Poems (Douglas)/Stanzas for the Centenary of Robert Burns
Stanzas for the Centenary of Robert Burns.
Ye train immortal! whose far-seeing gaze
Can penetrate the future and the past;
Whose favourites wear that shining cloak and bays,
Too oft seen struggling with Life's adverse blast;—
Oh! deign the hallowed mantle now to throw,
Round one who dares approach your sacred fane—
An humble suppliant for the genial glow
Which life diffuses through the trembling strain!
Can penetrate the future and the past;
Whose favourites wear that shining cloak and bays,
Too oft seen struggling with Life's adverse blast;—
Oh! deign the hallowed mantle now to throw,
Round one who dares approach your sacred fane—
An humble suppliant for the genial glow
Which life diffuses through the trembling strain!
Seized by the venerating world around,
The exalted theme to which my lyre I'd string;
In every land the Minstrel's name is found,
Whilst vocal incense loads each breezes' wing.
A century hath vanished year by year—
Leaving its records on the page of Time—
Since his first glance was hailed in humble sphere,
Whose fame refulgent glows in many a clime.
Behold the new-born, decked in lowly bands,
Welcomed by parent and by guest in turns;
Whilst Coila, viewless, lays ordaining hands
Upon the infant head of Robert Burns.
A chasten'd rapture fills her godlike face,
As o'er the babe she spreads her garb divine;
Her eye prophetic his career can trace,—
Each mournful chequer, and each radiant line:
But proudly, nobly shall he bear him up
The sterile paths—Parnassian heights embrace;
Though to the dregs he'll drain the bitter cup,
Malignant censure fills for all his race;
Yet triumph, triumph crowns his brow at last—
His fame, emblazon'd, beams from sphere to sphere;
A brilliant star, he glitters in the past,
Which nations gaze on, honour, and revere.
The exalted theme to which my lyre I'd string;
In every land the Minstrel's name is found,
Whilst vocal incense loads each breezes' wing.
A century hath vanished year by year—
Leaving its records on the page of Time—
Since his first glance was hailed in humble sphere,
Whose fame refulgent glows in many a clime.
Behold the new-born, decked in lowly bands,
Welcomed by parent and by guest in turns;
Whilst Coila, viewless, lays ordaining hands
Upon the infant head of Robert Burns.
A chasten'd rapture fills her godlike face,
As o'er the babe she spreads her garb divine;
Her eye prophetic his career can trace,—
Each mournful chequer, and each radiant line:
But proudly, nobly shall he bear him up
The sterile paths—Parnassian heights embrace;
Though to the dregs he'll drain the bitter cup,
Malignant censure fills for all his race;
Yet triumph, triumph crowns his brow at last—
His fame, emblazon'd, beams from sphere to sphere;
A brilliant star, he glitters in the past,
Which nations gaze on, honour, and revere.
So Time unfolded to the muses view
The mystic annals of long future years;
So did the Bard the maze of song pursue,
With lyre, awaking ecstacy and tears.
"And who," cries Scotia in exulting tone,
"E'er from the wild harp struck such burning strains
As did the mighty Burns we call our own,
Whose memory brilliance with Time's lapses gains?"
The mystic annals of long future years;
So did the Bard the maze of song pursue,
With lyre, awaking ecstacy and tears.
"And who," cries Scotia in exulting tone,
"E'er from the wild harp struck such burning strains
As did the mighty Burns we call our own,
Whose memory brilliance with Time's lapses gains?"
Peculiar favourite of the tuneful Nine!
Thy just renown is lauded o'er the earth;
Atlantic cities, with home isles, combine
To hold the centenary of thy birth;
The distant tasters of Castalian streams,
With solemn rapture, trace thy lofty flight
Through Thought's vast regions, till the far up beams
Invest thee with a garb of dazzling light;
The humbler lovers of the melting strain,
In silent worship, bring to Genius' shrine
That deep-felt homage thrilling every vein—
The tribute due, great Burns, to worth like thine.
Thy deathless numbers sound in every home;
Dearly familiar is each matchless lay;
Hearts vibrate to them in th' Imperial dome,
Whilst round cot hearths congenial pulses play.
All bosoms share the universal pride
With which this sacred day is set apart;
Whilst gratitude lets loose the gushing tide
Of feeling, deep in peer and peasant's heart.
Lovers of song to-day from sister lands
Meet on the shores by Burns immortalised;
By Caledon is grasped the regal hands,
Whose pressure speaks how well they sympathised.
Fair Albion, with her brow 'neath helmet's shade,
Imperial trident, and her mystic shield,
With azure mantle o'er her shoulders laid,
Comes smiling, honour to the Bard to yield.
And Erin, robed in undulating green,
The dew-fresh shamrock glistening round her head,
With golden harp, appears upon the scene
To weave her garlands o'er the illustrious dead:
Whilst Caledonia bends her high-plumed crest,
To hide the tear that o'er her flushed cheek falls.
Remorse, with pride, is struggling in her breast,
As memory stern her Poet's past recalls;
I¥en while he crowned her with undying flowers,
Her deeds heroic bade his lyre record,
Till light immortal glorified her bowers,
She loved the honour but forgot the Bard!
The past is past, august and regal dame—
Oblivion's veil o'er painful memories draw;
Let present pride dispel that tinge of shame,
Thine was the peerless "Bard that's noo awa."
And oh! forbid thy children to upraise
The glass, by envy's hand all smoke-besmear'd,
Through which on genius' disc too many gaze,
Proclaiming loud where earth-like spots appear'd;
And proudly raise thine head, most noble dame—
View pilgrims crowd where'er thy blue eye turns;
Hear the loud trumpet of eternal fame
Declare the world boasts but one—Robert Burns.
Thy just renown is lauded o'er the earth;
Atlantic cities, with home isles, combine
To hold the centenary of thy birth;
The distant tasters of Castalian streams,
With solemn rapture, trace thy lofty flight
Through Thought's vast regions, till the far up beams
Invest thee with a garb of dazzling light;
The humbler lovers of the melting strain,
In silent worship, bring to Genius' shrine
That deep-felt homage thrilling every vein—
The tribute due, great Burns, to worth like thine.
Thy deathless numbers sound in every home;
Dearly familiar is each matchless lay;
Hearts vibrate to them in th' Imperial dome,
Whilst round cot hearths congenial pulses play.
All bosoms share the universal pride
With which this sacred day is set apart;
Whilst gratitude lets loose the gushing tide
Of feeling, deep in peer and peasant's heart.
Lovers of song to-day from sister lands
Meet on the shores by Burns immortalised;
By Caledon is grasped the regal hands,
Whose pressure speaks how well they sympathised.
Fair Albion, with her brow 'neath helmet's shade,
Imperial trident, and her mystic shield,
With azure mantle o'er her shoulders laid,
Comes smiling, honour to the Bard to yield.
And Erin, robed in undulating green,
The dew-fresh shamrock glistening round her head,
With golden harp, appears upon the scene
To weave her garlands o'er the illustrious dead:
Whilst Caledonia bends her high-plumed crest,
To hide the tear that o'er her flushed cheek falls.
Remorse, with pride, is struggling in her breast,
As memory stern her Poet's past recalls;
I¥en while he crowned her with undying flowers,
Her deeds heroic bade his lyre record,
Till light immortal glorified her bowers,
She loved the honour but forgot the Bard!
The past is past, august and regal dame—
Oblivion's veil o'er painful memories draw;
Let present pride dispel that tinge of shame,
Thine was the peerless "Bard that's noo awa."
And oh! forbid thy children to upraise
The glass, by envy's hand all smoke-besmear'd,
Through which on genius' disc too many gaze,
Proclaiming loud where earth-like spots appear'd;
And proudly raise thine head, most noble dame—
View pilgrims crowd where'er thy blue eye turns;
Hear the loud trumpet of eternal fame
Declare the world boasts but one—Robert Burns.