No book to-night; but let me sit
And watch the firelight change and flit,
And let me think of other lays
Than those that shake our modern days.
Outside, the tread of passing feet
Along the unsympathetic street
Is naught to me; I sit and hear
Far other music in my ear,
That, keeping perfect time and tune,
Whispers of Alloway and Doon.
The scent of withered flowers has brought
A fresher atmosphere of thought,
In which I make a realm, and see
A fairer world unfold to me;
For grew they not upon that spot
Of sacred soil that loses naught
Of sanctity by all the years
That come and pass like human fears?
They grew beneath the light of June,
And blossomed on the banks of Doon.
The waving woods are rich with green,
And sweet the Doon flows on between;
The winds tread light upon the grass,
That shakes with joy to feel them pass;
The sky, in its expanse of blue,
Has but a single cloud or two;
The lark, in raptures clear and long,
Shakes out his little soul in song,
But far above his notes, I hear
Another song within my ear
Rich, soft, and sweet, and deep by turns—
The quick, wild passion-throbs of Burns.
Ah! were it not that he has flung
A sunshine by the songs he sung
On fields and woods of 'Bonnie Doon,'
These simple flowers had been a boon
Less dear to me; but since they grew
On sacred spots which once he knew,
They breathe, though crushed and shorn of bloom,
To-night within this lonely room,
Such perfumes, that to me prolong
The passionate sweetness of his song.
The glory of an early death
Was his; and the immortal wreath
Was wrought round brows that had not felt
The furrows that are roughly dealt
To age; nor had the heart grown cold
With haunting fears that, taking hold,
Cast shadows downward from their wing,
Until we doubt the songs we sing.
But his was lighter doom of pain,
To pass in youth, and to remain
For ever fair and fresh and young,
Encircled by the youth he sung.
And so to me these simple flowers
Have sent through all my dreaming hours
His songs again, which, when a boy,
Made day and night a double joy.
Nor did they sink and die away
When manhood came with sterner day,
But still amid the jar and strife,
The rush and clang of railway life,
They rose up, and at all their words
I felt my spirit's inner chords
Thrill with their old sweet touch, as now,
Though middle manhood shades my brow;
For though I hear the tread of feet
Along the unsympathetic street,
And all the city's din to-night,
My heart warms with that old delight,
In which I sit and, dreaming, hear
Singing to all the inner ear,
Rich, clear, and soft, and sweet by turns,
The deep, wild passion-throbs of Burns.