Poems (Dodd)/Burns
For works with similar titles, see Burns.
POEMS.
BURNS.
"Rosseau, we all know, when dying, wished to be carried into the open air, that he might obtain a parting look of the glorious orb of day. A few nights before his death, Burns drank tea with Mrs. Craig, widow of the minister of Ruthwell. His altered appearance excited much silent sympathy; and the evening being beautiful, and the sun shining brightly through the casement, Miss Craig was afraid the light might be too much for him, and rose with the view of letting down the window-blinds. Burns immediately guessed what she meant; and regarding the young lady with a look of great benignity, said, 'thank you, my dear, for your kind attention; but, O, let him shine; he will not shine long for me.'"—Lockhart's Life of Burns.
O, shut not out the blessed light,
Though weak and dim these eyes of mine,
'Twill cheer my very heart to-night,
To watch that golden orb's decline:
Then let me still the sunlight see,
Which is not long to shine for me.
Though weak and dim these eyes of mine,
'Twill cheer my very heart to-night,
To watch that golden orb's decline:
Then let me still the sunlight see,
Which is not long to shine for me.
As fade those briliant rays, too soon,
So steal my sands of life away;
Life, it has been a weary boon,
Why do I wish its longer stay?
Should not my soaring spirit sigh,
To throw its earthly garments by?
So steal my sands of life away;
Life, it has been a weary boon,
Why do I wish its longer stay?
Should not my soaring spirit sigh,
To throw its earthly garments by?
'Tis sad to see the eyes we love,
O'erflow with tears which cannot save;
To leave the blessed sun above,
For the pale twilight of the grave;
And dark will be the hour, I ween,
Which parts me from my "darling Jean."
O'erflow with tears which cannot save;
To leave the blessed sun above,
For the pale twilight of the grave;
And dark will be the hour, I ween,
Which parts me from my "darling Jean."
Though dewy morn, and golden noon,
Shall make the scenes I love look gay;
By Yarrow's banks, and "bonnie Doon,"
My blithesome steps no longer stray.
The breeze will curl the silver Dee,
Whose glancing waves I may not see.
Shall make the scenes I love look gay;
By Yarrow's banks, and "bonnie Doon,"
My blithesome steps no longer stray.
The breeze will curl the silver Dee,
Whose glancing waves I may not see.
No more I muse the hours away,
By wimpling burn, or heather wide,
Or hasten back at gloamin' gray,
To dear ones by the ingle side.
The linnet on the hawthorne bough,
From sadness cannot charm me now.
By wimpling burn, or heather wide,
Or hasten back at gloamin' gray,
To dear ones by the ingle side.
The linnet on the hawthorne bough,
From sadness cannot charm me now.
Though wild and wayward my career,
By sorrow marked, by sin defiled,
My Father, thou wilt deign to hear
The prayers of thy repentant child.
In folly's path I wandered free,
But still my heart remembered thee.
By sorrow marked, by sin defiled,
My Father, thou wilt deign to hear
The prayers of thy repentant child.
In folly's path I wandered free,
But still my heart remembered thee.
With dear and ever new delight,
I gazed on all thy hand hath made;
The roaring linn, the rocky height,
The burn that winds through sun and shade.
I plucked the flowers along my road,
And looked through nature up to God.
I gazed on all thy hand hath made;
The roaring linn, the rocky height,
The burn that winds through sun and shade.
I plucked the flowers along my road,
And looked through nature up to God.
I loved the laverock's lay at morn,
The mavis' song at eventide,
The blossom of the hoary thorn,
The daisy on the mountain side,
The purple heather's tiny bell,
The foxglove in the silent dell.
The mavis' song at eventide,
The blossom of the hoary thorn,
The daisy on the mountain side,
The purple heather's tiny bell,
The foxglove in the silent dell.
A May-day morn, or breezy noon,
Could charm my thoughts from care away;
I mused beneath the skies of June,
And sighed o'er autumn's slow decay;
And nature sometimes gave me leave,
Their beauty in my strains to weave.
Could charm my thoughts from care away;
I mused beneath the skies of June,
And sighed o'er autumn's slow decay;
And nature sometimes gave me leave,
Their beauty in my strains to weave.
As well might clouds refuse to fly
Which zephyrs on their pinions bear,
Or the Æolian harp deny
Its music to the streaming air,
As the poor poet e'er refuse
A tribute to his gentle muse.
Which zephyrs on their pinions bear,
Or the Æolian harp deny
Its music to the streaming air,
As the poor poet e'er refuse
A tribute to his gentle muse.
I wove among our lonely hills
Lays for the peasant in his cot,
Of his own bright and dancing rills,
And many a dear familiar spot:
He sings them while at early day,
His ploughshare turns the turf away.
Lays for the peasant in his cot,
Of his own bright and dancing rills,
And many a dear familiar spot:
He sings them while at early day,
His ploughshare turns the turf away.
I could not bend the knee to pride,
Whose favors may be bought and sold,
Or turn from honor's path aside,
To "coin my mind" for paltry gold.
My thoughts were free for all to share,
As my own Scotland's mountain air.
Whose favors may be bought and sold,
Or turn from honor's path aside,
To "coin my mind" for paltry gold.
My thoughts were free for all to share,
As my own Scotland's mountain air.
But fortune smiled not on the bard
Who ever held her favors light;
His way was rough, his lot was hard,
His noonday early changed to night;
And now he mourns o'er wasted powers,
O'er blighted hopes, and vanished hours.
Who ever held her favors light;
His way was rough, his lot was hard,
His noonday early changed to night;
And now he mourns o'er wasted powers,
O'er blighted hopes, and vanished hours.
Life's weary voyage is nearly o'er,
Its strife, its passion, and its care,
And soon my bark will reach the shore,
Whose peaceful rest I sigh to share;
Then let me still the sunlight see,
Which is not long to shine for me.
Its strife, its passion, and its care,
And soon my bark will reach the shore,
Whose peaceful rest I sigh to share;
Then let me still the sunlight see,
Which is not long to shine for me.