30

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above,
But pictured sees, in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled 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

Entranced, and showed 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,

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 31

Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep
In memory of his native land,

With love that scorns the lapse of time,
And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

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

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

O deem not, 'midst the worldly strife,
An idle art the Poet brings:
Let high Philosophy control,
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?

32

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

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.

Farewell! and ne'er may Envy dare
To wring one baleful poison drop
From the crush'd laurels of thy bust:
But while the lark sings sweet in air,
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,
To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

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

The Gift of Burns.

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

Addressed to the Boston Caledonian Club on the one hundrea and twenty-sixth anniversary of the Birth of the National Poet.

I.

THAT Speech the English Pilgrims spoke

Fills the great plains afar,

And branches of the British vale

Wave 'neath the Western star;

"Be free!" men cried, in Shakespeare's tongue,
When striking for the slave-
Thus Hampden's cry for Freedom rung
As far as Lincoln's grave!

II.

But when new vales of England rise,

The thistle freelier blows;
Across the seas 'neath alien skies

Another Scotland grows;

Here Independence, mountain maid,

Reaps her full birthright now,

And BURNS's shade, in trews and plaid,
Still whistles at the plough.

III.

Scots, gather'd now in phalanx bright,
Here in this distant land,
To greet you, this immortal night,
I reach the loving hand;
My soul is with you, one and all,
Who pledge our poet's fame,

And echoing your toast, I call
A blessing on his name!

IV.

The heritage he left behind

Has spread from sea to sea

The liberal heart, the fearless mind,
The undaunted soul and free;
The radiant humour that redeem'd
A world of commonplace;
The wit that like a sword-flash gleam'd
In Fashion's painted face;

V.

The brotherhood where smiles and tears,

Too deep for thought to scan,

Have made of all us mountaineers

One world-compelling clan !

Hand join with hand. Soul links with soul Where'er we sit and sing,

Flashing, from utmost pole to pole,

Love's bright electric ring!