of the most sublime and heavenly of all riches, one cannot help thinking how far our descendants will surpass us in this a century hence! Yet, reader, although another century may produce a Napoleon, or a Watt, or an equal of any man hitherto peculiarly distinguished in arts or sciences, we greatly doubt whether it will give birth to a second Robert Burns-to another peasant bard in whom shall dwell humour, pathos, majesty, might and sublimity, in such a marvellous degree. Well might James Montgomery exclaim "What bird in beauty, flight, or song, Can with the bard compare, Who sang as sweet, and soar'd as strong And now ours is the privilege (we cannot bring ourselves to call a labour of love like this, a task) to dilate upon this darling child of genius-this imperial ruler in the heavenly realms of poesy; to point out his wondrous excellencies; and for the hundredth time to laugh or to weep, to melt with love and pity, or to fire with ardent patriotism just as he wills. Yes, reader, this copy of "Burns" (our mother's gift, by the bye,) on which we lay our hand, has been to us worth ten thousand times its weight in gold! It has done for us what all the wealth of Arkwright could not have done;-it has beguiled and cheered many an otherwise weary gloomy hour-it has disenthroned sadness from our brow-it has been a blessed balm to our heart when it was sick, crushed, and anguish-wrung-it has purified, ennobled, and exalted our mind-it has infused into our natural feelings and affections a spirit of which we hourly reap the glad fruits→ it has hallowed for us the least of the myriad charms of nature; and never did a perusal of it fail to freshen and strengthen our devotion and gratitude to the supreme and beneficent Creator of us all. Reader, we are impatient to impart to you our perception of the priceless jewels of thought which the Ayrshire ploughman flung forth from the inexhaustible mines of his imagination with unregistering prodigality; jewels which are equally the property of, and equally appreciated by, the wearers of hoddin grey and of silk and velvet. Yes, reader, we are truly anxious that with us you should rejoice in Robert Burns; and if ever there was a bard to be socially enjoyed, it is him-the "bird of paradise!" How shall we begin our intellectual revel? Where shall we, presuming on our old acquaintanceship, introduce you to the presence of one of the mightiest sons of song that ever yet gladdened and enriched the earth? Be not abashed, dear reader, for mighty in melody and towering in intellect as Burns is, he will not bear himself haughtily or with chilling dignity towards the humblest who wish to hold communion with him. No! that he won't! for look, what an unaffected, honest, lovemy-neighbour, friend-to-the-whole-family-of-man bearing is invariably his! Come on! reader, come on! we're sure of a warm-hearted greeting, and our life on't, let the subject of his discourse be what it will, and the words as homely as they may, he will not fail to expound the loftiest, and most soul-ennobling truths through their medium. Here, then, we will open the volume just where it haps, for we know we cannot err;-we are sure to light on something at once original, delightful, and intrinsically invaluable. Ah! what treasure do we turn up? What!- "To a Louse, on seeing one on a lady's bonnet at church." Think it not an illomened cast, reader; for although the lines might possibly at first sight repel the fastidious by their title alone, we yet can assure such that there is not a line among them essentially vulgar or indelicate. On the contrary, the first six stanzas are written in the richest and raciest vein of humour. Witness the opening "Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin ferlie! Your impudence protects you sairly; I canna say but ye strunt rarely Owre gauze and lace; Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place.' But it is the two last to which we would most particularly direct the reader's attention. "O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, The blastie 's makin! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, What a lesson is contained in that! How often-how very often!-when we are bearing ourselves with the most complacent pride and consequence, there is in the eyes of the observers something connected with us which at that very moment not only annihilates all our fictitious dignity, but actually renders us to them an object of ridicule and pity! But the closing stanza-the grand moral of the piece-is one of the noblest sentiments that man ever gave utterance to, clothed in any garb whatever. It will bear quotation anywhere and everywhere; at all seasons and in all places. To our certain knowledge, we may add, an eloquent preacher quoted it a few months ago from his pulpit at the conclusion of an energetic sermon preached to a very large and highly respectable congregation; and in our opinion he could not have made a better finale. Now listen, reader, and with us deeply admire and fervently echo its profound aspiration. "O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us And foolish notion: What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us, There! what do you say to that? They may talk about this thing or that thing deserving to be written in letters of gold, but did we fill a throne, we would cause those lines to be put in letters of diamonds! And yet it is true they are already inlaid in far loftier shrines than any emperor could give them—in the core of many a human heart, itself the noblest thing in the universe! Up! up ye sleepers! Arouse! arouse ye dreamers! Let your bosoms glow with unwonted fire, ye lukewarm patriots! For hark! hark to the thunder of SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victorie! "Now's the day, and now 's the hour- See approach proud Edward's power- "Wha will be a traitor-knave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! "Wha for Scotland's king and law Caledonian! on wi' me! "By oppression's woes and pains! But they shall be-shall be free! "Lay the proud usurpers low! Forward! let us do, or die!" There's a lyric for you! Who but Robert Burns could have put an address of such fitting grandeur in the mouth of Robert Bruce? No mere flourish of high-sounding epithets-no prolix display of elocution-but an address sublime in its simplicity, unrivalled in its truthful energy, irresistible in its effect. "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled! Scots wham Bruce has aften led!" Do we not fancy we hear the thrilling burst of burning eloquence issuing from the mighty heart of the indomitable leader? Can we not fancy that as the tide of the unfathomable appeal swells on, the listening warriors clutch their arms and draw in their breath preparatory to sending forth a tremendous responsive shout at its conclusion? Oh yes! we can fancy all this, for dull indeed must be the imagination that cannot picture in some degree the emotions that filled the breasts of the "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," when their lives and all that they held dear were at stake. Now answer, frankly, reader, do you, or do you not, esteem this poem one of surpassing beauty and power?--You do! you do! or grievously we err. And yet, when Mrs. Hemans asked William Wordsworth whether he did not think it had been greatly overrated, he replied, (delighted at such congeniality of opinion,) that it was "Trash! stuff! without a thought! without an image! Stuff! wretched stuff!" Who can deny Mrs. Hemans the meed of being an exquisite poetess, and William Wordsworth a truly great poet? And yet he―of all menprofesses to despise much of Burns's poetry, and could find in his heart to indulge in the most scornful expressions of contempt of the magnificent piece in question; and Felicia Hemans could listen with reciprocal emotions, and complacently record the fact in one of her letters! Oh! we feel it humiliating even to narrate the circumstance at second hand, and to add that the most popular poetess of the present day, (whose works we warmly admire,)—Eliza Cook,—also holds, if we are rightly informed, Robert Burns in low estimation. Really, we grieve that what we must esteem lamentable errors of judgment should "blot the fair escutcheons" of such names as we have quoted. What is it that has so blinded them to the extraordinary merits, unparalleled in their kind, of the greatest of Scotland's poets? It surely cannot be the homely garb in which his ideas are clothed? What then is it?-We are utterly at a loss to conceive. One healthy, cheering characteristic of Burns, that cannot too highly be applauded, is his manly, strong-minded contentment and resolution to bear and make the best of his lot, let it be what it may. This is evidenced in almost numberless passages in his poems. "Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair," (to quote the opening line of one of his lyrics,) he envies not the rich. "The warly race may riches chase, And riches still may fly them, O ; And though at last they catch them fast, Neither does he murmur that he is doomed to toil; and his fine "Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet," may be taken as a perfect illustration of his feelings and views with regard to his social position. Although in it he acknowledges that : "While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla-lug, I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, I tent less, and want less, Their roomy fire-side; But hanker and canker To see their cursed pride." Yet he is never an unmanly repiner. "Pity 'tis true, and true 'tis a pity," that the undue pressure of circumstances should oft wring forth acknowledgments like the above from * David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, the author of a Volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect. |