Poems (Douglas)/Stanzas on the Demise of Robert Burns, Esq., Dumfries, eldest son of Scotland's Bard
Stanzas
ON THE DEMISE OF ROBERT BURNS, ESQ., OF DUMFRIES, ELDEST SON OF SCOTLAND'S BARD.
A solemn waving of dark plumes is seen
Midst sable groups, who onward sad and slow
Direct their footsteps to that sacred green,
Where calmly, side by side, sleep friend and foe.
The unfeigned impress of the heart that mourns
Fills every brow assembled there with gloom—
For 'tis the first-born of immortal Burns
They bear in sorrow to the lonely tomb.
Midst sable groups, who onward sad and slow
Direct their footsteps to that sacred green,
Where calmly, side by side, sleep friend and foe.
The unfeigned impress of the heart that mourns
Fills every brow assembled there with gloom—
For 'tis the first-born of immortal Burns
They bear in sorrow to the lonely tomb.
"No more," is murmured from each lip, "no more
His pleasing converse shall delight impart;
Lost, lost to us the magic of his lore,
And all the genuine warmth of his deep heart.
Ah! lost to us the friend reserved so long,
Endeared to every heart by many a tie,
The gifted son of Scotland's bard of song.
Alas! that earth's most loved and prized should die."
His pleasing converse shall delight impart;
Lost, lost to us the magic of his lore,
And all the genuine warmth of his deep heart.
Ah! lost to us the friend reserved so long,
Endeared to every heart by many a tie,
The gifted son of Scotland's bard of song.
Alas! that earth's most loved and prized should die."
"Should die!" a breeze-like voice would seem to say;
"And what is death but rest—an ended race,
Through which life's rose leaves flutter all away,
Till but the thorns remain to mark their place?
'Tis no untimely fruit Death gathers in—
He bowed his head 'neath ripe and honoured years;
He is gone home—home from the thrall, and sin,
And weary wanderings in this vale of tears."
"And what is death but rest—an ended race,
Through which life's rose leaves flutter all away,
Till but the thorns remain to mark their place?
'Tis no untimely fruit Death gathers in—
He bowed his head 'neath ripe and honoured years;
He is gone home—home from the thrall, and sin,
And weary wanderings in this vale of tears."
"Ah!" sigh the mourners, "vacancy is left,
As when a jewel from a chaplet's fled,
And sorrow known but to the sore bereft
Comes with the thought that he is of the dead:
He, the too simple for the world's great mart,
Though far for learning's high perfections famed,
Accomplished, kind, compassionate of heart,
To be but as a memory henceforth named."
As when a jewel from a chaplet's fled,
And sorrow known but to the sore bereft
Comes with the thought that he is of the dead:
He, the too simple for the world's great mart,
Though far for learning's high perfections famed,
Accomplished, kind, compassionate of heart,
To be but as a memory henceforth named."
"He is gone home—home to the passed away—
The loved, who crossed the shadowy bourne before,
The spirit land, where no earth care can stray,"
Floats in the soft triumphant voice once more.
Where wife, sire, mother, slumber side by side,
The clay-revered place in its bed of earth;
And still let Scotland boast with sacred pride
She holds their hallowed dust and place of birth.
The loved, who crossed the shadowy bourne before,
The spirit land, where no earth care can stray,"
Floats in the soft triumphant voice once more.
Where wife, sire, mother, slumber side by side,
The clay-revered place in its bed of earth;
And still let Scotland boast with sacred pride
She holds their hallowed dust and place of birth.
With feelings that no foot unbared should tread
The spot made sacred long by Burns's bier,
In deep solemnity they place the dead
By "bonnie Jean," with many a votive tear.
"Left us for ever—stepped into the night,"
The mourners falter, "ne'er in sight to come;"
"Gone," the voice murmurs, "into endless light,
Gone to the dear departed home—gone home."
The spot made sacred long by Burns's bier,
In deep solemnity they place the dead
By "bonnie Jean," with many a votive tear.
"Left us for ever—stepped into the night,"
The mourners falter, "ne'er in sight to come;"
"Gone," the voice murmurs, "into endless light,
Gone to the dear departed home—gone home."