The Almighty heard: then from his throne And from the Heaven, that opened wide, When mortal man resigns his breath, And falls a clod of clay, The soul immortal wings its flight To never-setting day. Prepared of old for wicked men ROBERT BURNS, the Shakspeare of Scotland, according to Professor Wilson, was born in the parish of Alloway, near Ayr, on the twenty-fifth of January, 1759. His father, a poor farmer, was a man of sterling worth and intelligence, and gave his son the best education he could afford. Robert was taught English well, in the parish school, and by the time he was ten or eleven years of age, he was a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles.' He also learned to write, had a fortnight's instruction in French, and was one summer-quarter at land-surveying. All this, however, was a small foundation on which to erect the miracles of genius! His library, at this time, consisted of the Spectator, Pope's Works, Allan Ramsay's Poems, and a collection of English Songs. To these, in the twenty-third year of age, he added the poems of Thomson and of Shenstone, and the works of Sterne and of Mackenzie, with the writings of a few other standard authors. As he could not enjoy the advantages of a liberal education, it is scarcely to be regretted that his library was so small; for what books he had he read and studied thoroughly-his attention was not distracted by a multitude of volumes-and his mind grew up with original and robust vigor. his It is impossible to contemplate the character of Burns at this period of his life, without a strong feeling of admiration and respect. His laborious and cheerful exertions to support, by peasant labor, his aged and infirm parents, his manly integrity of character, and his warm and true heart, elevate him, in our conceptions, almost as much as the native force and beauty of his poetry. Toiling on from day to day 'like a galley-slave,' he yet grasped at every opportunity to acquire knowledge from both men and books, with a heart beating with warm and generous emotions, a strong and clear understanding, and a spirit abhorring all meanness, insincerity, and oppression, Burns, in his early days, might have furnished the subject for a great and instructive moral poem. From childhood Burns, according to his own account, had been in the habit of 'making verses;' but it was not until 1786, that he ventured to appear before the public as an author. In that year he issued, from the obscure press of Kilmarnock, his first volume; and its influence was imme diately felt throughout the whole of Scotland. A second edition was published in the following year, at Edinburgh; and such was the prodigious popularity of the book, that nearly three thousand copies were sold immediately. The profits to the poet from the sale were over five hundred pounds; and believing himself now to be 'well to do in the world,' he took the farm of Ellisland, near Dumfries, married his 'bonny Jean,' and, in 1788, entered upon his new occupation. Soon after his settlement at Ellisland, Burns obtained an appointment as an exciseman; and as the duties of his office interfered with the management of his farm, he relinquished the latter, and, in 1791, removed with his family to the town of Dumfries. Here he published, in 1793, a third edition of his poems, with the addition of Tam O'Shanter and other pieces, composed at Ellisland. He was now the fashionable wonder and idol of the day, and it is not, therefore, surprising that his fondness for convivial society should have led him into some errors and frailties which threw a shade over the noble and affecting image that he had reared; but its higher lineaments were never destroyed. The column was defaced, not broken; and now that the mists of prejudice have cleared away, its just proportions and exalted symmetry are recognized with pride and gratitude by his admiring countrymen, and all others who are able to appreciate his genius. Burns died at Dumfries, on the twenty-first of July, 1796, aged thirty-seven years and six months. case. In reviewing the various productions of Burns, it is usual to regard Tam O'Shanter as his master-piece. It was so considered by himself, and the judgment has been confirmed by Campbell, Wilson, Montgomery, and almost every other critic. It displays more varied powers than any of his other performances, beginning with low comic humor and Bacchanalian revelry, and ranging through the various styles of the descriptive, the terrible, the supernatural, and the ludicrous. The poem reads as if it were composed in one transport of inspiration, before the bard had had time to cool or to slacken in his fervor; and such is said to have actually been the Next to this inimitable tale of truth' in originality, and in happy grouping of images, both familiar and awful, is the Address to the Devil. The poet adopted the common superstitions of the peasantry as to the attributes of Satan, but though his address is mainly ludicrous, he intersperses passages of the highest beauty, and blends a deep feeling of tenderness and compunction with his objuration of the Evil One. The Jolly Beggars is another strikingly original production. It is the most dramatic of his works, and the characters are all finely sustained. Of the Cotter's Saturday Night, the Mountain Daisy or the Mouse's Nest, it would be super fluous to attempt any eulogy. In these Burns is seen in his fairest colors -not with all his strength, but in his happiest and most heartfelt inspiration-his brightest sunshine and his tenderest tears. Of his four hundred poems we shall quote only the following: COILA'S ADDRESS. With future hope I oft would gaze Fired at the simple, artless lays I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Drove through the sky, I saw grim nature's visage hoar Strike thy young eye. Or when the deep green-mantled earth I saw thee eye the general mirth When ripened fields and azure skies, To vent thy bosom's swelling rise When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, I taught thee how to pour in song I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, By passion driven; But yet the light that led astray Was bright from Heaven. I taught thy manners-painting strains, Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape glow; Or wake the bosom-melting throe, With Shenstone's art; Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow Warm on the heart. Yet, all beneath the unrivalled rose, Though large the forest's monarch throws Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows Adown the glade. Then never murmur nor repine, Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; Nor king's regard, Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, To give my counsels all in one- With soul erect; And trust, the universal plan Will all protect. And wear thou this'-she solemn said, And, like a passing thought, she fled TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. On turning one down with the plough, in April, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, To spare thee now is past my power, Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, 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 reared above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, VOL. II.-2 F Unseen, alane. There in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, To misery's brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 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! |