[Footnote E:  Criffel.—­Ed.]

[Footnote F:  Annandale.—­Ed.]

* * * * *

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE POET’S RESIDENCE

Composed 1803. [A]—­Published 1842

  Too frail to keep the lofty vow
  That must have followed when his brow
  Was wreathed—­“The Vision” [B] tells us how—­
        With holly spray,
  He faultered, drifted to and fro, 5
        And passed away.

  Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng
  Our minds when, lingering all too long,
  Over the grave of Burns we hung
        In social grief—­10
  Indulged as if it were a wrong
        To seek relief.

  But, leaving each unquiet theme
  Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
  And prompt to welcome every gleam 15
        Of good and fair,
  Let us beside this limpid Stream
        Breathe hopeful air.

  Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;
  Think rather of those moments bright 20
  When to the consciousness of right
        His course was true,
  When Wisdom prospered in his sight
        And virtue grew.

  Yes, freely let our hearts expand, 25
  Freely as in youth’s season bland,
  When side by side, his Book in hand,
        We wont to stray,
  Our pleasure varying at command
        Of each sweet Lay. 30

  How oft inspired must he have trod
  These pathways, yon far-stretching road! 
  There lurks his home; in that Abode,
        With mirth elate,
  Or in his nobly-pensive mood, 35
        The Rustic sate.

  Proud thoughts that Image overawes,
  Before it humbly let us pause,
  And ask of Nature, from what cause
      And by what rules 40
  She trained her Burns to win applause
      That shames the Schools.

  Through busiest street and loneliest glen
  Are felt the flashes of his pen;
  He rules mid winter snows, and when 45
      Bees fill their hives;
  Deep in the general heart of men
      His power survives.

  What need of fields in some far clime
  Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 50
  And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
        From genuine springs,
  Shall dwell together till old Time
        Folds up his wings?

  Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven 55
  This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
  The rueful conflict, the heart riven
        With vain endeavour,
  And memory of Earth’s bitter leaven,
        Effaced for ever. 60