Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Harp of Renfrewshire

465
No pale phosphoric gleam, which plays
Round stale corruption, here ;
No feeble taper's glimmering rays
Beside some dismal bier ;
No Etna-flame, with sulph'roiis breath,
Its dust and ashes showers ;
No lurid levin, charged with death,
That dazzles and devours ;
His genius, like the sun, forth shone.
To bless our human sight,
And clasp' the world in one broad zone
Of bright and living light ;
To banish gloom — alas that gloom
His own career should mark !
Yet, though the Sun all else illume,
The Sun itself is dark.
In Burns's lustre, oh ! how sweet
The wild flowers round us s^n-ead
The mountain-daisy at our feet
Lifts vip its modest head ;
The broom puts on a yellower flush
Along our banks and braes ;
The heather dyes a deeper blush
As conscious of our praise.
The bird sings blyther on the tree,
Or twitters in the brake ;
The bees they hum more busily.
And sweeter honey make ;
While all the creatures of the hill
Forget their hiding place.
And come to lick our hand at will —
We know them by their face.
i2