ROBERT BURNS
Though sad thy tale, my heart no grief shall borrow; Too well I know that guilt is sire of sorrow.
But didst thou lift or hand or voice
To uphold the right or aid the oppressed ? With woe didst weep, with joy rejoice ?
If kind affections warmed thy breast. If thou hast sought to save from death
The memory of neglected worth, Or if thy muse, with honest breath,
Called truth despised from darkness forth — Whate'er thy faults, still will I honor thee. So thou didst not desert sweet charity.
Even though, in error's wilds benighted,
The senses bound thee as their slave. Till reason dimmed and memory blighted
Left thee in degradation's grave ; Still be thy name to feeling dear,
Still be thou pure in sight of heaven ; For thee let pity drop the tear ;
Thou hast loved much, and art forgiven. Let no rude tongue disturb thy last repose, Nor slight the debt mankind to genius owes.
Alas, poor bard ! I know thee now ;
No mean, no hated name was thine ; Yet, though the bays were on thy brow,
I feel thou wast but half divine. Whom in my inmost heart I prize.
From passion's thraldom must live free. Himself must never need despise,
Nor live even his own enemy, — Must rather dwell unknown, from fame exempt, Than sue to pity for her mild contempt, —
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