THERE is no death for genius, for it leaps, Fount-like, from source to limpid depths again. There is no death for genius, for it sleeps To wake refreshed in each new life's sweet pain. O, Burns, how rich and sweet thy stream of song, Pouring from mountain dale and hawthorn glen, Bright as the channel where Ayr flashed along, Deep as the sea beyond Ben Lomond's ken. Bubbling, it bursts out like thy mountain springs, Out from the cool depths of great nature's mart, Slaking the fevered thirst our life toil brings, Reflecting all the star-domes of our heart. Here at thy fount, O, let me drink and know That God still reigns and man is king below. |