TO

THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM WITH BAYS.

["Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of September: for which day perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm, and, wandering along the pastoral banks of Thomson's pure parent stream, catch inspiration in the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the Commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Caledonian virtue." Such was the invitation of the Earl of Buchan to Burns. To request the poet to lay down his sickle when his harvest was half reaped, and traverse one of the wildest and most untrodden ways in Scotland, for the purpose of looking at the fantastic coronation of the bad bust of on excellent poet, was worthy of Lord Buchan. The poor bard made answer, that a week's absence in the middle of his harvest was a step he durst not venture upon--but he sent this Poem.

The poet's ma.n.u.script affords the following interesting variations:--

"While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet, Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, A carpet for her youthful feet:

"While Summer, with a matron's grace, Walks stately in the cooling shade, And oft delighted loves to trace The progress of the spiky blade:

"While Autumn, benefactor kind, With age's h.o.a.ry honours clad, Surveys, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed."]

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes aeolian strains between:

While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade:

While Autumn, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed:

While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence cla.s.sic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet Poet of the year!

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

CXXVII.

TO

ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.,

OF FINTRAY.

[By this Poem Burns prepared the way for his humble request to be removed to a district more moderate in its bounds than one which extended over ten country parishes, and exposed him both to fatigue and expense. This wish was expressed in prose, and was in due time attended to, for Fintray was a gentleman at once kind and considerate.]

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pa.s.s for leave to beg: Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;) Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?

(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain: The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground: Thou giv'st the a.s.s his hide, the snail his sh.e.l.l, Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell; Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power; Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug; Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts;-- But, oh! thou bitter stepmother and hard, To thy poor fenceless, naked child--the Bard!

A thing unteachable in world's skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still; No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun; No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn: No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur;-- In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears the unbroken blast from every side.

Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics!--appall'd I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame.

b.l.o.o.d.y dissectors, worse than ten Monroes!

He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear: Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, The hapless poet flounders on through life; Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage!

So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast: By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies senseless of each tugging b.i.t.c.h's son.

O dullness! portion of the truly blest!

Calm sheltered haven of eternal rest!

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.

If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder "some folks" do not starve.

The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.

When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that "fools are fortune's care."

So, heavy, pa.s.sive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heav'n or vaulted h.e.l.l I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear!

Already one strong hold of hope is lost, Glencairn, the truly n.o.ble, lies in dust; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears:) O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r!-- Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare!

Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!

May bliss domestic smooth his private path; Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

CXXVIII.

TO

ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.,

OF FINTRAY.

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR.

[Graham of Fintray not only obtained for the poet the appointment in Excise, which, while he lived in Edinburgh, he desired, but he also removed him, as he wished, to a better district; and when imputations were thrown out against his loyalty, he defended him with obstinate and successful eloquence. Fintray did all that was done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of his condition, and enable him to serve the muse without fear of want.]

I call no G.o.ddess to inspire my strains, A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns; Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns, And all the tribute of my heart returns, For boons accorded, goodness ever new, The gift still dearer, as the giver, you.

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!

And all ye many sparkling stars of night; If aught that giver from my mind efface; If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, Only to number out a villain's years!