And his that music, to whose tone

The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan,

In cold or sunny clime.

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt
Before its spell with willing knee,
And listened, and believed, and felt
The Poet's mastery

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm,
O'er the heart's sunshine, and its showers,
O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm,
O'er Reason's dark, cold hours;

On fields where brave men "die or do,"
In halls where rings the banquet's mirth,
Where mourners weep, where lovers woo,
From throne to cottage hearth?

What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung!

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above,
Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise,
And dreams of youth, and truth, and love,
With "Logan's" banks and braes.

And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall,

All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call.

Imagination's world of air,

And our own world, its gloom and glee,

Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,

And death's sublimity.

And Burns-though brief the race he ran,
Though rough and dark the path he trod,
Lived-died-in form and soul a Man,
The image of his God.

Though care, and pain, and want, and woe, With wounds that only death could heal, Tortures-the poor alone can know,

The proud alone can feel;

He kept his honesty and truth,

His independent tongue and pen,

And moved, in manhood, as in youth,

Pride of his fellow men.

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong,

A hate of tyrant and of knave,

A love of right, a scorn of wrong,
Of coward, and of slave;

A kind, true heart, a spirit high,

That could not fear, and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye,

And on his manly brow.

Praise to the bard!-his words are driven,
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown,
Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven,
The birds of fame have flown.

Praise to the man! a nation stood
Beside his coffin with wet eyes,
Her brave, her beautiful, her good,
As when a loved one dies.

And still, as on his funeral day,

Men stand his cold earth-couch around,

With the mute homage that we pay

To consecrated ground.

And consecrated ground it is,

The last, the hallowed home of one

Who lives upon all memories,

Though with the buried gone.

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined,-
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.

Sages, with wisdom's garland wreathed, Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power, And warriors with their bright swords sheathed, The mightiest of the hour;

And lowlier names, whose humble home

Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star,

Are there-o'er wave and mountain come,

From countries near and far;