诗人的灵魂!在那里，你的天才从尘世中复活，振起她不朽的翅膀;把你的琴弦挂在更快乐的地方，用你的影响照亮我们的欢乐。在伯恩的名字下，像恶魔一样，从秘密的咒语中飞出来，不和和冲突，被他的记忆驱除;因为他是吟游诗人的首领，用社交的火焰和高亢的狂欢之歌使心灵膨胀。爱也给了他自己的旋律，用不经寻求，不经意志的诗文，唱出它所有的狂喜。爱，是上天留给我们的礼物，是天堂中最醇厚的甘甜，在生活的苦杯中蒸馏。是谁在天上的天堂里，把她的灵魂融化了，但在强烈的幻想中，她看到了对他们的爱情微笑的风景和漫长的白昼?有谁会忘记那首歌?他的祖国高尚的农民们，他教了多少爱国的自豪感啊!要用多少来衡量人天生的价值! And rustic life and poverty Grow beautiful beneath his touch. Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse Entranced, and showed him all the forms, Of fairy-light and wizard gloom, (That only gifted Poet views,) The Genii of the floods and storms, And martial shades from Glory's tomb. On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse The swain whom Burns's song inspires ! Beat not his Caledonian veins, As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs, With all the spirit of his sires, And all their scorn of death and chains ? And see the Scottish exile, tanned By many a far and foreign clime, Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep In memory of his native land, With love that scorns the lapse of time, And ties that stretch beyond the deep. Encamped by Indian rivers wild, The soldier resting on his arms, In Burns's carol sweet recalls The scenes that blessed him when a child, And glows and gladdens at the charms Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls. O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife, An idle art the Poet brings: Let high Philosophy control, And sages calm the stream of life, 'T is he refines its fountain-springs, The nobler passions of the soul. It is the muse that consecrates The native banner of the brave, Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath, Rose, thistle, harp ; 't is she elates To sweep the field or ride the wave, A sunburst in the storm of death. And thou, young hero , when thy pall Is crossed with mournful sword and plume, When public grief begins to fade, And only tears of kindred fall, Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb, And greet with fame thy gallant shade ? Such was the soldier?Burns, forgive That sorrows of mine own intrude In strains to thy great memory due. In verse like thine, oh ! Could he live, The friend I mourned?the brave?the good Edward that died at Waterloo !* Farewell, high chief of Scottish song ! That couldst alternately impart Wisdom and rapture in thy page, And brand each vice with satire strong, Whose lines are mottoes of the heart? Whose truths electrify the sage. Farewell ! and ne'er may Envy dare To wring one baleful poison drop From the crushed laurels of thy bust ; But while the lark sings sweet in air, Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, To bless the spot that holds thy dust.