The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, The thanks of millions yet to be. Of sky and stars to prisoned men: Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land wind, from woods of palm, And orange groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas. Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee-there is no prouder grave, She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb: But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, For thee she rings the birthday bells; And she, the mother of thy boys, Talk of thy doom without a sigh: That were not born to die. BURNS. TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN AYRSHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1822. WILD Rose of Alloway! my thanks; Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon When first we met upon "the banks And braes o' bonny Doon." Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, And will not thy death-doom be mine- Wild rose of Alloway? Not so his memory, for whose sake My bosom bore thee far and long, Ilis--who a humbler flower could make The memory of Burns-a name That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, A nation's glory and her shame, In silent sadness up. A nation's glory-be the rest Forgot-she's canonized his mind; And it is joy to speak the best I've stood beside the cottage bed Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath; A straw-thatched roof above his head, And I have stood beside the pile, His monument-that tells to Heaven The homage of earth's proudest isle To that Bard-peasant given! |