See! clothed with majesty and strength, Through sacred light's wide gates, at length The god exulting spring: And demon powers his praise resound, Through the dark portals of the deep The foaming steeds now furious leap, And thunder up the sky. The god to strains now tunes his lyre, Which nature's harmony inspire, And ravish as they fly. Even dreadful Hyle's sea profound The World's dark boundary, Tartarus hears, And stills its wild uproar. And while through heaven the god sublime Triumphant rides, see reverend Time Fast by his chariot run: Observant of the fiery steeds, Silent the hoary king proceeds, And hymns his parent Sun. See! as he comes, with general voice And own him as their king. Even rugged rocks their heads advance, And forests on the mountains dance, And hills and valleys sing. See! while his beauteous glittering feet Enchanting to the sight, Lo! as he comes, in Heaven's array, And scattering wide the blaze of day, Lifts high his scourge of fire,-Fierce demons that in darkness dwell, Foes of our race, and dogs of Hell, Dread its avenging ire. Hail! crowned with light, creation's king! Be mine the task thy praise to sing, 1 A name of Apollo. And vindicate thy might; Thy honors spread through barbarous climes, Elizabeth Hamilton. A native of Scotland, Miss Hamilton was born 1758, and died 1816. She wrote "The Cottagers of Glenburnie," praised by Jeffrey and Scott, and said by the latter to be "a picture of the rural habits of Scotland, of striking and impressive fidelity." There have been several versions of the following little poem. MY AIN FIRESIDE. I. I hae seen great aues, and sat in great ha's, my een; But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er spied My ain fireside, my ain fireside, O there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. II. Aince mair, Gude be thank't, round my ain heartsome ingle, Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle; I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad; O there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. III. When I draw in my stool on my cosy hearthstaue, O there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. Robert Burns. The son of a poor farmer, Burns was born in the parish of Alloway, near Ayr, Scotland, on the 25th of January, 1759. He died at Dumfries, on the 21st of July, 1796, aged thirty-seven years and six months. Going to school at six years of age, he had acquired at eleven a fair amount of elementary education. It was all his good father could give him; and subsequently, a "fortnight's French" and a summer quarter at land-surveying completed all the instruction the poet ever got, beyond what he was able to pick up from a few books that lay on his humble shelf. The first edition of Burns's poems was published at Kilmarnock in 1786. The little volume went off rapidly; and he found himself with some twenty guineas in his pocket, after paying all expenses of the edition. He arranged to try his fortune in the West Indies; he was on the point of sailing for Jamaica; he had bid farewell to the "bonnie banks of Ayr" in his touching song, "The gloomy night is gathering fast," when a word of praise from Dr. Blacklock, himself a poet, caused him to alter his plans, and proceed to Edinburgh. Here he was cordially received; his book had unlocked the first Edinburgh mansions to the peasant bard. A second edition of his poems was issued, by which he cleared nearly £500. He now sent £200 to help his brother Gilbert at Mossgiel, took a farm of his own at Ellisland in March, 1787, and five months afterward married Jean Armour, by whom he had had twin sons. The farm being unfruitful, he tried to supplement it with a place in the Excise, with a salary of £70 a year. This poorly repaid him for the time its duties cost, and the dangers of that unsettled, convivial life, to which his excitable nature was thus exposed. After struggling for more than three years with the stubborn soil of Ellisland, and vainly trying to raise good crops while he looked after whiskey-stills, he gave up the farm, and in 1791 went to live at Dumfries upon his slender income as a gauger. A third edition of his poems, enriched with his inimitable "Tam O'Shanter," came out two years later. But his life was nearing its close; he could not shake off the grip of his too convivial habits, and sad days of poverty and failing health came to their end for him before he had well reached his prime. Those who had neglected him in life then found themselves a day's pleasure by making a great show of his funeral. Twelve thousand came to follow the poet to his grave. "It is impossible," says Chambers, "to contemplate the life of Burns without a strong feeling of affectionate admiration and respect. His manly integrity of character-which as a peasant he guarded with jealous dignity-and his warm and true heart, elevate him, in our conceptions, almost as much as the native force and beauty of his poetry. Some errors and frailties threw a shade on the noble and affecting image, but its higher lincaments were never destroyed." As a lyrical poet, Burns is unsurpassed in all literature. So quick and genial were his sympathies, that he was casily stirred to lyrical melody by whatever was good and beautiful, whether in external nature or in the human heart and life. His energy and truth-the down right carnestness of his emotions and convictions-stamp the highest value on his writings. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul, as appears from his letters, formed the strongest and most soothing of Burns's beliefs. Most of his poems are written in Lowland Scotch; but he often rises to an English style, noble, impressive, and refined. "Viewing him merely as a poet," says Campbell, "there is scarcely another regret connected with his name than that his productions, with all their merit, fall short of the talents which he possessed." A touching reference to one element of success, in which he himself was lacking, is made in the following stanza from a serio-comic epitaph: "Reader, attend-whether thy soul Know, prudent, cautious self-control One noble trait of Burns's character is manifest in the fact that, though he died in abject poverty, he did not leave a farthing of debt. His physical frame corresponded to the qualities of his mind. His expressive, thoughtful face, above all his kindling eyes, were in keeping with the lineaments of his genius, the prominent qualities of which were earnestness and intensity. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. My loved, my honored, much respected friend! My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise! To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways: What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The shortening winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, The blackening trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. |