those of Harrington-" To a most stony-hearted maiden who did most cruelly use the knight, my good friend;" or, "To the lady Isabella when I first saw her look forth of a window at Court, and thought her beautiful;" or, "To the divine Saccharissa." The love of Burns was neither that of a knight-errant nor a sylph. It could neither subsist on sighs nor essences; but it was composed of those feelings which have imparted delicacy and elegance to the untutored strains of the rude Laplander and the Russ. Who shall say its effusions want refinement? Burns was undoubtedly impatient of suing seven years for a smile; for he possessed the sympathetic art of winning "the dear angel-smile" with wondrous facility. Instead of catching the descending tear on a cushion of rose-leaves, or preserving it in "an urn of emerald," or crystallizing "the pearly treasure," he ga thered it as it trembled on the eyelash with his own glowing lip, and devoutly drunk in it a new essence of being. Thus, if his verses want the character of chivalrous gallantry, they possess something far better in that purified natural tenderness, of which gallantry is at best but the substitute or the counterfeit. His notions of the female character appear throughout quite Shakspearian: his women are all gentleness, and softness, and tenderness. The idea of a lofty, predominating, high-souled, and capricious beauty, such as is pictured in the old romancesennobling to female character in a general view, yet a most chilling and repulsive individuality-never appears to have entered his imagination. The utmost extent of his belief in female cruelty is, that A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morrison. The poems of Burns are so generally diffused, that copious specimens are the less necessary. In addition to what is selected, there is a pleasure in enumerating some which the are reluctantly omitted. "The Cotter's Saturday Night" Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! I have said, that so rich was the ore of the vein of Burns, that it often breaks forth where it could least be expected. Among his neglected songs is a ditty called "Bessy and her Spinning-wheel," which, for pure and felicitous moral sentiment, and scenic description, such as only Burns could have given, is worthy of being oftener noticed. In a neglected song called "The Posy," among many fine stanzas is this exquisite one : The hawthorn I will pu', But the songster's nest within the bough I winna tak' away; And it's a' to make a posy to my ain dear May. In the song called "The Auld Man," the first stanza, describing the return of Spring, is no way remarkable; the second is strikingly fine and pathetic : But my white pow, nae kindly thowe My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, And nights o' sleepless pain! I believe the song-"Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary?" is not an admired one. The impression it makes may not be very intelligible according to any known poetical creed; but that simple song makes itself be felt. It has much of the character of the finest specimens of the old love-ballad : O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine. There is another song called "The Waefu' Heart," little noticed, though it must be admired by every mind of feeling, which has this exclamation breathed by bereaved affection and pious resignation: This waefu' heart lies low with his And, oh! what a heart was that to lose! But I maun nae repine. In a few rather trivial verses, in which Burns is speaking of his filial regard for Scotland in his boyhood, is this fine incidental burst of nationality: The rough bur-thistle spreading wide Among the bearded bear, I turn'd my weeding hook aside, And spared the symbol dear. There is no doubt that this stanza records a real fact, and that the young enthusiastic husbandman may have spared the noxious weed for the sake of the cherished sentiment. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, For I maun crush among the stour Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonny gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, Wi' spreckled breast, When upward springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter biting north Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless Maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Such is the fate of simple Bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is given, To misery's brink, Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom. |