FIRST EPISTLE

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.

OF FINTRAY.

[In his ma.n.u.script copy of this Epistle the poet says "accompanying a request." What the request was the letter which enclosed it relates.

Graham was one of the leading men of the Excise in Scotland, and had promised Burns a situation as exciseman: for this the poet had qualified himself; and as he began to dread that farming would be unprofitable, he wrote to remind his patron of his promise, and requested to be appointed to a division in his own neighbourhood. He was appointed in due time: his division was extensive, and included ten parishes.]

When Nature her great master-piece designed, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, She form'd of various parts the various man.

Then first she calls the useful many forth; Plain plodding industry, and sober worth: Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, And all mechanics' many-ap.r.o.n'd kinds.

Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, The lead and buoy are needful to the net; The _caput mortuum_ of gross desires Makes a material for mere knights and squires; The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, Then marks th' unyielding ma.s.s with grave designs, Law, physic, politics, and deep divines: Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, The flashing elements of female souls.

The order'd system fair before her stood, Nature, well pleas'd, p.r.o.nounc'd it very good; But ere she gave creating labour o'er, Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more.

Some spumy, fiery, _ignis fatuus_ matter, Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Nature may have her whim as well as we, Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) She forms the thing, and christens it--a Poet.

Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow.

A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, Admir'd and prais'd--and there the homage ends: A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; p.r.o.ne to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live; Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work.

Pitying the propless climber of mankind, She cast about a standard tree to find; And, to support his helpless woodbine state, Attach'd him to the generous truly great, A t.i.tle, and the only one I claim, To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main!

Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, That never gives--tho' humbly takes enough; The little fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon.

The world were blest did bliss on them depend, Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a friend!"

Let prudence number o'er each st.u.r.dy son Who life and wisdom at one race begun, Who feel by reason and who give by rule, (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) Who make poor _will do_ wait upon _I should_-- We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good?

Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye!

G.o.d's image rudely etch'd on base alloy!

But come ye who the G.o.dlike pleasure know, Heaven's attribute distinguished--to bestow!

Whose arms of love would grasp the human race: Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes!

Prop of my dearest hopes for future times.

Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid?

I know my need, I know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; But there are such who court the tuneful nine-- Heavens! should the branded character be mine!

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.

Mark, how their lofty independent spirit Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit!

Seek not the proofs in private life to find; Pity the best of words should be but wind!

So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, But grovelling on the earth the carol ends.

In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, They dun benevolence with shameless front; Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, They persecute you all your future days!

Ere my poor soul such deep d.a.m.nation stain, My h.o.r.n.y fist a.s.sume the plough again; The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before.

Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift!

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.

XCIV.

ON THE DEATH OF

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.

[I found these lines written with a pencil in one of Burns's memorandum-books: he said he had just composed them, and pencilled them down lest they should escape from his memory. They differed in nothing from the printed copy of the first Liverpool edition. That they are by Burns there cannot be a doubt, though they were, I know not for what reason, excluded from several editions of the Posthumous Works of the poet.]

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;[72]

Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd well,[73]

Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.[74]

Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks, The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.--

"My patriot son fills an untimely grave!"

With accents wild and lifted arms--she cried; "Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride.

"A weeping country joins a widow's tear, The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh!

"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow: But ah! how hope is born but to expire!

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.

"My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name!

No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame.

"And I will join a mother's tender cares, Thro' future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs!"-- She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 72: The King's Park, at Holyrood-house.]

[Footnote 73: St. Anthony's Well.]

[Footnote 74: St. Anthony's Chapel.]

XCV.