BURNS.
Joaquin Miller
- Eld Druid oaks of Ayr,
- Precepts! Poems! Pages!
- Lessons! Leaves, and Volumes!
- Arches! Pillars! Columns
- In corridors of ages!
- Grand patriarchal sages
- Lifting palms in prayer!
- The Druid beards are drifting
- And shifting to and fro,
- In gentle breezes lifting.
- That bat-like come and go.
- The while the moon is sifting
- A sheen of shining snow
- On all these blossoms lifting
- Their blue eyes from below.
- No, tis not phantoms walking
- That you hear rustling there,
- But bearded Druids talking,
- And turning leaves in prayer.
- No, not a night-bird singing
- Nor breeze the broad bough swinging,
- But that bough holds a censer,
- And swings it to and fro.
- 'Tis Sunday eve, remember,
- That's why they chant so low.
linger in the autumn noon, - I listen to the partridge call,
- I watch the yellow leaflets fall
- And drift adown the dimpled Doon.
- I lean me o'er the ivy-grown
- Auld brig, where Vandal tourists tools
- Have ribb'd out names that would be known,
- Are known—known as a herd of fools.
- Down Ailsa Craig the sun declines,
- With lances level'd here and there
- The tinted thorns! the trailing vines!
- O braes of Doon! so fond, so fair!
- So passing fair, so more than fond!
- The Poet's place of birth beyond,
- Beyond the mellow bells of Ayr!
- I hear the milk-maid's twilight song
- Come bravely through the storm-bent oaks;
- Beyond, the white surf's sullen strokes
- Beat in a chorus deep and strong;
- I hear the sounding forge afar,
- And rush and ramble of the car,
- The steady tinkle of the bell
- Of lazy, laden, home-bound cows
- That stop to bellow and to browse;
- I breathe the soft sea-wind as well.
- O Burns! where bid? where bide ye now?
- Where rest you in this night's full moon,
- Great master of the pen and plow?
- Might you not on yon slanting beam
- Of moonlight kneeling to the Boon,
- Descend once to this hallow'd stream?
- Sure yon stars yield enough of light
- For heaven to spare your face one night.
- O Burns! another name for song,
- Another name for passion pride;
- For love and poesy allied;
- For strangely blended right and wrong.
- I picture you as one who kneel'd
- A stranger at his own hearthstone;
- One knowing all, yet all unknown,
- One seeing all, yet all conceal'd;
- The fitful years you linger'd here
- A lease of peril and of pain;
- And I am thankful yet again
- The gods did love you, plowman! peer!
- In all your own and other lands,
- I hear your touching songs of cheer;
- The lowly peasant, lordly peer.
- Above your honor'd dust strike hands.
- A touch of tenderness is shown
- In this unselfish love of Ayr,
- And it is well, you earn'd it fair;
- For all unhelmeted, alone,
- You proved a plowman's honest claim
- To battle in the lists of fame;
- You earn'd it as a warrior earns
- His laurels fighting for his land,
- And died it was your right to go.
- O eloquence of silent woe!
- The Master leaning, reach'd a hand,
- And whisper'd, "It is finish'd, Burns!"
- O sad, sweet singer of a Spring!
- Yours was a chill, uncheerful May,
- And you knew no full days of June;
- You ran too swiftly up the way,
- And wearied soon, so over-soon!
- You sang in weariness and woe;
- You falter'd, and God heard you sing,
- Then touch'd your hand and led you so,
- You found life's hill-top low, so low,
- You cross'd its summit long ere noon.
- Thus sooner than one would suppose
- Some weary feet will find repose.