assured that it would be a great mistake to attribute it wholly, or in any considerable part, to a mere jarring between the sensitive spirit of the poet and the rude contact of the worldly scene into which he was plunged. Burns did not want for a certain worldly wisdom and hardiness. His poetical powers had not in themselves exposed him to any serious evils. On the contrary, he was indebted to them for any advance in the social scene which he ever made, and even for such endowments of fortune as had befallen him. Neither was Burns so unworthily regarded by either high or low in his own day and place, as to have much occasion for complaint on that score. On the contrary, he had obtained the respectful regard of many of the very choicest men and women of his country. Whenever he appeared in aristocratic circles, his acknowledged genius, and the charms of his conversation, gave him a distinction not always readily yielded to mere wealth and rank. No: we have to look elsewhere for an explanation of the mystery. It seems to have mainly lain in the reckless violence of some of his passions, by the consequences of which he was every now and then exposed to humiliations galling to his pride. It was a refuge to his wounded feelings, to suppose that these passions were essentially connected with his poetical character.

[Summer, 1791.]

LATE crippled of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg;
Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest),

Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail? (It soothes poor Misery, hearkening to her tale) And hear him curse the light he first surveyed, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal I complain.

The lion and the bull thy care have found,
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the

ground:

Thou giv❜st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, The envenomed wasp, victorious, guards his

cell;

Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour,
In all the omnipotence of rule and power;
Foxes and statesmen, subtle wiles insure:
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure;
Toads with their poison, doctors with their

drug,

The priest and hedgehog in their robes are

snug;

Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts,

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.

But, oh! thou bitter stepmother and hard,
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the Bard!
A thing unteachable in world's skill,
And half an idiot, too, more helpless still;
No heels to bear him from the opening dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;

No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
No nerves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur;
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears the unbroken blast from every side;
Vampire booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critios cureless venom dart.

Critics! appalled I venture on the name,

Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame; Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes!1 He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,
By blockheads' daring into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must

wear;

Foiled, bleeding, tortured, in the unequal strife,
The hapless Poet flounders on through life;
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired,
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired,
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
Dead, even resentment, for his injured page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's
rage!

1 Alluding to the eminent anatomist, Professor Alexander Monro, of the Edinburgh University.

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceased,
For half-starved snarling curs a dainty feast,
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
O Dulness! portion of the truly blest!
Calm sheltered haven of eternal rest!

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease they sip it up:
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de-

serve,

They only wonder "some folks" do not starve.
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.
When Disappointment snaps the clue of Hope,
And through disastrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that "fools are fortune's care."
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.
Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train,

Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;

In equanimity they never dwell,

By turns in soaring heaven or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe,
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear!
Already one strong hold of hope is lost-

Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust;
Fled, like the sun eclipsed as noon appears,
And left us darkling in a world of tears!
O hear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer!
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare!
Through a long life his hopes and wishes crown,
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!
May bliss domestic smooth his private path,
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath,
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.

Written at the suggestion of the Earl of Buchan, for the inauguration of a temple built to Thomson on Ednam Hill.

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,

Unfolds her tender mantle green,

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between:

While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,