Page:The poetical works of Thomas Campbell.djvu/116

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Who that has melted o'er his layTo Mary's soul, in Heaven above,But pictured sees, in fancy strong,The landscape and the livelong dayThat smiled upon their mutual love?—Who that has felt forgets the song?
Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan:His country's high-soul'd peasantryWhat patriot-pride he taught!—how muchTo weigh the inborn worth of man!And rustic life and povertyGrow beautiful beneath his touch.
Him, in his clay-built cot, the museEntranc'd, and show'd 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 arouseThe 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 tann'dBy many a far and foreign clime,Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weepIn memory of his native land.With love that scorns the lapse of time,And ties that stretch beyond the deep.
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