Robert Burns, Poet.

Auckland Star, Volume VI, Issue 1695, 24 July 1875, Page 5 (Supplement)

Robert Burns, Poet.

BY JOnii BLACKMiN.

fDiKD July 21st 1796.]

"'Thare Uan inner world of thought and feeling in whi h eacb of us lives, wherein we ara prcfcui d alone ; and many a light and shadow may sweep over that little- world, many a twilight gloominess m»y come, and many a heaven-sent light may scatter it, of which none save ourselves wilt ever know.''

—A.X H.B.

On Ayr's green banks, profusely spread With wild flowers sweet of every hue, The peasant-bard to manhood grew A.nd laboured for his daily bread. He walked the valleys, 'stern and wild' And held a\i bile the sturdy plough, And mused b9neath the hawthorn bough, Where Spring's first fragrant primrose smiled And as be grew, Lis opening mind Was charmed with every flower and tree,

The feathered warbler's spring-tide glee, And dreamy fancies undefined. He loved the forest whisperings, He dallied with the simplest flower?, In golden glooms and vocal bowers, And all of earth's delightful things. He loved the jewelled coronets Of glittering daisies on the plain, The gentle Spring's refreshing rain, That wakes the purple violets. The early dawn, the deepening frown Of gathering clouds, the eve's repose,

When moonbeams kiss the folding rose, And night puts on its starry crown. The rippling music of the streams, That through the summer landscape flow, All bade his ardent bosom glow, With happy thoughts and happier dreams. He bowed at Nature's lovely shrine, And twined a wreath with sacred awe,

And in her features read the law Of order and of love divine. In faith he wrought till time unfurled His aspirations, long repressed, The treasures of his youthful breast, And gave them to a listless world. He sang the 'braes o' bonnie Doon ', The beauties of the sylvan grove, And gave a tuneful voice to lore, Beneath the lustrous, white May moon. He boldly sounded human wrongs, And breathed the language of hi 9 soul, In strains beyond all meaa controul, And those who scorned his truost songs. No matter where the Scotsman turns, Where'er he breathes, where'er he roam 3, He finds within a thousand homes, Some cherished thought of Robert Burns.