Robert Burns Wilson.

    What intuition named thee? - Through what thrill
    Of the awed soul came the command divine
    Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine
    Should palpitate with his whose raptures will
    Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill
    Their undulating ways up through the fine
    Fair mists of heavenly reaches?    Thy pure line
    Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still
    The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised
    His voice therein, and, quit of every stress
    Of earthly ache and longing and despair,
    Knew certainly each simple thing he praised
    Was no less worthy, for its lowliness,
    Than any joy of all the glory There.