Poems (Douglas)/The Poet's Wreath
For works with similar titles, see The Poet's Wreath.
'Twas love and friendship forged each link,
Which seemed to clasp us heart to heart;
Then I awoke, and wept to think
That scenes so fair should e'er depart.
Where are they now, those friends of truth,
Companions of life's early morn?
Like dreams that gild a poet's youth,
They're vanished, never to return!
Which seemed to clasp us heart to heart;
Then I awoke, and wept to think
That scenes so fair should e'er depart.
Where are they now, those friends of truth,
Companions of life's early morn?
Like dreams that gild a poet's youth,
They're vanished, never to return!
Gone! they are gone, just like the light
With which the sunset-rays illume
The western wave, ere sombre night
Has buried all in shade and gloom.
Yet recollection oft recalls
Those hallowed phantoms of the past;
E'en now, through memory's lonely halls,
They flit just as I saw them last.
With which the sunset-rays illume
The western wave, ere sombre night
Has buried all in shade and gloom.
Yet recollection oft recalls
Those hallowed phantoms of the past;
E'en now, through memory's lonely halls,
They flit just as I saw them last.
The Poet's Wreath.
Eve's brightest colours tinged the glowing west
With many a rose-like and a golden dye,
Where day's gay monarch slowly sunk to rest
Amid the splendours of his majesty.
The golden hues fell richly on a bower
Where bloom'd the woodbine and the lily bright.
Till every trembling leaf and bending flower
Seem'd deeply glowing with the purple light.
With many a rose-like and a golden dye,
Where day's gay monarch slowly sunk to rest
Amid the splendours of his majesty.
The golden hues fell richly on a bower
Where bloom'd the woodbine and the lily bright.
Till every trembling leaf and bending flower
Seem'd deeply glowing with the purple light.
A murm'ring stream—pure as the dewy tear
The sun's warm kiss sips from the blushing rose—
Flowed o'er its pebbled bed, so smooth and clear,
Its very murmurs whispered of repose.
Eve's wanton zephyrs lightly waved the turf,
Where spread the dewy thyme and purple heath,
Curling with fragrant wing the silvery surf
Of Doon's bright stream, in many a dimpling wreath;
The sun's warm kiss sips from the blushing rose—
Flowed o'er its pebbled bed, so smooth and clear,
Its very murmurs whispered of repose.
Eve's wanton zephyrs lightly waved the turf,
Where spread the dewy thyme and purple heath,
Curling with fragrant wing the silvery surf
Of Doon's bright stream, in many a dimpling wreath;
Parting the green boughs o'er the bower, entwined
As if to let the yellow sunlight gleam
Upon the face of one mid flowers reclined,
Who seemed entranced in some delightful dream;
For ever and anon the spirit's glow
Danced like a sunbeam in his hazel eye,
Where could be traced the feeling's ardent flow,
Rising from the warm heart's ecstacy.
As if to let the yellow sunlight gleam
Upon the face of one mid flowers reclined,
Who seemed entranced in some delightful dream;
For ever and anon the spirit's glow
Danced like a sunbeam in his hazel eye,
Where could be traced the feeling's ardent flow,
Rising from the warm heart's ecstacy.
He was a child of nature, and he heard
Her voice in the soft music breathed around,
In the low murmur when the leaves were stirred,
In the bright streamlet's joyous song-like sound;
He traced her blooming footsteps in the grove,
And in the richer wildness of the glen;
Her beauties lured her willing feet to rove
Far from the bustling haunts of busy men.
Her voice in the soft music breathed around,
In the low murmur when the leaves were stirred,
In the bright streamlet's joyous song-like sound;
He traced her blooming footsteps in the grove,
And in the richer wildness of the glen;
Her beauties lured her willing feet to rove
Far from the bustling haunts of busy men.
And oft the fragrant solitude he sought—
He loved to linger there at eventide,
For then the deep, luxuriant stream of thought
Through many a wild and flow'ry maze would glide.
But now a being stood before his sight,
With wavy ringlets glittering round her head,
And figure decked in robes of floating light,
Which round her form a sacred halo shed.
He loved to linger there at eventide,
For then the deep, luxuriant stream of thought
Through many a wild and flow'ry maze would glide.
But now a being stood before his sight,
With wavy ringlets glittering round her head,
And figure decked in robes of floating light,
Which round her form a sacred halo shed.
She seemed at once to please and to command,
So dignified the witching smile she wore;
A golden lyre she held in her right hand,
And in her left a fadeless wreath she bore.
Amazed, he started from his leafy bed,
And solemnly before her bent the knee—
"Who art thou, glorious visitant?" he said,
"Or on what mission comest thou to me?
So dignified the witching smile she wore;
A golden lyre she held in her right hand,
And in her left a fadeless wreath she bore.
Amazed, he started from his leafy bed,
And solemnly before her bent the knee—
"Who art thou, glorious visitant?" he said,
"Or on what mission comest thou to me?
"Art thou the beauteous guardian of these bowers?
Or a bright wing'd inhabitant of light,
Come down with rainbow-tints to paint the flowers,
And scatter dew-drops 'neath the shades of night?"
She, smiling, placed the chaplet on his head—
"I the refined and melting thought inspire!
Lo! I have crown'd thee Minstrel now," she said,
"Wear the green diadem, and strike the lyre.
Or a bright wing'd inhabitant of light,
Come down with rainbow-tints to paint the flowers,
And scatter dew-drops 'neath the shades of night?"
She, smiling, placed the chaplet on his head—
"I the refined and melting thought inspire!
Lo! I have crown'd thee Minstrel now," she said,
"Wear the green diadem, and strike the lyre.
"Yes, strike the lyre, and let the trembling chords
Give to the listning world each burning theme;
Pour out thy lofty soul in glowing words,
And let thy country glory in thy name."
The minstrel raised the lyre, and swept the strings,
First with a gentle and a timid hand,
Then bolder and more perfect music springs,
And melting strains are wafted o'er the land.
Give to the listning world each burning theme;
Pour out thy lofty soul in glowing words,
And let thy country glory in thy name."
The minstrel raised the lyre, and swept the strings,
First with a gentle and a timid hand,
Then bolder and more perfect music springs,
And melting strains are wafted o'er the land.
And far the fame of that sweet bard was spread,
And far the tones of his bold lyre were borne;
And the green diadem that crown'd his head
Wore all the brightness of a summer morn.
And oft Doon's winding flow'ry banks along,
The youthful Minstrel would be seen to stray;
His dark eye kindling with the lofty song,
Then beaming softness with the plaintive lay.
And far the tones of his bold lyre were borne;
And the green diadem that crown'd his head
Wore all the brightness of a summer morn.
And oft Doon's winding flow'ry banks along,
The youthful Minstrel would be seen to stray;
His dark eye kindling with the lofty song,
Then beaming softness with the plaintive lay.
He sweetly sung of all things bright and fair,
The lowliest lower had charms to woo his eye—
The proud rose waving in the summer air—
The daisy bending to the zephyr's sigh.
He sung of nature in her rich attire,
And in her rudest and most awful form;
Then strains majestic trembled from his lyre,
As his wing'd fancy soared above the storm.
The lowliest lower had charms to woo his eye—
The proud rose waving in the summer air—
The daisy bending to the zephyr's sigh.
He sung of nature in her rich attire,
And in her rudest and most awful form;
Then strains majestic trembled from his lyre,
As his wing'd fancy soared above the storm.
No lyre like his the thrilling power possess'd—
No hand like his so skilful swept the chords,
And all who heard his matchless lays, confess'd
That Scotland's Minstrel was the Bard of Bards!
For years he laboured, and the light of song
Undying honour to his country drew;
And still his growing fame was borne along,
And still his birth-place shone with charms anew.
No hand like his so skilful swept the chords,
And all who heard his matchless lays, confess'd
That Scotland's Minstrel was the Bard of Bards!
For years he laboured, and the light of song
Undying honour to his country drew;
And still his growing fame was borne along,
And still his birth-place shone with charms anew.
Yet, strange to tell, though Scotland felt the while
Such matchless merit claimed a rich reward;
E'en when the light of genius cheered her isle,
She loved the honour, yet forgot the Bard!
But soon she lifted up her voice and wept,
A dark'ning cloud upon her glory hung;
For there her bright, neglected Minstrel slept,
His lips lay silent, and his lyre unstrung.
Such matchless merit claimed a rich reward;
E'en when the light of genius cheered her isle,
She loved the honour, yet forgot the Bard!
But soon she lifted up her voice and wept,
A dark'ning cloud upon her glory hung;
For there her bright, neglected Minstrel slept,
His lips lay silent, and his lyre unstrung.
And now 'twas her's past conduct to atone,
She mourn'd the star which should no more illume;
She wept that such injustice had been done,
And spread his brightest laurels on his tomb,
And raised memorials to his sacred name,
To which, with mournful pride she ever turns;
Though many a gem of worth her land could claim,
Yet still she boasted only of one Burns!
She mourn'd the star which should no more illume;
She wept that such injustice had been done,
And spread his brightest laurels on his tomb,
And raised memorials to his sacred name,
To which, with mournful pride she ever turns;
Though many a gem of worth her land could claim,
Yet still she boasted only of one Burns!
And now I stand where that great Bard oft stood,
Where fading sunbeams on the Doon expire;
I gaze upon each fertile solitude,
Long made immortal by his glowing lyre.
And I have strayed where he was wont to stray—
Stood in the cottage where the Bard had birth;
Now, with admiring gratitude, I pay
My humble homage at the shrine of worth.
Where fading sunbeams on the Doon expire;
I gaze upon each fertile solitude,
Long made immortal by his glowing lyre.
And I have strayed where he was wont to stray—
Stood in the cottage where the Bard had birth;
Now, with admiring gratitude, I pay
My humble homage at the shrine of worth.
Gems from the Muse's academic bowers,
In richness and in beauty deck his grave;
Yet, creep at times the lowliest of flowers
To the same garden where proud roses wave.
Then, if 'mid laurels that o'ershade his tomb,
This little sprig may find a place the while,
Though scant of verdure, and though faint of bloom,
To brighter offerings it may prove a foil!
In richness and in beauty deck his grave;
Yet, creep at times the lowliest of flowers
To the same garden where proud roses wave.
Then, if 'mid laurels that o'ershade his tomb,
This little sprig may find a place the while,
Though scant of verdure, and though faint of bloom,
To brighter offerings it may prove a foil!