That to thy brow was soon assign'd The wreath of praise. Anon, with nobler daring blest, The wild notes throbbing at thy breast, Tow'rds fame's proud turrets boldly press'd, 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, 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 Yet, ah! e'en here, poor bards have striven, True genius scorns to flatter knaves, 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 To wealth aspire, While scorn, neglect, and want, combin'd VOL. II. P To quench thy fire. 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 Haply some wing, in these our days, Has loftier soar'd: But from the heart more melting lays Where Ganges rolls his yellow tide, With sorrow some, but all with pride, 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. 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, Where thou hast croon'd thy fancies o'er With soul elate, Oft shall the bard at eve explore, And mourn thy fate. P 2 VERSES ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT BURNS, BY MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN.* WHAT adverse fate awaits the tuneful train! Yet, pensive wand'ring o'er his native plain, * Author of "The Highlanders," and other Poems."Letters from the Mountains," &c. |