Robert Burns

Julian, "Robert Burns" The New York Magazine 1 (March 1824) 180.

The Requiem, that tells of the bard who is dead,
Still sounds o'er thy tomb like a deep note of bliss;
And the harps of another world play o'er thy head
More sweet in their notes than the music of this.

The harp of thy country has long been unstrung,
And the tears of that island thy sepulchre lave;—
For ne'er has a bard with such true feeling sung,
Since thou, peasant of Scotia, wast laid in the grave.

Around thy turf-sepulchre garlands shall bloom,
As fresh and as fair as the roses of spring,
And weeping and sighing around thy loved tomb,
The sisters of music their off'rings shall bring.

The thistle of Scotia shall bloom o'er the bard,
Who sung in his pages the pride of her name;—
And the Genius of Scotland his sepulchre guard,
And twine in its freshness the laurel of fame.