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"
-part of "The Vision"-"The Twa Dogs".
"Address to the De'il"-" Tam o' Shanter"-two-
thirds of the songs, and especially "Highland Mary"
"Poortith cauld"-" Bonny was yon rosy brier"-
"A man's a man for a' that"-" The bonny lad that's
far awa"-" Gae, bring to me a pint o' wine"-and that
exquisite song which does indeed contain the essence
of a thousand love-stories-

Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
Never met, or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest !
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,

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',
Wi' his locks o' siller grey,
Where, like an aged man,
He stands at break o' day,

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
Shall melt the snaws of age;

My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,
Sinks in time's wintry rage.
Oh! age has weary days,

And nights o' sleepless pain!
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime,
Why com'st thou not again?

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
Whose heart was only mine ;-

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,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;

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,
The bonie Lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' spreckled 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 rear'd above the parent earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou beneath the random bield

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,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven

To misery's brink,

Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom.