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. 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 case. 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 superfluous 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. 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, On life's rough ocean luckless starred! Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes had striven, 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! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, Twined amorous round the raptured scene; Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? BRUCE'S ADDRESS. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Or to victory! Now's the day, and now 's the hour; See approach proud Edward's power- Wha will be the traitor knave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law By oppression's woes and pains! Lay the proud usurpers low! Liberty 's in every blow! Let us do, or die! |