The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      While simple melody pour’d moving on the heart.

      The Genius of the stream in front appears,

      A venerable Chief advanc’d in years;

      His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d,

      His manly leg with garter tangle bound.

      Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,

      Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring;

      Then, crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy,

      And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye:

      All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,

      Led yellow Autumn, wreath’d with nodding corn;

      Then Winter’s time-bleach’d looks did hoary show,

      By Hospitality with cloudless brow.

      Next follow’d Courage, with his martial stride,

      From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide;

      Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,

      A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair:

      Learning and Worth in equal measures trode

      From simple Catrine, their long-lov’d abode:

      Last, white-rob’d Peace, crown’d with a hazel wreath,

      To rustic Agriculture did bequeath

      The broken iron instruments of death;

      At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.

      LXXII. ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION

      [At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this Poem, in the hope that it might interest the powerful family of Dundas in his fortunes. I found it inserted in the handwriting of the poet, in an interleaved copy of his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, accompanied by the following surly note:—“The foregoing Poem has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God’s world, Alexander Wood, surgeon: when, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had been a strolling fiddler who had made free with his lady’s name, for a silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?” This Robert Dundas was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose hands, soon after these lines were written, all the government patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when the name of Burns was mentioned, pushed the wine to Pitt, and said nothing. The poem was first printed by me, in 1834.]

      Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks

      Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;

      Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,

      The gathering floods burst o’er the distant plains;

      Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;

      The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

      Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves,

      Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!

      Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,

      Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;

      Where to the whistling blast and waters’ roar

      Pale Scotia’s recent wound I may deplore.

      O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!

      A loss these evil days can ne’er repair!

      Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,

      Her doubtful balance ey’d, and sway’d her rod;

      Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow

      She sunk, abandon’d to the wildest woe.

      Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,

      Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:

      See from this cavern grim Oppression rise,

      And throw on poverty his cruel eyes;

      Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,

      And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:

      Mark ruffian Violence, distain’d with crimes,

      Rousing elate in these degenerate times;

      View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,

      As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:

      While subtile Litigation’s pliant tongue

      The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:

      Hark, injur’d Want recounts th’ unlisten’d tale,

      And much-wrong’d Mis’ry pours th’ unpitied wail!

      Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,

      To you I sing my grief-inspired strains:

      Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!

      Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.

      Life’s social haunts and pleasures I resign,

      Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,

      To mourn the woes my country must endure,

      That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

      LXXIII. ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH OF JOHN M’LEOD, ESQ. BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR’S

      [John M’Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and brother to that Isabella M’Leod, for whom Burns, in his correspondence, expressed great regard. The little Poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses: I found a seventh in M’Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the M’Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. I observe that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new verse, because, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have retained it.]

      Sad thy tale, thou idle page,

      And rueful thy alarms:

      Death tears the brother of her love

      From Isabella’s arms.

      Sweetly deck’d with pearly dew

      The morning rose may blow;

      But cold successive noontide blasts

      May lay its beauties low.

      Fair on Isabella’s morn

      The sun propitious smil’d;

      But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds

      Succeeding hopes beguil’d.

      Fate oft tears the bosom chords

      That nature finest strung:

      So Isabella’s heart was form’d,

      And so that heart was wrung.

      Were it in the poet’s power,

      Strong as he shares the grief

      That pierces Isabella’s heart,

      To give that heart relief!

      Dread Omnipotence, alone,

      Can heal the wound He gave;

      Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes

      To scenes beyond the grave.

      Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow,

      And fear no withering blast;

      There Isabella’s spotless worth

      Shall happy be at last.

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