Robert Burns

PHIL, "Lines on reading the Life of Robert Burns" European Magazine 86 (September 1824) 250.

Sweet mountain daisy of the north,
Through chilling winds thou glinted'st forth,
Some vengeful star
Reign'd thro' thy life's sad fitful hour,
And on thee with o'erwhelming power
Waged endless war.

O Scotland's sons, where were ye then?
Why sought ye not the rural glen
Where his heart bled;
Why sought ye not his rustic cot,
Why left ye him to mourn his lot
On thorny bed?

Ye tartan'd churls! a deathless shame
Should stain you and your country's name
For these foul deeds;
But one kind star now o'er your hills,
Gleams brightly on your mountain rills
And mourners weeds:

'Tis Loudoun,* warm from eastern Ind,
With sunny smiles the wounds to bind,
That cruel fate
Hath reckless on the bosom dealt
Of that poor flower, that oft would melt
The daisies mate.

Hastings, the flowerets offspring cheers,
In him a glorious sun appears,
And lights their way:
He Scotland from thy daisies bier,
Wipes with the widow's melting tear,
Thy stain away.

* The Marchioness of Hastings, (Countess Loudon in her own right) on her first return from India, waited upon Mrs. Burns, and conveyed to her the pleasing intelligence, of the Marquess having placed her two sons in advantageous situations in India; and of one of them having settled an annuity upon her for life.