Robert Burns

Libertie

A Vision

As I stood by yon roofless tower,
  Where the wa’flower scents the dewy air.
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
  And tells the midnight moon her care;

The winds were laid, the air was still,
  The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
  And the distant echoing glens reply;

The stream adown the hazelly path
  Was rushing by the ruined wa’s
To join yon river on the strath,
  Whase distant roaring swells an’ fa’s;

The cauld blue north was streaming forth
  Her lights wi’ hissing eerie din;
Athwart the lift they start an’ shift,
  Like fortune’s favours, tint as win;

By heedless chance I turned mine eyes,
  And, by the moonbeam, shook to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
  Attired as minstrels wont to be;

Had I statue been o’ stane,
  His daring look had daunted me;
And, on his bonnet graved was, plain,
  The sacred posy-LIBERTIE!

And free his harp sic strains did flow
  Might roused the slumbering dead to hear;
But oh! it was a tale of woe
  As ever met a Briton’s ear.

He sang wi’ joy his former day,
  He weeping wailed his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play,
  I winna venture ‘t in my rhymes....

‘No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
  No lyre Aeolian I awake;
‘Tis liberty’s bold note I swell;
  Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!

See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,
  And dash it in a tyrant’s face!
And dare him to his very beard,
And tell him he no more is feared,
  No more the despot of Columbia’s race!
A tyrant’s proudest insults braved,
They shout, a people freed; they hail an empire saved!

‘Where is man’s godlike form?
  Where is that brow erect and bold,
  That eye that can unmoved behold
The wildest rage, the loudest storm,
That e’er created fury dared to raise?
  Avaunt, thou caitiff! servile, base,
  That tremblest at a despot’s nod,
  Yet, crouching under the iron rod,
Canst laud the hand that struck the insulting blow!
  Art thou of man’s imperial line?
  Dost boast that countenance divine?
Each skulking feature answers No!
  But come, ye sons of Libertie,
  Columbia’s offspring, brave as free!
  In danger’s hour still flaming in the van,
  Ye know and dare maintain the royalty of Man!

    Alfred! on the starry throne,
  Surrounded by the tuneful choir,
  The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
  And roused the freeborn Briton’s soul of fire-
    No more thy England own!
Dare injured nations form the great design
  To make detested tyrants bleed?
  Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
  Beneath her hostile banners waving,
  Every pang of honour braving,
England in thunder calls-“The tyrant’s cause is mine!”

‘That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice,
And hell thro’ all her confines raise the exulting voice!
That hour which saw the generous English name
Linked with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!
  Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
  Thee, famed for martial deed and heaven-taught song,
    To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
  Where is that soul of Freedom fled?
  Immingled with the mighty dead!
    Beneath the hallow’d turf where Wallace lies!
  Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
    Ye babbling wind; in silence sweep;
    Disturb not ye the hero’s sleep,
  Nor give the coward secret breath.

    Is this the ancient Caledonian form,
    Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?
  The eye which shot immortal hate,
    Crushing the despot’s proudest bearing?
  The arm which, nerved with thundering fate,
    Brav’d usurpation’s boldest daring?
  Dark-quenched as yonder sinking star,
  No more that glance lightens afar;
That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war!’