Century Magazine/Volume 47/Issue 5/We Camped with Burns

by W. P. Foster

We camped with Burns upon the mountain-height;
We read his poems by the pine-knot’s light.

The wind roared in the spruce-tops overhead;
The snow blew through the doorway as we read.

The night was wild, and we had wandered far
Ere darkness came without a guiding star.

But though our limbs were worn, no breath of care
Could dull the soul in that pure mountain air.

And he, beset with lifelong toil and wrong,
Who broke the bonds that bound the feet of song,

And made toil glorious his plow behind,
Seemed to draw near upon that winter wind.

We felt his deep gaze burning through the storm,
His voice the blast, the wavering shade his form;

And “Highland Mary,” “Tam o’ Shanter’s” lines,
Were mingled with the murmur of the pines.

There are some days in life so full and free
With self-reliant youth and prophecy,

That in all after-time, when we look back,
They stand like mountain-ranges in the track;

And when life’s sun is setting, long they keep
His splendor lingering on slope and steep.

So seems that day to me, so shines that night
We camped with Burns upon the mountain-height.