TO THE SONS OF BURNS, AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER

‘ Mid crowded obelisks and urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns;

Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns

With sorrow true;

And more would grieve, but that it turns

Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill

Ye now are panting up life's hill,

And more than common strength and skill

Must ye display;

If ye would give the better will

Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear

Intemperance with less harm, beware!

But if the Poet's wit ye share,

Like him can speed

The social hour — of tenfold care

There will be need;

For honest men delight will take

To spare your failings for his sake,

Will flatter you,— and fool and rake

Your steps pursue;

And of your Father's name will make

A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire,

And add your voices to the quire

That sanctify the cottage fire

With service meet;

There seek the genius of your Sire,

His spirit greet;

Or where,' mid “lonely heights and hows,”

He paid to Nature tuneful vows;

Or wiped his honourable brows

Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs

Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray

Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;

But ne'er to a seductive lay

Let faith be given;

Nor deem that “light which leads astray,

Is light from Heaven.”

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;

Be independent, generous, brave;

Your Father such example gave,

And such revere;

But be admonished by his grave,

And think, and fear!