Lo, when clover-swathes lay round him, Or his feet the furrow press'd, He could mourn the sever'd daisy, Or the mouse's ruin'd nest; Woven of gloom and glory, visions Haunting throng'd his twilight hour; Birds enthrall'd him with sweet music, Tempests with their tones of power; Eagle-wing'd his mounting spirit Custom's rusty fetters spurn'd; Tasso-like, for Jean he melted Wallace-like, for Scotland burn'd! V. Scotland!--dear to him was Scotland, In her sons and in her daughters, In her Highlands,--Lowlands,--Islands,-- Regal woods, and rushing waters;-- In the glory of her story, When her tartans fired the field,-- Scotland! oft betray'd--beleagur'd-- Scotland! never known to yield! Dear to him her Doric language,-- Thrill'd his heart-strings at her name;-- And he left her more than rubies, In the riches of his fame. VI. Sons of England!--Sons of Erin! Ye who, journeying from afar, Throng with us the shire of Coila, Led by Burns's guiding star-- Proud we greet you--ye will join us, As, on this triumphant day, To the champions of his genius Grateful thanks we duly pay-- Currie--Chambers--Lockhart--Wilson-- Carlyle--who his bones to save From the wolfish fiend, Detraction, Couch'd like lions round his grave. VII. Daughter of the poet's mother! Here we hail thee with delight; Shower'd be every earthly blessing On thy locks of silver white!-- Sons of Burns, a hearty welcome, Welcome home from India's strand, To a heart-loved land far dearer, Since your glorious Father's land:-- Words are worthless--look around you-- Labour'd tomes far less could say To the sons of such a father, Than the sight of such a day! VIII. Judge not ye, whose thoughts are fingers, Of the hands that witch the lyre-- Greenland has its mountain icebergs, Ætna has its heart of fire; Calculation has its plummet; Self-control its iron rules; Genius has its sparkling fountains; Dulness has its stagnant pools; Like a halcyon on the waters, Burns's chart disdain'd a plan-- In his soarings he was heavenly, In his sinkings he was man. IX. As the sun from out the orient Pours a wider, warmer light, Till he floods both earth and ocean, Blazing from the zenith's height; So the glory of our poet, In its deathless power serene, Shines--as rolling time advances-- Warmer felt, and wider seen: First Doon's banks and braes contain'd it, Then his country form'd its span; Now the wide world is its empire, And its throne the heart of man. X.