I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, | |
| At thought of what I now behold: | |
| As vapors breathed from dungeons cold, | |
| Strike pleasure dead, | |
| So sadness comes from out the mould | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| |
| I mourned with thousands, but as one | |
| More deeply grieved, for He was gone | |
| Whose light I hailed when first it shone, | |
| And showed my youth | |
| How Verse may build a princely throne | 35 |
| On humble truth. | |
| |
| Alas! where’er the current tends, | |
| Regret pursues and with it blends,— | |
| Huge Criffel’s hoary top ascends | |
| By Skiddaw seen,— | 40 |
| Neighbors 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, | 45 |
| 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,” | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| |
| 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 | 65 |
| Some sad delight: | |
| |
| For he is safe, a quiet bed | |
| Hath early found among the dead, | |
| Harbored where none can be misled, | |
| Wronged, or distrest; | 70 |
| 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 | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| Music that sorrow comes not near, | |
| A ritual hymn, | |
| Chanted in love that casts out fear | |
| By Seraphim. | |
| |
