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Those who love thee, thy faults will with pity disclose,
And weep o'er the turf which now covers thy head.
V.
Alas! sweetest Bard, shall the green turf we raise,
Be all the memorial to hand down thy name?
No other thou needest, thy strains are thy praise,
And these still shall render immortal thy fame.
Glasgow, July 26, 1796.
GENIUS of Scotia mourn!
Cypress bestrew the urn
Where Burns lies dead;
No—Here the laurel gives
Her never fading leaves
To crown his head.
Scotia! tho' cold thy clime, tho' hard thy soil,
Where Nature fosters life by brawny toil—
Yet Genius lives—thy hills and rocks inspire
The Muses love, and force Poetic fire.
Weak glows that fire—the Muses droop—
Genius, unprop'd, begins to stoop-
Her Bard is gone.
In his plain breast that radiant light,
Deriv'd from Heav'n, with ardour bright,
Refulgent shone.
Sweet Bard, adieu! While Scotia bears a name;
Whilst Merit claims the laurel; Genius fame;
Thy name shall live—and tho' the world decays,
More vigorous still shall grow thy matchless praise.
