Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ROBERT BURNS, by GEORGE MURRAY (1830-1910)


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ROBERT BURNS, by                    
First Line: Large hearted minstrel! From the sphere
Last Line: That nestle warmly in each heart!
Subject(s): Burns, Robert (1759-1796); Honor; Poetry & Poets


Large hearted minstrel! from the sphere
Where now thou dwellest, if thine eyes
Can watch the spell-bound myriads—here—
Whose lips thy genius eulogize;
If pain thou feelest now no more,
Thy wayward life's wild battle o'er;
If tears that at thy memory start
Can touch thy sympathetic heart;
On this thy birth-day we would fain
Hope— even if the hope be vain—
That thou with tranquil joy may'st see
The loving honours paid to thee,
Thou Laureate of the Poor! whose song
O'er the charm'd earth shall echo long.
As stars, that garish day concealed,
Shine forth amid the shades of night,
So, thy dark destiny revealed
Each fault and frailty to our sight.
The nightingale, that sings forlorn
With bosom prest against a thorn,
Is type of thee, whose noblest lays
Were hymned in sorrow-clouded days;
Bard of the vale and, stream and grove,
Thou lyric oracle of love!

Genius, by signs that cannot lie,
Flashed in full glory from thine eye.
In thee a hero's ardour burned,
In thee a woman's pity yearned;
Passion and pathos—fire and tears—
Baptized thy life's few tragic years.
So—in the summer-cloud that lowers
Keen lightning lurks—with gentle showers;
So—from their depths volcanoes bring
The fire-flood and the healing spring.
Gaze on the Poet's stalwart form
Dilating through the mist and storm.
The whirlwind shrieks—the thunders roll—
They wake fierce echoes in his soul.
Hark! 'Mid the elemental war
He hears the battle's maddening roar;
The tempest loud and louder raves—
He treads on Scottish heroes' graves:
They wake—they rise—past scenes return—
It is the fight of Bannockburn!
He sees—he thrills—he glows—
As, battling for the ground they trod,
His phantom brethren—"red-wat shod"
Charge over trampled corse and clod,
Down on their Southron foes!
His ardent spirit onward sped
To join the exulting throng—
His banner was the lightning red,
His march, the whirlwind overhead,
And "Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled"
His glorious battle-song!

And yet dumb cattle, and the "silly sheep,"
"Smoor'd" in a snow-drift, made this hero weep.
Crushed by his plough, the daisy upward turns
Its dying eye, and wins immortal tears;
The nest-robbed "mousie," numb with piteous fears—
The "wee" bird "chittering" on a frozen spray,
Hungry and cold on winter's bleakest day—
To all of these the strong man's pity yearns;
What helpless thing but melts the heart of Burns?

He sang his comrades unrenowned,
Shepherds and tillers of the ground;
Brave Poverty—inglorious worth—
The guiltless conquerors of earth,
Heroic souls of humblest life,
Stern soldiers in the ceaseless strife
Waged—since this planet's course began —
'Twixt hard necessity and man.
Their lowly joys, their labours dull
The poet's touch made beautiful;
He deemed nought "common or unclean"—
His spirit sanctified the mean—
And the rude mattock in his hand
Seemed like a sceptre of command!

So—he is loved throughout the earth
Beyond the land that gave him birth;
So—where his youth and manhood toiled,
Undaunted still, though sorely foiled,
Where once he broke the stubborn clod
He reigns supreme— a household god—
And pilgrims venerate the spot
Where stands the Poet's clay-built cot.

In cities—where, 'mid smoke and gloom,
The engine clanks and whirrs the loom;
Where, 'mid a wilderness of bricks,
Grim Toil and Trade their empire fix,
And Want and Affluence, side by side,
Are whirled on traffic's roaring tide;
Where dim, discoloured streams that erst
From mossy springs clear-bubbling burst,
Now, clogged and silent, welter on
With all their light and music gone—
There—by the foundry's furnace glow,
Or black canal—barge-laden, slow—
Among the toiling swarms of men
The Minstrel of the linn and glen,
Hath lays to captivate each ear—
For joy, a laugh—for grief, a tear.
And Burns to them is dearer far
Than Shakespeare's self and Milton are,
Dearer—because there runs some vein
Warm from his heart through every strain.
What though he be no cultured sage
Rich in the lore of classic page—
He tells them that the honest poor
In God's eyes never are obscure—
That rank and riches—blood and birth—
Are but the accidents of earth,
And that a garb of "hodden-grey"
Is not less grand than kings' array,
If he who wears it will and can
Uphold the dignity of man.
And thus—the shepherd on the moor;
The lasses, bleaching on the braes;
The gude-wife, spinning at the door;
The reaper in the noon-tide blaze;
The wayworn hunter on the fell;
The milk-maid in the hazel dell;
The fisher, rocked upon the deep;
The mother, ere her "bairnies" sleep;
Australian herdsmen, as they roam,
And settlers in a "New World" home;
Sailors, amid the Atlantic main,
And soldiers on the Indian plain;
Joyful, or joyless, all in turns
Sing the sweet songs of Robert Burns—
Those miracles of matchless art,
That nestle warmly in each heart!





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