too closely allied with reality's kindred agonies! The strings of his lyre sometimes yield their finest music to the sighs of remorse or repentance. Whatever, therefore, be the faults or defects of the poetry of Burns—and no doubt it has many-it has, beyond all that was ever written, this greatest of all merits, intense, life-pervading, and life-breathing truth." TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, On turning one down with the plough in Apri!, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, To spare thee now is past my power, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth: Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, To misery's brink, Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, E'en thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, TO MARY IN HEAVEN.1 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace! Ah, little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening greer, The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene; Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, As streams their channels deeper wear. 1 This was the first object of his early, pure, impassioned love-Mary Campbell, or hits "Highland Mury." In his poem, "Ye banks, and braes, and streams around ne describes, in the most beautiful language, their tender and final parting on the banks of the Ayr, He intended to marry her, but she died at Greenock on her return from a visit to her relations in Argyleshire. At a later period of life, on the anniversary of that hallowed day when they parted, he devoted a night to a poetic vigil in the open air. As evening came, As evening came, "he appeared to grow very sal about something," and wandered out of doors into the barn-yard, where his Jean found him lying on some straw with his eyes fixed on a shining star "like another moon." Thus did he write down, as it now is, in its immortal beauty, this deeply pathetic elegy to the memory of his "Highland Mary.' My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? LESSONS FOR LIFE. Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 'Grave these counsels on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Fear not clouds will always lower. As Youth and Love, with sprightly dance, Beneath thy morning-star advance, Pleasure, with her siren air, May delude the thoughtless pair: Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup, As thy day grows warm and high, Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Evils lurk in felon wait: Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, Soar around each cliffy hold, While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, As the shades of evening close, There ruminate with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; And teach the sportive younkers round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true, genuine estimate, The grand criterion of his fate, Is not Did thy fortune ebb or flow? Thus resign'd and quiet, creep Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. My loved, my honor'd, much respected friend! My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween This night his weekly moil3 is at an end, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee1 things, toddlin,5 stacher6 through His wee bit ingle,8 blinkin9 bonnily. His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a'10 his weary carking 11 cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. Belyve 12 the elder bairns come drappin in, Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw 16 new gown, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 1 These beautiful lines were written in "Friars-Carse" Hermitage, on the banks of the Nith. 2 From. 3 Labor. 4 Little. 5 Tottering in their walk. 6 Stagger. 7 Fluttering. 8 Fire. 10 All. 11 Consuming. 12 By-and-by. 13 Drive. 14 Cautious. 16 Fine, handsome. 17 Sorely won. 18 Wages. Shining at intervals. Kindly dexterous. Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters reet, Gars3 auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's and their mistress's command, An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Implore His counsel and assisting might: Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild worthless Ke. A strappan youth, he taks the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta'en; The father cracks 8 of horses, pleughs, and kye.9 But blate 10 an' laithfu',11 scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What maks the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave, O, happy love! where love like this is found! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare, "If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,- |