days The same whom in my schoolNIVERSITY OF I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sk LIFORNIA. To seek thee did I often rove And I can listen to thee yet; O blessed Bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, faery place: That is fit home for Thee! (1804.) AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 1803. (Seven Years after his Death.) I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, At thought of what I now behold: As vapours breathed from dungeons cold So sadness comes from out the mould And have I then thy bones so near, As if it were thyself that's here And both my wishes and my fear Alike are vain. of Gray Off weight-nor press on weight!-away The tribute due To him, and aught that hides his clay Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth Doth glorify its humble birth With matchless beams. The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, Slept, with the obscurest, in the low I mourned with thousands, but as one How Verse may build a princely throne Alas! where'er the current tends, By Skiddaw seen,— Neighbours we were, and loving friends True friends though diversely inclined; Through Nature's skill, May even by contraries be joined More closely still The tear will start, and let it flow; Have sate and talked where gowans blow, What treasures would have then been placed But why go on?— Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, Soul-moving sight! Yet one to which is not denied For he is safe, a quiet bed Hath early found among the dead, And oh for Thee, by pitying grace Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 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. THOUGHTS SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE. Too frail to keep the lofty vow That must have followed when his brow Was wreathed-' The Vision' tells us how- He faltered, drifted to and fro, And passed away. Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng Over the grave of Burns we hung In social grief Indulged as if it were a wrong To seek relief. But, leaving each unquiet theme Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, And prompt to welcome every gleam Of good and fair, Let us beside this limpid Stream Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight; When Wisdom prospered in his sight Yes, freely let our hearts expand, Freely as in youth's season bland, When side by side, his Book in hand, We wont to stray, Our pleasure varying at command Of each sweet Lay. VOL. IV. How oft inspired must he have trode Or in his nobly-pensive mood, Proud thoughts that Image overawes, And ask of Nature, from what cause She trained her Burns to win applause Through busiest street and loneliest glen Deep in the general heart of men What need of fields in some far clime Shall dwell together till old Time Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven And memory of Earth's bitter leaven But why to Him confine the prayer, With all that live?— The best of what we do and are, E |