Volume 67 / Part 2 — TO BURNS’S “HIGHLAND MARY.”

I.

O loved by him whom Scotland loves,

Long loved, and honoured duly

By all who love the bard who sang

So sweetly and so truly!

In cultured dales his song prevails,

Thrills o’er the eagle’s aëry,—

Ah! who that strain has caught, nor sighed

For Burns’s “Highland Mary?”

II.

I wandered on from hill to hill,

I feared nor wind nor weather;

For Burns beside me trode the moor,

Beside me pressed the heather.

I read his verse—his life—alas!

O’er that dark shades extended:—

With thee at last, and him in thee,

My thoughts their wanderings ended.

III.

His golden hours of youth were thine—

Those hours whose flight is fleetest;

Of all his songs to thee he gave

The freshest and the sweetest.

Ere ripe the fruit, one branch he brake,

All rich with bloom and blossom;

And shook its dews, its incense shook,

Above thy brow and bosom.

IV.

And when his Spring, alas, how soon!

Had been by care subverted,

His Summer, like a god repulsed,

Had from his gates departed;

Beneath the evening star, once more,

Star of his morn and even!

To thee his suppliant hands he spread,

And hailed his love “in heaven.”

V.

And if his spirit in “a waste

Of shame” too oft was squandered,

And if too oft his feet ill-starred

In ways erroneous wandered;

Yet still his spirit’s spirit bathed

In purity eternal;

And all fair things through thee retained

For him their aspect vernal.

VI.

Nor less that tenderness remained

Thy favouring love implanted;

Compunctious pity, yearnings vague

For love to earth not granted;

Reserve with freedom, female grace

Well matched with manly vigour,

In songs where fancy twined her wreaths

Round judgment’s stalwart rigour.

VII.

A mute but strong appeal was made

To him by feeblest creatures;

In his large heart had each a part

That part had found in Nature’s.

The wildered sheep, sagacious dog,

Old horse reduced and crazy,

The field-mouse by the plough upturned,

And violated daisy.

VIII.

In him there burned that passionate glow,

All Nature’s soul and savour,

Which gives its hue to every flower,

To every fruit its flavour.

Nor less the kindred power he felt,

That love of all things human,

Whereof the fiery centre is

The love man bears to woman.

IX.

He sang the dignity of man,

Sang woman’s grace and goodness;

Passed by the world’s half-truths, her lies

Pierced through with lance-like shrewdness.

Upon life’s broad highways he stood,

And aped nor Greek nor Roman;

But snatched from heaven Promethean fire

To glorify things common.

X.

He sang of youth, he sang of age,

Their joys, their griefs, their labours;

Felt with, not for, the people; hailed

All Scotland’s sons his neighbours:

And therefore all repeat his verse—

Hot youth, or graybeard steady,

The boat-man on Loch Etive’s wave,

The shepherd on Ben Ledi.

XI.

He sang from love of song; his name

Dunedin’s cliff resounded:—

He left her, faithful to a fame

On truth and nature founded.

He sought true fame, not loud acclaim;

Himself and Time he trusted:

For laurels crackling in the flame

His fine ear never lusted.

XII.

He loved, and reason had to love.

The illustrious land that bore him:

Where’er he went, like heaven’s broad tent

A star-bright Past hung o’er him.

Each isle had fenced a saint recluse,

Each tower a hero dying;

Down every mountain-gorge had rolled

The flood of foemen flying.

XIII.

From age to age that land had paid

No alien throne submission,

For feudal faith had been her Law,

And freedom her Tradition.

Where frowned the rocks had Freedom smiled,

Sung, mid the shrill wind’s whistle—

So England prized her garden Rose,

But Scotland loved her Thistle.

XIV.

The land thus pure from foreign foot,

Her growing powers thus centred

Around her heart, with other lands

The race historic entered.

Her struggling dawn, convulsed or bright,

Worked on through storms and troubles,

Whilst a heroic line of kings

Strove with heroic nobles.

XV.

Fair field alone the brave demand,

And Scotland ne’er had lost it:

And honest prove the hate and love

To objects meet adjusted.

Intelligible course was hers

By safety tried or danger:

The native was for native known—

The stranger known for stranger.

XVI.

Honour in her a sphere had found,

Nobility a station,

The patriots’ thought the task it sought,

And virtue—toleration.

Her will and way had ne’er been crossed

In fatal contradiction;

Nor loyalty to treason soured,

Nor faith abused with fiction.

XVII.

Can song be mute where hearts are sound?

Weak doubts—away we fling them!

The land that breeds great men, great deeds,

Should ne’er lack bards to sing them.

That vigour, sense, and mutual truth

Which baffled each invader,

Shall fill her marts, and feed her arts,

While peaceful olives shade her.

XVIII.

Honour to Scotland and to Burns!

In him she stands collected.

A thousand streams one river make—

Thus Genius, heaven-directed,

Conjoins all separate veins of power

In one great soul-creation;

And blends a million men to make

The Poet of the nation.

XIX.

Honour to Burns! and her who first

Let loose the abounding river

Of music from the Poet’s heart,

Borne through all lands for ever!

How much to her mankind has owed

Of song’s selectest treasures!

Unsweetened by her kiss, his lips

Had sung far other measures.

XX.

Be green for aye, green bank and brae

Around Montgomery’s Castle!

Blow there, ye earliest flowers! and there,

Ye sweetest song-birds, nestle!

For there was ta’en that last farewell

In hope, indulged how blindly;

And there was given that long last gaze

“That dwelt” on him “sae kindly.”

XXI.

No word of thine recorded stands;

Few words that hour were spoken:

Two Bibles there were interchanged,

And some slight love-gift broken.

And there thy cold faint hands he pressed,

Thy head by dewdrops misted;

And kisses, ill-resisted first,

At last were unresisted.

XXII.

Ah cease!—she died. He too is dead.

Of all her girlish graces

Perhaps one nameless lock remains:

The rest stern Time effaces—

Dust lost in dust. Not so: a bloom

Is hers that ne’er can wither;

And in that lay which lives for aye

The twain live on together.

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