Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods;
There, well-fed Irvine stately thuds:

Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods,
On to the shore ;

And many a lesser torrent scuds,
With seeming roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread,
An ancient borough rear'd her head;
Still, as in Scottish story read,
She boasts a race,

To ev'ry nobler virtue bred,

And polish'd grace.

By stately tow'r or palace fair,

Or ruins pendent in the air,

Bold stems of heroes, here and there,
I could discern;

Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare,
With feature stern.

My heart did glowing transport feel,
To see a race heroic wheel,

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel
In sturdy blows;

While back recoiling seem'd to reel
Their Southron foes.

His Country's Saviour, mark him well !
Bold Richardton's heroic swell;
The chief on Sark who glorious fell,
In high command;

And he whom ruthless fates expel
His native land.

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid,
I mark'd a martial race, portray'd
In colours strong;

Bold, soldier-featured, undismay'd
They strode along."

What have become of "the laws of design?" But would good Dr Currie have dried up the sea! How many yards, will anybody tell us, were in that green mantle? And what a pattern! Thomas Campbell knew better what liberty is

allowed by nature to Imagination in her inspired dreams. In his noble Stanzas to the Memory of Burns, he says, in allusion to "The Vision,"

"Him, in his clay-built cot the Muse

Entranced, and showed him all the forms

Of fairy light and wizard gloom,

That only gifted poet views,

The genii of the floods and storms,

And martial shades from glory's tomb."

The Fata Morgana are obedient to the laws of perspective, and of optics in general; but they belong to the material elements of nature; this is a spiritual creation, and Burns is its maker. It is far from perfect, either in design or execution; but perfection is found nowhere here below, except in Shakespeare; and if "The Vision" offend you, we fear your happiness will not be all you could desire it even in the "Tempest" or the "Midsummer's Night's Dream."

66

How full of fine poetry are one and all of his "Epistles" to his friends Sillar, Lapraik, Simpson, Smith,-worthy men one and all, and among them much mother-wit almost as good as genius, and thought to be genius by Burns, who in the generous enthusiasm of his nature exaggerated the mental gifts of everybody he loved, and conceived their characters to be "accordant to his soul's desire." His "Epistle to Davie" was among the very earliest of his productions, and Gilbert's favourable opinion of it suggested to him the first idea of becoming an author. It was, I think, in summer 1784, when in the interval of hard labour, he and I were reading in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the principal parts of this Epistle." It breathes a noble spirit of independence, and of proud contentment dallying with the hardships of its lot, and in the power of manhood regarding the riches that are out of its reach, without a particle of envy, and with a haughty scorn. True, he says, "I hanker and canker to see their cursed pride;" but he immediately bursts out into a strain that gives the lie to his own words :

"What though, like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,
But either house or hal'?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit an' sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till❜t,
And sing't when we hae dune.

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in måkin muckle mair ;
It's no in books, it's no in lear,
To mak us truly blest;
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest;

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;

The heart aye's the part aye

That makes us right or wrang."

Through all these Epistles we hear him exulting in the consciousness of his own genius, and pouring out his anticipations in verses so full of force and fire, that of themselves they privilege him to declare himself a Poet after Scotland's own heart. Not even in "The Vision" does he kindle into brighter transports, when foreseeing his fame, and describing the fields of its glory, than in his Epistle to the schoolmaster of Ochiltree; for all his life he associated with schoolmasters -finding along with knowledge, talent, and integrity, originality and strength of character prevalent in that meritorious and ill-rewarded class of men. What can be finer than this?

"We'll sing auld Coila's plains and fells,
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells,
Her banks and braes, her dens and dells,
Where glorious Wallace

Aft bure the gree, as story tells,

Frae Southron billies.

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood!
Oft have our fearless fathers strode
By Wallace' side,

Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,
Or glorious died!

Oh, sweet are Coila's haughs and woods,
When lintwhites chaunt amang the buds,
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids,
Their loves enjoy,

While thro' the braes the cushat croods
Wi' wailfu' cry!

Ev'n winter bleak has charms for me
When winds rave through the naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

It has been thoughtlessly said that Burns had no very deep love of nature, and that he has shown no very great power as a descriptive poet. The few lines quoted suffice to set aside that assertion; but it is true that his love of nature was always linked with some vehement passion, or some sweet affection for living creatures, and that it was for the sake of the humanity she cherishes in her bosom, that she was dear to him as his own life-blood. His love of nature by being thus restricted was the more intense. Yet there are not wanting passages that show how exquisite was his perception of her

beauties even when unassociated with any definite emotion, and inspiring only that pleasure which we imbibe through the senses into our unthinking souls.

"Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,

As through the glen it wimpl't;
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays;
Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't;
Whyles glittered to the nightly rays,
Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ;
Whyles cookit underneath the braes,
Below the spreading hazel,
Unseen that night."

Such pretty passages of pure description are rare, and the
charm of this one depends on its sudden sweet intrusion into
the very midst of a scene of noisy merriment.
But there are

many passages in which the descriptive power is put forth under the influence of emotion so gentle that they come within that kind of composition in which it has been thought Burns does not excel. As for example,

"Nae mair the flower on field or meadow springs;
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee,
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree :
The hoary morns precede the sunny days,

Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide blaze,
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays."

Seldom setting himself to describe visual objects but when he is under strong emotion, he seems to have taken considerable pains when he did, to produce something striking; and though he never fails on such occasions to do so, yet he is sometimes ambitious overmuch, and, though never feeble, becomes bombastic, as in his lines on the Fall of Fyers:

"And viewless echo's ear astonished rends."

In the "Brigs of Ayr" there is one beautiful, and one magnificent passage of this kind.

"All before their sight,

A fairy train appear'd in order bright:

Adown the glittering stream they featly danced;
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced :