lirik lagu richard mitchley - ode to the memory of burns - thomas campbell
soul of the poet! wheresoe’er
reclaimed from earth, thy g~nius plume
her wings of immortality;
suspend thy harp in happier sphere
and with thine influence illume
the gladness of our jubilee
and fly like fiends from secret spell
discord and strife, at burn’s name
exorcised by his memory;
for he was chief of bards that swell
the heart with songs of social flame
and high delicious revelry
and love’s own strain to him was given
to warble all its ecstacies
with pythian words unsought, unwilled,—
love, the surviving gift of heaven
the choicest sweet of paradise
in life’s else bitter cup distilled
who that has melted o’er his lay
to mary’s soul, in heaven above
but pictured sees, in fancy strong
the landscape and the livelong day
that smiled upon their mutual love?
who that has felt forgets the song?
nor sk!lled one flame alone to fan:
his country’s high~souled peasantry
what patriot~pride he taught!—how much
to weigh the inborn worth of man!
and rustic life and poverty
grow beautiful beneath his touch
him, in his clay~built cot, the muse
entranced, and showed him all the forms
of fairy~light and wizard gloom
(that only gifted poet views,)
the genii of the floods and storms
and martial shades from glory’s tomb
on bannock~field what thoughts arouse
the swain whom burns’s song inspires!
beat not his caledonian veins
as o’er the heroic turf he ploughs
with all the spirit of his sires
and all their scorn of death and chains?
and see the scottish exile, tanned
by many a far and foreign clime
bend o’er his home~born verse, and weep
in memory of his native land
with love that scorns the lapse of time
and ties that stretch beyond the deep
encamped by indian rivers wild
the soldier resting on his arms
in burns’s carol sweet recalls
the scenes that blessed him when a child
and glows and gladdens at the charms
of scotia’s woods and waterfalls
o deem not, ‘midst this worldly strife
an idle art the poet brings:
let high philosophy control
and sages calm the stream of life
‘t is he refines its fountain~springs
the n0bler passions of the soul
it is the muse that consecrates
the native banner of the brave
unfurling, at the trumpet’s breath
rose, thistle, harp; ‘t is she elates
to sweep the field or ride the wave
a sunburst in the storm of death
and thou, young hero, when thy pall
is crossed with mournful sword and plume
when public grief begins to fade
and only tears of kindred fall
who but the bard shall dress thy tomb
and greet with fame thy gallant shade?
such was the soldier—burns, forgive
that sorrows of mine own intrude
in strains to thy great memory due
in verse like thine, oh ! could he live
the friend i mourned—the brave—the good
edward that died at waterloo !
farewell, high chief of scottish song!
that couldst alternately impart
wisdom and rapture in thy page
and brand each vice with satire strong
whose lines are mottoes of the heart?
whose truths electrify the sage
farewell! and ne’er may envy dare
to wring one baleful poison drop
from the crushed laurels of thy bust;
but while the lark sings sweet in air
still may the grateful pilgrim stop
to bless the spot that holds thy dust
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