EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. FROM those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, "Alas! I feel I am no actor here!" 'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear! Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy polled, By barber woven, and by barber sold, Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care, Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. The hero of the mimic scene, no more I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar ; Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms, * Blest Highland bonnet! Once my proudest dress, The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks, Whose spleen e'en worse than BURNS' venom when And pours his vengeance in the burning line, And even th' abuse of poesy abused! Who called her verse, a parish workhouse made For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or strayed?) A workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes, Why, Lonsdale thus, thy wrath on vagrants pour, Thou know'st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse, Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; Who says, that fool alone is not thy due, And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true? And dare the war with all of woman born : 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! 'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, Mid a' thy favours! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 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; Horatian fame; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame. |