Far different there from all that charmed before 345 The various terrors of that horrid sh.o.r.e; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy cl.u.s.ters cling; 350 Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers[26] wait their hapless prey, 355 And savage men more murderous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.

Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the gra.s.sy vested green, 360 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.

Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day, That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 365 Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main, And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 370 The good old sire the first prepared to go To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 375 The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose, 380 And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear, Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief.

O luxury! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, 385 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!

How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy!

Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 390 At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated ma.s.s of rank unwieldy woe; Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

Even now the devastation is begun, 395 And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400 Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pa.s.s from the sh.o.r.e, and darken all the strand.

Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety with wishes placed above, 405 And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; 410 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the n.o.bler arts excel, 415 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!

Farewell, and O! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs,[27] or Pambamarca's side,[28]

Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigors of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possessed, 425 Though very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labored mole[29] away; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430

NOTE.--_The Deserted Village_, published in 1770, was immediately popular, and to-day few English poems are so widely read or so often quoted. If the poet had in mind any special place when writing of "Sweet Auburn," it was probably Lissoy, in Ireland, where he grew up; but the village of his imagination is lovelier than any actual spot, and there is no use in hunting for it on the map. See the first note on _The Traveller_ for remarks on metre, etc.

[1.] Decent, appropriate, fitting. Consult the dictionary for the present meanings of the word.

[2.] Lawn, a cleared s.p.a.ce in a wood.

[3.] One only master, etc. Sometimes, in England or in Ireland a wealthy man would buy a large tract of land, pull down the house and turn the entire region into parks or hunting grounds. Such a man was not necessarily a tyrant. In many cases the villages demolished were deserted because the inhabitants had left them to seek more comfortable homes across the ocean.

[4.] Decay, _i.e._ deteriorate, lose their high moral character.

Although this is not the inevitable consequence of great wealth, it is certainly one of its dangers.

[5.] A breath can make them. Breath was used by older writers in the sense of words. The poet's meaning is, that kings can easily make new lords by conferring t.i.tles upon their favorites. This was a common practice in former times. Now, in England, t.i.tles are usually given as a reward for distinguished merit, as in the case of Alfred Lord Tennyson, the famous poet.

[6.] Ere England's griefs began. The student of history finds that there never was such a time. Although there are serious evils in all civilized countries to-day, especially in the condition of the poorest people in large cities, the workingman is, on the whole, far better off than he was hundreds of years ago, or even at the beginning of the nineteenth century.

[7.] To husband out, to use or manage with economy. The _out_ is superfluous in prose.

[8.] An hare. _An_ was formerly used before words beginning with _h_, even when that letter was sounded, and also before words beginning with a vowel.

[9.] Pants to, eagerly longs for.

[10.] No surly porter, etc. While the poet was exaggerating when he said this, nevertheless it is true that the feeling of responsibility for poor and the unfortunate was less widespread among the well-to-do in his day than it is now.

[11.] The village preacher's, etc. There is no doubt that the poet was thinking of his own father when he drew the sketch that follows--one of the most charming character sketches in English literature. To find its like in poetry one must go back to Chaucer's picture of the "poor parson" in the _Prologue to the Canterbury Tales_. Goldsmith's "village preacher" first appeared in the _Vicar of Wakefield_, in that delightful character, Parson Primrose.

[12.] Pa.s.sing, surpa.s.singly.

[13.] Unpracticed he, etc. Clergymen have in some instances changed their creeds to gain favor with those in authority.

[14.] His pity gave, etc., _i.e._ he gave from warm human sympathy rather than from a religious, and perhaps a colder, sentiment.

[15.] Fled the struggling soul. _Fled_ is sometimes used transitively by older writers.

[16.] Awful form. Notice how effective _awful_ is when properly used.

[17.] Cypher, do sums in arithmetic; not often used now.

[18.] Terms and tides presage, _i.e._ the schoolmaster could tell when courts were to be held and when certain tides (times), such as Whitsuntide or Easter, would come.

[19.] Gauge, measure. The word is applied especially to determining the capacity of casks and other vessels containing alcoholic liquors.

These had to be carefully measured, so that the government should receive the specified tax.

[20.] The twelve good rules. Among these are: "Reveal no secrets,"

"Keep no bad company." They can be found in Hales' _Longer English Poems_, p. 353.

[24.] Partic.i.p.ate, share.

[25.] Altama, the Altamaha, a river in Georgia.

[26.] Crouching tigers. It is evident that the poet is indulging his imagination. The people of Georgia doubtless find this description of their country amusing if not accurate.

[27.] Torno's cliffs. Perhaps the poet refers to some region near the river Torneo, or Tornea, which flows into the Gulf of Bothnia.

[28.] Pambamarca's side. Pambamarca is a mountain in Ecuador.

[29.] Labored mole, carefully constructed breakwater.

ROBERT BURNS

1759-1796

Probably the poetry of "Robbie Burns, the Ayrshire Ploughman," is known to more English-speaking people than that of any other writer--not excepting even Shakespeare, for many a person who never reads a book is familiar with _John Anderson_, _My Jo_, _Auld Lang Syne_, and _Bonie Doon_, though he may not know or care who wrote these famous songs.

The Scotch poet was born at Alloway in Ayrshire, where his father cultivated a small farm. He was the eldest of seven children. Before he was eight years old the family removed to Mt. Oliphant, and later to Lochlea. Here, in 1784, the father died, worn out with incessant toil, which ended only in disappointment. The family were so poor that Robert was obliged to work hard even when very young, and at fifteen he was his father's chief helper. In later years he described his life at Mt. Oliphant as combining "the cheerless gloom of a hermit with the unceasing moil of a galley slave." But poets are given to exaggeration, and doubtless the attractive picture of home life which he afterwards painted in the _Cotter's Sat.u.r.day Night_ is true in the main of the life in his father's cottage.

In his father, Burns was most fortunate, for he was a man of strict integrity, and strong religious faith. The education of his children was, in his judgment, so important that when they were unable to attend school he taught them himself, notwithstanding his exhausting labors on the farm. The family as a whole were fond of reading. Among their books the poet mentions certain plays of Shakespeare, Pope's works,--including his translation of Homer,--the _Spectator_, Allan Ramsay's writings, and several volumes on religious and philosophical subjects. Probably in this list the Bible should stand first. He himself studied the art of verse-making in a collection of songs. He says: "I pored over them, driving my cart or walking to labor, song by song, carefully noting the true tender or sublime from affectation or fustian. I am convinced that I owe to this practice much of my critic-craft, such as it is!" His first song, composed when he was fifteen, was inspired by a young girl who worked at his side in the harvest field.

Robert and his brother Gilbert had taken a farm at Mossgiel, not far away, while their father was still living, and after his death they removed there, taking with them the rest of the family. Unfortunately the farm did not prosper. On reaching the age of twenty-seven the poet determined to go to Jamaica where he had been promised a position as overseer of an estate. In order to raise money to pay his pa.s.sage he published a volume of poems. The returns were small, but the fame of the writer spread so rapidly that he was persuaded to remain in his own country and publish a second edition of his poems in Edinburgh.

The two winters which he spent in the Scotch capital at this time form an interesting episode in his life. He was the lion of the day in literary circles. Many persons who met him have told how he impressed them; but the most interesting account is that of Walter Scott, then a youth of sixteen. He says of Burns: "His person was strong and robust; his manner rustic, not clownish; a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity. His countenance was more ma.s.sive than it looks in any of the portraits. . . There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed (I say literally glowed), when he spoke, with feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time."

In 1788 the poet married Jane Armour, and the following year settled with her on a farm at Ellisland, near Dumfries. Finding it impossible to make a living for his increasing family as a farmer, he obtained through friends the place of exciseman for the surrounding region.

This position obliged him to ride more than two hundred miles a week, collecting government taxes. In 1791 he moved to the town of Dumfries.

The following year he came near losing his place through an act of indiscretion which proved him to be more poet than exciseman. He bought four guns which had come into the possession of the government through the seizure of a smuggling vessel, and sent them with expressions of admiration and sympathy to the French Legislative a.s.sembly. These were the early days of the Revolution when young men in many parts of the world were enthusiastic in their support of the movement. Fortunately the guns failed to reach their destination, and the poet having made his peace with the authorities kept his position until failing health obliged him to give it up. During his later years he wrote little but songs, and for these he would take no money, although he was, as ever, a poor man. He died in 1796, at the age of thirty-seven. In 1815 his remains were transferred to a mausoleum built as a tribute to his genius.

As a man, Burns was far from perfect. His pa.s.sions were strong and he never learned to control them, and in consequence he had reason to repent bitterly many a rash act. Yet he was brave and honest; he had a righteous hatred of hypocrisy; as the champion of the humble, he claimed for the poorest the full privileges of st.u.r.dy manhood; he cared heartily for his fellowmen and had a place in his affections even for the field-mouse and the daisy. Because his verse beats with the pa.s.sions of his fiery and sympathetic nature, the world loves him as it loves few other poets. Among the best known of his productions are _The Cotter's Sat.u.r.day Night_, _Tam o' Shanter_, _Address to the Unco Guid_, _To a Mouse_, and _To a Mountain Daisy_. In speaking of his songs, one might mention first, _Scots Wha Hae_,--composed in the midst of tempests, while the poet was riding over a wild Galloway moor,--and next, _Highland Mary_ and _A Man's a Man for a' That_; but there is no need of enumerating the songs of Burns. As Emerson has said, "The wind whispers them, the birds whistle them, the corn, barley, and bulrushes hoa.r.s.ely rustle them. . . . They are the property and the solace of mankind."

THE COTTER'S SAt.u.r.dAY NIGHT[*]