Telford The Poet
George Turnbull states that Telford wrote and gave him a poem:
- On reading an account of the death of ROBERT BURNS, the SCOT POET
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- CLAD in the sable weeds of woe,
- The Scottish genius mourns,
- As o'er your tomb her sorrows flow,
- The "narrow house" of Burns.
- CLAD in the sable weeds of woe,
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- Each laurel round his humble urn,
- She strews with pious care,
- And by soft airs to distance borne,
- These accents strike the ear.
- Each laurel round his humble urn,
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- Farewell my lov'd, my favourite child,
- A mother's pride farewell!
- The muses on thy cradled smiled,
- Ah! now they ring thy knell.
- Farewell my lov'd, my favourite child,
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- ---- ten verses and then ----
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- And round the tomb the plough shall pass,
- And yellow autumn smile ;
- And village maids shall seek the place,
- To crown thy hallowed pile.
- And round the tomb the plough shall pass,
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- While yearly comes the opening spring,
- While autumn wan returns ;
- Each rural voice shall grateful sing,
- And SCOTLAND boasts of BURNS.
- While yearly comes the opening spring,
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- 22nd August, 1796. T.T.
(Turnbull includes notes that explain nine references to Burns' life in the poem.)
Turnbull also states:
- "His ability and perseverance may be understood from various literary compositions of after life, such as the articles he contributed to the Edinburgh Encyclopædia, such as Architecture, Bridge-building, and Canal-making. Singular to say the earliest distinction he acquired in life was as a poet. Even at 30 years of age he reprinted at Shrewsbury a poem called "Eskdale", … Some others of his poems are in my possession."
Read more about this topic: Thomas Telford
Famous quotes containing the word poet:
“The civilized nationsGreece, Rome, Englandhave been sustained by the primitive forests which anciently rotted where they stand. They survive as long as the soil is not exhausted. Alas for human culture! little is to be expected of a nation, when the vegetable mould is exhausted, and it is compelled to make manure of the bones of its fathers. There the poet sustains himself merely by his own superfluous fat, and the philosopher comes down on his marrow-bones.”
—Henry David Thoreau (18171862)