Who says, that fool alone is not thy due,
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true?
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,
And dare the war with all of woman born:
For who can write and speak as thou and I?
My periods that decyphering defy,

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply.

The Esopus of this strange epistle was Williamson the actor, and the Maria to whom it is addressed was Mrs. Riddel. The actor we may leave in the obscurity to which men of indifferent talents sink, who

"In Hamlet start, or in Othello roar;"

but the lady merits no such oblivion, were it only for her having forgiven the Poet for his lampoons-and sincerer still, perhaps—written a sensible, clear, heart-warm account of him when laid in the grave. Nor did her kindness stop there; she stirred herself actively in promoting the welfare of his widow and children: she maintained a long correspondence with the eminent sculptor, Banks, respecting a proper memorial to the memory of Burnson which she displayed much good sense and good feeling, and she communicated to Currie many traits of his character, and habits of composition.

Not a little of the man is visible in this poem: Burns sees nothing in the poetry of " Maria," but

"Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed;"

and he hears nothing in her conversation, save her "Still matchless tongue, that conquers all reply."

The poem is printed from his manuscript.

POEM

ON PASTORAL POETRY.

HAIL Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd

'Mang heaps o' clavers;

And och o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd,

Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud, the trump's heroic clang,

And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage;

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang

But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives

Horatian fame;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives

Even Sappho's flame,

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches

O' heathen tatters:

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,

In this braw age o' wit and lear,

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air

And rural grace;

And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share

A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan—
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan !
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,

A chiel sae clever;

The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan,

But thou's for ever!

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,

Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweeps the vines,

Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,

Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes;

Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,

Wi' hawthorns gray,

Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays
At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel';
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell

O' witchin' love;

That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.

This poem was found by Dr. Currie among the papers of the Poet, and in his hand-writing: but Gilbert Burns says "There is some doubt of its being his." The second verse alone would go far to remove all doubts: the lines, too, which characterize the Pastorals of Pope, and the concluding stanza of the poem, bear the Burns' stamp, which no one has been successful in counterfeiting. It is much to be regretted that one who felt so well, and knew so much, refrained from composing a pastoral or rural drama: to this object some of his correspondents directed his attention, he mused on subject and scene-and did no more.

Burns found many counsellors: the most prudent was Telford, the eminent engineer, a native of Dumfrieshire, and a poet as well as a man of science. In a poem

of considerable merit, he pointed out several touching topics for the muse :—

"The parish-school-its curious site,

The master, who can clear indite,
And lead them on to count and write,
Demand thy care:

Nor pass the ploughman-school at night
Without a share.

"Nor yet the tentie curious lad,
Who o'er the ingle hangs his head,
And begs of neighbours books to read,
For hence arise

Thy country's sons, who far are spread,
Baith bauld and wise."

On Burns's death the land was deluged with pastoral lamentations for his loss: few of the rhymes merited preservation: yet to young memories poetry of a common kind will pertinaciously cling: I remember some lines which appeared at that time in print. Their truth is their chief beauty

"In waefu' notes, or in a canty sang,
He a' the bards o' Caledonia dang.
He was, I wat, a bauld undaunted chiel-
Safe me! he ev'n address'd the very de'il;
An' talked right gash an' free to grisly death,
An' then escaped his clutches free o' skaith;
But now, alake! he's caught him in his fangs:
But death will never, never seize his sangs
May nature's sel' the fate o' Burns bewail,
An' tears frae ilka e'e drap down like hail:
Thou sun, and moon, an' a' ye stars be dim,
O hide your rays in clouds, an' mourn for him!
Ye woods an' howes, an' ilka shady grove,
Where aft he pleasant sang o' you and love;
Ye tunefu' birds, o' every size and wing,
His dirge in solemn-solemn quaverings, sing!"