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| WE hail, this morn, | |
| A century’s noblest birth; | |
| A Poet peasant-born, | |
| Who more of Fame’s immortal dower | |
| Unto his country brings, | 5 |
| Than all her kings! | |
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| As lamps high set | |
| Upon some earthly eminence,— | |
| And to the gazer brighter thence | |
| Than the sphere-lights they flout,— | 10 |
| Dwindle in distance and die out, | |
| While no star waneth yet; | |
| So through the past’s far-reaching night, | |
| Only the star-souls keep their light. | |
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| A gentle boy,— | 15 |
| With moods of sadness and of mirth, | |
| Quick tears and sudden joy,— | |
| Grew up beside the peasant’s hearth. | |
| His father’s toil he shares! | |
| But half his mother’s cares | 20 |
| From his dark searching eyes, | |
| Too swift to sympathise, | |
| Hid in her heart she bears. | |
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| At early morn, | |
| His father calls him to the field; | 25 |
| Through the stiff soil that clogs his feet, | |
| Chill rain, and harvest heat, | |
| He plods all day; returns at eve outworn, | |
| To the rude fare a peasant’s lot doth yield;— | |
| To what else was he born? | 30 |
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| The God-made King | |
| Of every living thing; | |
| (For his great heart in love could hold them all;) | |
| The dumb eyes meeting his by hearth and stall,— | |
| Gifted to understand!— | 35 |
| Knew it and sought his hand;— | |
| And the most timorous creature had not fled | |
| Could she his heart have read, | |
| Which fain all feeble things had blessed and shelterèd. | |
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| To Nature’s feast,— | 40 |
| Who knew her noblest guest | |
| And entertained him best,— | |
| Kingly he came. Her chambers of the east | |
| She draped with crimson and with gold, | |
| And poured her pure joy-wines | 45 |
| For him the poet-souled. | |
| For him her anthem rolled, | |
| From the storm-wind among the winter pines, | |
| Down to the slenderest note | |
| Of a love-warble from the linnet’s throat. | 50 |
| |
| But when begins | |
| The array for battle, and the trumpet blows, | |
| A king must leave the feast, and lead the fight. | |
| And with its mortal foes,— | |
| Grim gathering hosts of sorrows and of sins,— | 55 |
| Each human soul must close. | |
| And Fame her trumpet blew | |
| Before him; wrapped him in her purple state; | |
| And made him mark for all the shafts of Fate, | |
| That henceforth round him flew. | 60 |
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| Though he may yield | |
| Hard-pressed, and wounded fall | |
| Forsaken on the field; | |
| His regal vestments soiled; | |
| His crown of half its jewels spoiled; | 65 |
| He is a king for all, | |
| Had he but stood aloof! | |
| Had he arrayed himself in armour proof | |
| Against temptation’s darts! | |
| So yearn the good;—so those the world calls wise, | 70 |
| With vain presumptuous hearts, | |
| Triumphant moralise. | |
| |
| Of martyr-woe | |
| A sacred shadow on his memory rests; | |
| Tears have not ceased to flow; | 75 |
| Indignant grief yet stirs impetuous breasts, | |
| To think,—above that noble soul brought low, | |
| That wise and soaring spirit fooled, enslaved,— | |
| Thus, thus he had been saved! | |
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| It might not be! | 80 |
| That heart of harmony | |
| Had been too rudely rent: | |
| Its silver chords, which any hand could wound, | |
| By no hand could be tuned, | |
| Save by the Maker of the instrument, | 85 |
| Its every string who knew, | |
| And from profaning touch His heavenly gift withdrew. | |
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| Regretful love | |
| His country fain would prove, | |
| By grateful honours lavished on his grave; | 90 |
| Would fain redeem her blame | |
| That He so little at her hands can claim, | |
| Who unrewarded gave | |
| To her his life-bought gift of song and fame. | |
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| The land he trod | 95 |
| Hath now become a place of pilgrimage; | |
| Where dearer are the daisies of the sod | |
| That could his song engage. | |
| The hoary hawthorn, wreathed | |
| Above the bank on which his limbs he flung | 100 |
| While some sweet plaint he breathed; | |
| The streams he wandered near; | |
| The maidens whom he loved; the songs he sung;— | |
| All, all are dear! | |
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| The arch blue eyes,— | 105 |
| Arch but for love’s disguise,— | |
| Of Scotland’s daughters, soften at his strain; | |
| Her hardy sons, sent forth across the main | |
| To drive the ploughshare through earth’s virgin soils, | |
| Lighten with it their toils; | 110 |
| And sister-lands have learn’d to love the tongue | |
| In which such songs are sung. | |
| |
| For doth not Song | |
| To the whole world belong: | |
| Is it not given wherever tears can fall, | 115 |
| Wherever hearts can melt, or blushes glow, | |
| Or mirth and sadness mingle as they flow | |
| A heritage to all? | |
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