No More Learning

Would she but treat us poets so,
So from our winter free us,
And set our slow old sap aflow
To sprout in fresh ideas!


III

Alas, think I, what worth or parts
Have brought me here competing,
To speak what starts in myriad hearts
With Burns's memory beating! 20
Himself had loved a theme like this;
Must I be its entomber?
No pen save his but's sure to miss
Its pathos or its humor.


IV

As I sat musing what to say,
And how my verse to number,
Some elf in play passed by that way,
And sank my lids in slumber;
And on my sleep a vision stole.
Which I will put in metre, 30
Of Burns's soul at the wicket-hole
Where sits the good Saint Peter.


V

The saint, methought, had left his post
That day to Holy Willie,
Who swore, 'Each ghost that comes shall toast
In brunstane, will he, nill he;
There's nane need hope with phrases fine
Their score to wipe a sin frae;
I'll chalk a sign, to save their tryin',--
A hand ([Illustration of a hand]) and "_Vide infra! _"' 40


VI

Alas! no soil's too cold or dry
For spiritual small potatoes,
Scrimped natures, spry the trade to ply
Of _diaboli advocatus_;
Who lay bent pins in the penance-stool
Where Mercy plumps a cushion,
Who've just one rule for knave and fool,
It saves so much confusion!


VII

So when Burns knocked, Will knit his brows,
His window gap made scanter, 50
And said, 'Go rouse the other house;
We lodge no Tam O'Shanter! '
'_We_ lodge! ' laughed Burns. 'Now well I see
Death cannot kill old nature;
No human flea but thinks that he
May speak for his Creator!


VIII

'But, Willie, friend, don't turn me forth,
Auld Clootie needs no gauger;
And if on earth I had small worth,
You've let in worse I'se wager! ' 60
'Na, nane has knockit at the yett
But found me hard as whunstane;
There's chances yet your bread to get
Wi Auld Nick, gaugin' brunstane.
'


IX

Meanwhile, the Unco' Guid had ta'en
Their place to watch the process,
Flattening in vain on many a pane
Their disembodied noses.
Remember, please, 'tis all a dream;
One can't control the fancies 70
Through sleep that stream with wayward gleam,
Like midnight's boreal dances.


X

Old Willie's tone grew sharp 's a knife:
'_In primis_, I indite ye,
For makin' strife wi' the water o' life,
And preferrin' _aqua vitae! _'
Then roared a voice with lusty din,
Like a skipper's when 'tis blowy,
'If _that's_ a sin, _I_'d ne'er got in,
As sure as my name's Noah! ' 80


XI

Baulked, Willie turned another leaf,--
'There's many here have heard ye,
To the pain and grief o' true belief,
Say hard things o' the clergy! '
Then rang a clear tone over all,--
'One plea for him allow me:
I once heard call from o'er me, "Saul,
Why persecutest thou me? "'


XII

To the next charge vexed Willie turned,
And, sighing, wiped his glasses: 90
'I'm much concerned to find ye yearned
O'er-warmly tow'rd the lasses! '
Here David sighed; poor Willie's face
Lost all its self-possession:
'I leave this case to God's own grace;
It baffles _my_ discretion! '


XIII

Then sudden glory round me broke,
And low melodious surges
Of wings whose stroke to splendor woke
Creation's farthest verges; 100
A cross stretched, ladder-like, secure
From earth to heaven's own portal,
Whereby God's poor, with footing sure,
Climbed up to peace immortal.


XIV

I heard a voice serene and low
(With my heart I seemed to hear it,)
Fall soft and slow as snow on snow,
Like grace of the heavenly spirit;
As sweet as over new-born son
The croon of new-made mother, 110
The voice begun, 'Sore tempted one! '
Then, pausing, sighed, 'Our brother!


XV

'If not a sparrow fall, unless
The Father sees and knows it,
Think! recks He less his form express,
The soul his own deposit?
If only dear to Him the strong,
That never trip nor wander,
Where were the throng whose morning song
Thrills his blue arches yonder? 120


XVI

'Do souls alone clear-eyed, strong-kneed,
To Him true service render,
And they who need his hand to lead,
Find they his heart untender?
Through all your various ranks and fates
He opens doors to duty,
And he that waits there at your gates
Was servant of his Beauty.