At the Grave of Burns 1803

I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold:
As vapours breathed from dungeons cold
   Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould
   Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that’s here,
   I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear
   Alike are vain.

Off weight—nor press on weight!—away
Dark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay;
With chastened feelings would I pay
   The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay
   From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
He sang, his genius “glinted” forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
   For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
   With matchless beams.

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now?—
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
   The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
   And silent grave.

Well might I mourn that He was gone
Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
When, breaking forth as nature’s own,
   It showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne
   On humble truth.

Alas! where’er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends,—
Huge Criffel’s hoary top ascends
   By Skiddaw seen,—
Neighbours we were, and loving friends
   We might have been;

True friends though diversely inclined;
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined,
   Through Nature’s skill,
May even by contraries be joined
   More closely still.

The tear will start, and let it flow;
Thou “poor Inhabitant below,”
At this dread moment—even so—
   Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow,
   Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!
   But why go on?—
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
   His grave grass-grown.

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father’s side,
   Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied
   Some sad delight.

For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harboured where none can be misled,
   Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said
   That such are blest.

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race,
May He who halloweth the place
   Where Man is laid
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace
   For which it prayed!

Sighing I turned away; but ere
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,
   A ritual hymn,
Chaunted in love that casts out fear
   By Seraphim.