Obrazy na stronie
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Lincluden Abbey.

A Vision.*

As I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air,

Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care;

The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;

The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruined wa's,

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din;

Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

*A favourite walk of Burns during his residence in Dumfries was one along the right bank of the river above the town, terminating at the ruins of Lincluden Abbey and Church, which occupy a romantic situation on a piece of rising ground in the angle at the junction of the Cluden Water with the Nith. These ruins include many fine fragments of ancient decorative architecture, and are enshrined in a natural scene of the utmost beauty. Burns, according to his eldest son, often mused amidst the Lincluden ruins. There is one position on a little mount, to the south of the church, where a couple of landscapes of witching loveliness are obtained, set, as it were, in two of the windows of the ancient building. It was probably the “Calvary of the ancient church precinct. This the younger Burns remembered to have been a favourite resting-place of the poet.

Such is the locality of the grand and thrilling ode, entitled A Vision, in which he hints—for more than a hint could not be ventured upon—his sense of the degradation of the ancient manly spirit of his country under the conservative terrors of the "'s era.-Chambers's Burns.

By heedless chance I turned mine eyes,
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attired as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,
His darin look had daunted me;

And on his bonnet graved was plain,
The sacred posy—‘Libertie!’

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear;

But oh! it was a tale of woe,
As ever met a Briton's ear.

He sang wi' joy the former day,
He weeping wailed his latter times;

But what he said it was nae play—
I winna ventur’t in my rhymes.

Man was Made to Mourn—a Dirge.

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

‘Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?'
Began the reverend sage:
“Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage |
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.

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