The Highlander, the bitterest foe You'll ask if yet the Percy lives In the armed pomp of feudal state? Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate" A chamber-maid, whose lip and eye, And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, Spoke Nature's aristocracy; And one, half groom, half seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, From donjon-keep to turret-wall, For ten-and-sixpence sterling. FROM ROBERT BURNS, THERE have been loftier themes than his, Purer and holier fires. Yet read the names that know not death ; Few nobler ones than Burns are there; And few have won a greener wreath Than that which binds his hair. His is that language of the heart In which the answering heart would speak; Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek. And his that music to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. And who hath heard his song, nor knelt O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, On fields where brave men "die or do," In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, Where mourner's weep, where lovers woo, From throng to cottage hearth! What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with the Cotter's hymn of praise; And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, With Logan's" banks and braes. And when he breathes his master-lay All passions in our frames of clay Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, And death's sublimity. And Burns, though brief the race he ran, Though rough and dark the path he trod, Lived - died- in form and soul a Man, The image of his God. Through care, and pain, and want, and woe, With wounds that only death could heal Tortures, the poor alone can know, The proud alone can feel — He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen, And moved, in manhood as in youth, Pride of his fellow-men. Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye, And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard! His words are driven, Praise to the man! A nation stood And still, as on his funeral day, Men stand his cold earth-couch around, With the mute homage that we pay And consecrated ground it is, The last, the hallowed home of one Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines, The Delphian vales, the Palestines, All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, They linger by the Doon's low trees, But what to them the sculptor's art, His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns? Wear they not graven on the heart |