ODE. Written for, and read at the Celebration of,
ROBERT BURNS’ Birth-day, Paisley, 29th Jan. 1805. ___ ONCE on a time, almighty JOVE Invited all the minor gods
above, To spend one day in social festive pleasure; His regal robes were laid
aside, His crown, his sceptre, and his
pride: And wing’d with joy, The hours did fly, The happiest ever time did
measure. Of love and social harmony they
sung, Till heav’n’s high golden
arches echoing rung; And as they quaff’d the
nectar-flowing cann, Their toast was, “Universal peace ’twixt man and man.” Their godship’s eyes beam’d
gladness with the wish, And Mars half-redden’d with a
guilty blush; Jove swore he’d hurl each
rascal to perdition, Who’d dare deface his works
with wild ambition; But pour’d encomiums on each
patriot band, Who hating conquest guard their native
land. Loud thund’ring plaudits shook
the bright abodes, Till Merc’ry, solemn-voic’d, assail’d
their ears, Informing, that a stranger, all in tears, Weeping, implor’d an audience
of the gods. Jove, ever-prone to succour
the distrest, A swell redressive glow’d
within his breast, He pitied much the stranger’s
sad condition, And order’d his immediate
admission. The stranger enter’d, bow’d respect to all, Respectful silence reign’d
throughout the hall. His checquer’d robes excited their surprise, Richly transvers’d with various
glowing dyes: A target
on his strong left arm he bore, Broad as the shield the mighty
FINGAL
wore; The glowing landscape on its
centre shin’d, And massy thistles round the borders twin’d; His brows were bound with
yellow-blossom’d broom, Green birch and roses blending
in perfume; His eyes beam’d honour, tho’
all red with grief, And thus heav’n’s King spake comfort to the Chief. “My son, let speech unfold thy
cause of woe, Say, why does melancholy cloud
thy brow? ’Tis mine the wrongs of virtue
to redress; Speak, for ’tis mine to succour
deep distress.” Then thus he spake: “O king! by thy command, I am the guardian of that
far-fam’d land Nam’d CALEDONIA, great in arts and
arms, And every worth that social
fondness charms, With every virtue that the
heart approves, Warm in their friendships,
rapt’rous in their loves, Profusely generous, obstinately
just, Inflexible as death their vows
of trust: For independence fires their noble minds, Scorning deceit, as gods
do scorn the fiends. But what avail the virtues of
the North, No Patriot Bard to celebrate their worth, No heav’n-taught Minstrel, with the voice of song, To hymn their deeds, and
make their names live long? And, ah! should
luxury, with soft winning wiles, Spread her contagion o'er my
subject-isles, My hardy sons, no longer valour’s boast, Would sink, despis’d, their
wonted greatness lost. Forgive my wish, O king! I
speak with awe, Thy will is fate, thy word is
sovereign law! O, wouldst thou deign thy
suppliant to regard, And grant my country one true Patriot Bard, My sons would glory in the
blessing given, And virtuous deeds spring from
the gift of heaven! To which the god—“My son, cease
to deplore, Thy name in song shall sound the world all o'er; Thy Bard shall rise full-fraught with all the fire, That heav’n and free-born
nature can inspire: Ye sacred Nine, your golden harps prepare, T’ instruct
the fav’rite of my special care, That whether the song be rais’d
to war or love, His soul-wing’d strains may
equal those above. Now faithful to thy trust, from sorrow free, Go wait the issue of our high
decree.”-- Speechless the Genius stood, in
glad surprise, Adoring gratitude beam’d in his
eyes; The promis’d Bard his soul with transport fills, And light with joy he sought
his native hills. ’Twas in regard of Wallace and his worth, Jove honour’d COILA with his birth, And on that morn, When Burns was
born, Each Muse with joy, Did hail the boy; And Fame on tiptoe, fain would
blown her horn, But Fate forbade the blast, too
premature, Till worth should
sanction it beyond the critic’s pow’r. His merits proven—Fame her
blast hath blown, Now Scotia’s Bard o'er all the world is known-- But trembling doubts, here
check my unpolished lays, What can they add to a whole
world’s praise; Yet, while revolving time this
day returns, Let Scotchmen glory in
the name of BURNS. |