SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day! skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. These lines were written opposite the College of Lincluden, close by the side of the Nith-the favourite winter as well as summer resort of the Poet. In the summer he loved it, for then the ground was covered with daisies and wild hyacinths: the odour of the honeysuckle came from the thorn, and the song of the birds from the romantic groves which, as with a garland, enclose the ruins of Lincluden: and in the winter he loved to look on the mingling waters of the Cluden and Nith, see them swelling from bank to brae, bearing down trees they had rooted out, or sheets of ice which rains and thaws had loosened. That Burns loved "Winter, with her angry howl," evidence may be almost every where found in his earlier poems. There was something of the farmer as well as the moralizing poet in this: labour was then almost at a stand; the plough was frozen up, the corn was stacked, and, probably thrashed and sold, and till spring came and pushed the ploughshare into the earth, the poetfarmer might indulge in his musings by leafless woods, through which the wind was howling, or by river-banks when the streams were red and raving; or give his fancy an airing during an interval of wind and rain, when a thrush "Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree," came forth like himself to sing from "fulness of heart." SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OF GLENRIDDEL. APRIL, 1794. No more, ye warblers of the wood-no more! More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe! Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's-Carse, a very worthy character, and one to whom Burns thought himself under many obligations. It is a curious circumstance, that the two concluding lines express a sentiment exactly similar to one of the most beautiful passages in the "Pastor Fido," from the 7th to the 10th line of the Monologue, at the opening of the 3d Act: yet Burns had no acquaintance with Guarini's work. Feeling dictates to genius in all ages, and all countries, and her language must be often the same. • Riddel was one of those gentlemen who love to live on their own property, and unite the pursuits of literature with the improvement of their estates. He did more than this; he desired to augment the happiness and better the condition of his husbandmen and cotters, and also to spread knowledge among them. It is true that his dependants did not always appreciate his motives, or sympathize in his taste; he experienced to the full the vulgar prejudice entertained by the peasantry against all who indulge in antiquarian researches; the "queer stones and hog-troughs" collected by the Laird of Friar's-Carse were matters of merriment to his neighbours. IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. R'S BIRTHDAY. OLD Winter, with his frosty beard, Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, Give me Maria's natal day! That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me ; Compliments such as these lines bestow, enabled Mrs. Riddel, to whom they were addressed, to endure with better grace the sarcastic verses "To a Lady famed for her Caprice." It is said that she refrained from showing in any way the pain which the Poet's ungracious lampoons inflicted: she knew his nature, and that the hour of reconciliation was nigh. |