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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354837" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Burns</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">MY OWN WILD BURNS! these rude-wrought rhymes of thine<br>In golden worth are like the unshapely coin<br>Of some new realm, yet pure as from the mine—<br>And Art may well be spared with such alloy<br>As dims the bullion to improve the die!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I love the truths of Art but more indeed<br>The simplest truths of Nature; and I read<br>To find her visibly enthroned on all<br>His muse hath builded like a fiery wall<br>Round national faith and patriotic pride<br>And Love and Valour both at Beauty’s side.<br>Yea, more his outward rudeness, doth impress<br>Upon me still his innate strengthiness 1<br>Even as imperfect features oft enhance<br>Th’ intrinsic power of some fine countenance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How various too the spirit of his lyre—<br>How many-hued his soul’s poetic fire!<br>In his one Muse such qualities we find<br>Mingled, as most are several in their kind:<br>Mirth like a billow brightening up before<br>The blasts of Grief—to die on Misery’s shore,<br>Humour and Scorn and Pathos, with a reach<br>Above all effort, each exalting each!<br>Yea, Terror wedding its own sense of evil<br>To mother Pity—even for the Devil!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But best he moves to tears, or wakes such sighs<br>As fan the vital fire in Beauty’s lustrous eyes.<br>Hark! when the winding Nith, the Afton, Clyde,<br>Rave downward or in gleaming quiet glide,<br>How Passion’s very soul keeps burning by<br>In his wild verse from every covert nigh!<br>Or by the “bonnie Doon” or “gurgling Ayr,”<br>What heart-sweet memories like perfumes there<br>Re-breathe of bloomy joys untimely shed<br>And Love that followed the belov’ed dead<br>To Heaven!—and then while Pity weeps aloud<br>Clad in the pale ideal of a shroud,<br>Who would exchange the luxury of her woe<br>For all the pleasures that the heartless know!<br>. . . . .<br>But should we need relief—another page<br>Shall blow the trumpet of his warlike rage!<br>And vilest of the villain herd is he<br>Who to his battle-dirge can listener be<br>Nor feel that he could die for Liberty!<br>Or who, while volleys forth the charging lay<br>Revoicing Bannockburn’s all-glorious day,<br>From his exalted manhood then not spurns<br>Whate’er is traitorous, with a shout for Burns!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now in thought I track with steps of fear<br>The noble peasant in his wild career.<br>The haven of his youth is left: the sea<br>Of Life is loudening all around; and she,<br>Who ’mid its perilous breakers might have stood<br>His first sweet love—she is not! Heaven looks bright<br>Still, and the hills laugh round him for delight,<br>But, ah! beneath the sun he finds no more<br>The Eden where his genius dwelt before!<br>And does he wander by his native Ayr?<br>The spirit of gladness hath gone up even there—<br>Up like the blithe notes of the lark when they<br>Have faded heavenward utterly away.<br>The more he mixes with his kind in mirth<br>The more he feels the homelessness of earth,<br>Till Life’s lost charm seems beckoning him afar<br>In the white beauty of each lovely star!<br>She is not!—only sweeter is the tone<br>Of his wild lyre for the wild loss thus known.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But storying thus with love his native streams,<br>Thus by the life of his poetic dreams<br>Breathing suggestions that exalt and thrill<br>Into the spirit of each warrior hill;<br>Yea lighting Scotia’s universal face<br>With mental beauty and affectionate grace,<br>Yet, did he die the victim of excess?<br>Alas! even Poesy by her mute distress<br>Admits the blot, nor could she save her son,<br>Her star-bright Rob, her love-anointed one!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whilst yet the bard by Fortune unsubdued<br>Had only like a wild bird of the wood<br>Sung his own simple joys, then happy being good—<br>Ere he had sounded the world’s heart and spurned<br>The soulless tone its hollowness returned,<br>His habitudes how temperate we find<br>From a self-pleasing tunefulness of mind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But afterwards, that such a being so<br>Alive to joy and sensitive to woe,<br>With all in sympathy of rich and rare<br>Flushing his soul, as in the evening air<br>A western cloud grows grateful to the sense<br>With all the sun’s unspeakable affluence<br>Of golden glory—mightily endowed<br>By genius too, with motives nobly proud<br>And full-summ’d wings of spiritual flame<br>Wherewith to mount against the burning eye of Fame;<br>Yet “bounded in a nutshell,” or but wooed<br>By Fortune from a barren solitude,<br>Just to be stared at by her minions vain—<br>A sort of mental monster newly ta’en!<br>That such a being should resort at length<br>To whatsoever might repair the strength<br>Of ruined Joy a moment or inspire<br>The heart of dying Hope though with fallacious fire,<br>Was I believe, howe’er the truth appal,<br>Almost inevitably natural.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, Scotia! it behoved thee then to guard<br>The worldly welfare of thy peasant bard!<br>But no, thou wouldst not—and thy gifted son<br>So placed, again the like career should run—<br>Again be naked left to Fortune’s slurs,<br>A hound-like spirit in a land of curs!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But ah! if such may always be the fate<br>Of Genius native to a low estate,<br>For mercy’s sake, nay for the sake of Burns,<br>Whose spirit methinks tow’rds each poor brother yearns,<br>Away the mask of kindred let us fling<br>At once, and brand it as an outcast thing!<br>Above communion with the rude, by mind<br>Exalted, and yet shunned by the refined!<br>Yea, let this warning in its face be hurl’d<br>As the collective verdict of the world:—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Enrich the age with beauty if you will,<br>But you must do so at your peril still!<br>The sole reward’s a life-long lack of bread,<br>And lastly a most desolate death-bed,<br>And then some century after, when the loss<br>And agony of Genius on the cross<br>Of Passion, shall have spread into a tale<br>Wherewith to spice the tavern lounger’s ale,<br>Then shall your lowly grave, long grass o’ergrown,<br>Become a national sentiment in stone!<br>Yes, then a costly monument shall grace<br>And guard it in the land, a sacred place!”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, must not Scorn have reeled with laughter—yes,<br>Even until shocked at her own bitterness,<br>To see by Scotland such a work up-piled<br>In honour of its so neglected child<br>Of grace and glory beautifully wild?<br>But there it stands—a type (at least to me)<br>Of intellectual hypocrisy!<br>Sad Poesy beholding, from it turns<br>And murmurs—What, a monument to Burns?<br>No: ’tis a sordid scoff perpetual made—<br>A final insult to his injured Shade!<br>The thankless country that denied him bread,<br>Now gives this stone—for he is safely dead!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charles+Harpur">Charles Harpur</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354837" data-title="Burns de Charles Harpur" data-description="MY OWN WILD BURNS! these rude-wrought rhymes of thine
In golden worth are like the unshapely coin
Of some new realm, yet pure as from the mine—
And Art may well be spared with such alloy
As dims the bullion to improve the die!

I love the truths..."></div>
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