ODE TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE.

SPIRIT all limitless,

Where is thy dwelling place,

Spirit of him whose high name we revere ?

Come on thy seraph wings

Come from thy wanderings,

And smile on thy votaries who sigh for thee here!

Whether thou journey'st far

On by the morning star,

Dream'st in the shadowy brows of the moon;

Or linger'st in fairyland

Mid lovely elves to stand,

Singing thy carols all lightsome and boon;

ODE TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE. 305

Whether thou tremblest o'er

Green grave of Elsinore,

Stay'st o'er the hill of Dunsinnan to hover,

Bosworth or Shrewsbury,

Egypt or Philippi,

Come from thy roamings the universe over!

Come, O thou spark divine,

Rise from thy hallow'd shrine !

Here in the vales of the north thou shalt see,

Hearts true to Nature's call,

Spirits congenial,

Proud of their country, yet bowing to thee.

Here thou art call'd upon,

Come thou to Caledon,

Come to the land of the ardent and free

The land of the lone recess,

Mountain and wilderness,

This is the land, thou wild meteor, for thee!

U

306

ODE TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE.

And here, by the sounding sea,

Torrent and green-wood tree,

Here to solicit thee cease shall we never!

Meteor, effulgence bright,

Here must thy flame relight,

Or vanish from nature for ever and ever!

THE WEE HOUSIE.

I LIKE thee weel, my wee auld house,
Though laigh thy wa's an' flat the riggin',
Though round thy lum the sourock grows,
An' rain-draps gaw my cozy biggin'.

Lang hast thou happit mine and me,
My head's grown grey aneath thy kipple,

And aye thy ingle cheek was free

Baith to the blind man an' the cripple.

What gart my ewes thrive on the hill,

An' kept my little store increasin'?

The rich man never wish'd me ill,

The poor man left me aye his blessin'.

Troth I maun greet wi' thee to part,
Though to a better house I'm flittin';

Sic joys will never glad my heart

As I've had by thy hallan sittin'.

My bonny bairns around me smiled,

My sonsy wife sat by me spinning, Aye lilting o'er her ditties wild,

In notes sae artless an' sae winning. Our frugal meal was aye a feast,

Our e'ening psalm a hymn of joy; Sae calm an' peacefu' was our rest, Our bliss, our love, without alloy.

I canna help but haud thee dear,

My auld, storm-batter'd, hamely shieling; Thy sooty lum, an' kipples clear,

I better love than gaudy ceiling.

Thy roof will fa', thy rafters start,

How damp an' cauld thy hearth will be!

Ah! sae will soon ilk honest heart,

That erst was blithe an' bauld in thee !

I thought to cower aneath thy wa',

Till death should close my weary een, Then leave thee for the narrow ha',

Wi' lowly roof o' sward sae green.