Burns: an Ode

A fire of fierce and laughing light     That clove the shuddering heart of night     Leapt earthward, and the thunder's might     That pants and yearns     Made fitful music round its flight:     And earth saw Burns.     The joyous lightning found its voice     And bade the heart of wrath rejoice     And scorn uplift a song to voice     The imperial hate     That smote the God of base men's choice     At God's own gate.     Before the shrine of dawn, wherethrough     The lark rang rapture as she flew,     It flashed and fired the darkling dew:     And all that heard     With love or loathing hailed anew     A new day's word.     The servants of the lord of hell,     As though their lord had blessed them, fell     Foaming at mouth for fear, so well     They knew the lie     Wherewith they sought to scan and spell     The unsounded sky.     And Calvin, night's prophetic bird,     Out of his home in hell was heard     Shrieking; and all the fens were stirred     Whence plague is bred;     Can God endure the scoffer's word?     But God was dead.     The God they made them in despite     Of man and woman, love and light,     Strong sundawn and the starry night,     The lie supreme,     Shot through with song, stood forth to sight     A devil's dream.     And he that bent the lyric bow     And laid the lord of darkness low     And bade the fire of laughter glow     Across his grave,     And bade the tides above it flow,     Wave hurtling wave,     Shall he not win from latter days     More than his own could yield of praise?     Ay, could the sovereign singer's bays     Forsake his brow,     The warrior's, won on stormier ways,     Still clasp it now.     He loved, and sang of love: he laughed,     And bade the cup whereout he quaffed     Shine as a planet, fore and aft,     And left and right,     And keen as shoots the sun's first shaft     Against the night.     But love and wine were moon and sun     For many a fame long since undone,     And sorrow and joy have lost and won     By stormy turns     As many a singer's soul, if none     More bright than Burns.     And sweeter far in grief or mirth     Have songs as glad and sad of birth     Found voice to speak of wealth or dearth     In joy of life:     But never song took fire from earth     More strong for strife.     The daisy by his ploughshare cleft,     The lips of women loved and left,     The griefs and joys that weave the weft     Of human time,     With craftsman's cunning, keen and deft,     He carved in rhyme.     But Chaucer's daisy shines a star     Above his ploughshare's reach to mar,     And mightier vision gave Dunbar     More strenuous wing     To hear around all sins that are     Hell dance and sing.     And when such pride and power of trust     In song's high gift to arouse from dust     Death, and transfigure love or lust     Through smiles or tears     In golden speech that takes no rust     From cankering years,     As never spake but once in one     Strong star-crossed child of earth and sun,     Villon, made music such as none     May praise or blame,     A crown of starrier flower was won     Than Burns may claim.     But never, since bright earth was born     In rapture of the enkindling morn,     Might godlike wrath and sunlike scorn     That was and is     And shall be while false weeds are worn     Find word like his.     Above the rude and radiant earth     That heaves and glows from firth to firth     In vale and mountain, bright in dearth     And warm in wealth,     Which gave his fiery glory birth     By chance and stealth,     Above the storms of praise and blame     That blur with mist his lustrous name,     His thunderous laughter went and came,     And lives and flies;     The roar that follows on the flame     When lightning dies.     Earth, and the snow-dimmed heights of air,     And water winding soft and fair     Through still sweet places, bright and bare,     By bent and byre,     Taught him what hearts within them were:     But his was fire.