O deem not, midst this worldly strife, An idle art the Poet brings: Let high Philosophy control And sages calm the stream of life, ’Tis he refines its fountain-springs, The nobler passions of the soul. It is the muse that consecrates The native banner of the brave, Unfurling at the trumpet’s breath, Rose, thistle, harp; ’tis she elates To sweep the field or ride the wave, A sunburst in the storm of death. And thou, young hero, when thy pall Is crossed with mournful sword and plume, When public grief begins to fade, And only tears of kindred fall, Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb, And greet with fame thy gallant shade? Such was the soldier—BURNS, forgive That sorrows of mine own intrude In strains to thy great memory due. In verse like thine, oh! could he live, The friend I mourned—the brave, the good— Edward that died at Waterloo![83] Farewell, high chief of Scottish song! That couldst alternately impart Wisdom and rapture in thy page, And brand each vice with satire strong, Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, Whose truths electrify the sage. Farewell! and ne’er may Envy dare To wring one baleful poison drop From the crushed laurels of thy bust: But while the lark sings sweet in air, Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, To bless the spot that holds thy dust. [82] Burns was born in a clay cottage, which his father had built with his own hands. [83] Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers. THE SOLDIER’S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track: ’Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart, Stay, stay with us,—rest, thou art weary and worn; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;— But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.