loud and strong,
: 'Midst chilling times; Yet clearly didst thou roll along
Thy“ routh of rhymes."
And oh ! that routh of rhymes shall raise
Has loftier soar'd :
Were never pour'd.
Where Ganges rolls his yellow tide,
Shall oft rehearse,
Thy 'witching verse.
In early spring, thy earthly bed
In humble guise,
And there the mountain-daisy's head
Shall duly rise.
While darkness reigns, should bigotry,
O'er thy cold clay, Those weeds, at light's first blush, shall be
Soon swept away.
And when thy scorners are no more,
With soul elate,
And mourn thy fate. VERSES
DEATH OF ROBERT BURNS,
MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN.*
What adverse fate awaits the tuneful train !
* Author of “ The Highlanders,” and other Poems.“ Letters from the Mountains," &c.