Page:Poems Douglas.djvu/201

But soon she lifted up her voice and wept,
 A dark'ning cloud upon her glory hung;
For there her bright, neglected Minstrel slept,
 His lips lay silent, and his lyre unstrung.

And now 'twas her's past conduct to atone,
 She mourn'd the star which should no more illume;
She wept that such injustice had been done,
 And spread his brightest laurels on his tomb,
And raised memorials to his sacred name,
 To which, with mournful pride she ever turns;
Though many a gem of worth her land could claim,
 Yet still she boasted only of one Burns!

And now I stand where that great Bard oft stood,
 Where fading sunbeams on the Doon expire;
I gaze upon each fertile solitude,
 Long made immortal by his glowing lyre.
And I have strayed where he was wont to stray—
 Stood in the cottage where the Bard had birth;
Now, with admiring gratitude, I pay
 My humble homage at the shrine of worth.

Gems from the Muse's academic bowers,
 In richness and in beauty deck his grave;
Yet, creep at times the lowliest of flowers
 To the same garden where proud roses wave.
Then, if 'mid laurels that o'ershade his tomb,
 This little sprig may find a place the while,
Though scant of verdure, and though faint of bloom,
 To brighter offerings it may prove a foil!