It is not for your silver bright; And by my word! the bonny bird So though the waves are raging white, By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, When, oh! too strong for human hand, And still they row'd amidst the roar Lord Uullin reach'd that fatal shore, For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, “Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!-oh my daughter!" 'Twas vain :-the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing : The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. 1804. ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. SOUL of the Poet! wheresoe'er, Suspend thy harp in happier sphere, And fly like fiends from secret spell, For he was chief of bards that swell And Love's own strain to him was given, With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd,- Who that has melted o'er his lay But pictured sees, in fancy strong, Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan: Grow beautiful beneath his touch. Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse The Genii of the floods and storms, On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs, And all their scorn of death and chains? And see the Scottish exile, tann'd Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep 118 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. With love that scorns the lapse of time, And ties that stretch beyond the deep. Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild, The scenes that bless'd him when a child, O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife, It is the muse that consecrates And thou, young hero, when thy pall And only tears of kindred fall, Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb, And greet with fame thy gallant shade? |