And borne me back to that enchanted dream,
In which I made thee. In thee have I weaved
More than to shallow eyesight there will seem.
And thou hast liv’d, as, in the darling beam
Of one bright lady, the cag’d bird doth dwell,
Where he that gave it, envies it the gleam
Of her admiring smiles. But from her cell
Now thou art loos’d, poor Song—thou’lt not be lov’d so well.
NOTES.
All-Saints’ day, as all good Christians should remember, is the first day of November. Halloween, is a sweet Scotticism for its vigil, familiar to the reader of Burns, but which I have grudged to the degrading use which has been made of it, by that unhappy bard.