66 ling of debt; and I have learned from good authority that his household was much more frugally managed at Dumfries than at Ellisland -as in the former place, but not in the latter, he had it in his power to exercise a personal control over the expenditure. I have been told also, that, after his death, the domestic expenses were greater than when he was alive. These facts are all consistent with a considerable de ter of Burns was in conformity with the full developement of acquisitiveness. According to his own descriptions," says Mr. Cox, "he was a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it.' That his art in making money was sufficiently moderate there can be no doubt, for he was engaged in occupations which his soul loathed, and thought it below his dignity to accept of pecuniary remuneration for some of his most labori-velopement of acquisitiveness, for, when that ous literary performances. He was, however, by no means insensible to the value of money, and never threw it away. On the contrary, he was remarkably frugal, except when feelings stronger than acquisitiveness came into playsuch as benevolence, adhesiveness, and love of approbation; the organs of all which are very large, while acquisitiveness is only rather large. During his residence at Mossgiel, where his revenue was not more than £70, his expenses, as Gilbert mentions, never in any one year exceeded his slender income.' It is also well known that he did not leave behind him a shil organ is small, there is habitual inattention to pecuniary concerns, even although the love of independence and dislike to ask a favour be strong. The indifference with respect to money, which Burns occasionally ascribes to himself, appears therefore to savour of affectation-a failing into which he was not unfrequently led by love of approbation and secretiveness. Indeed, in one of his letters to Miss Chalmers, he expressly intimates a wish to be rich." The whole of this essay is highly worthy of perusal by all who take an interest in the character of the Ayr-shire bard.] POEMS WRITTEN IN MEMORY OF BURNS. [The following poems form part of a vast number of verses written at various periods and in various moods in memory Burns: too few perhaps are selected; but to admit all would be to print a volume.] I hear the river's rushing noise, A POEM ADDRESSED TO BURNS BY MR. TELFORD. "A great number of manuscript poems," says Dr. Currie," were found among the papers of Burns, addressed to him by admirers of his genius, from different parts of Britain, as well as from Ireland and America. Among these was a poetical epistle from Mr. Telford, of Shrewsbury, of superior merit. It is written in the dialect of Scotland (of which country Mr. Telford is a native) and in the versification generally employed by our Poet himself. Its object was to recommend to him other subjects of a serious nature, similar to that of the Cotter's Saturday Night;' and the reader will find that the advice was happily enforced by example :— Pursue, O Burns! thy happy style, I see my fond companions rise, I see our green hills touch the skies, And thro' the woods The late eminent engineer. The banks of the Esk, in Dumfries-shire, are here alluded to. Its roaring floods.† No distant Swiss with warmer glow, Than still have mine, O happy Bard! thy gen'rous flame, But mony a theme awaits thy muse, How with religious awe imprest, The symbols of eternal rest, of rather forms a part of, Shrewsbury Castle, a scat of Sir William Pulteney, Bart. The sacrament, generally administered in the country A beautiful little mount, which stands a little before, or parishes of Scotland in the open air. How down ilk lang withdrawing hill, And gives a cast to youthful will, How placed along the sacred board, And faith, and hope, and joy afford, O'er this with warm seraphic glow, * O mark the awful, solemn scene!* Approaching slow, Some much-respected brother's bier Where nei'bours saw, in dusky air,† And when they pass the rocky brow, Where far away The kirk-yard trees are seen to grow, By th' water brae. Assembled round the narrow grave, While o'er them wintry tempests rave, In the cold wind their grey locks wave, As low they lay Their brother's body 'mongst the lave Expressive looks from each declare Then home return, * A Scottish funeral. Is aught on earth so lovely known, On sabbath morn, and far alone, His guileless soul all naked shown Before his God? Such pray'rs must welcome reach the throne, And blest abode. O tell! with what a heartfelt joy, The best of lear he can enjoy, The parish school, its curious site, Nor pass the ploughman's school at night Nor yet the tenty curious lad, * The bonny lasses, as they spin, Or maybe, Burns, thy thrilling page, To bless the Bard who, gay or sage, * Long may their harmless, simple ways, Their bosoms warm to latest days, May still each fond attachment glow, And may their souls To eternize such themes as these, Annandale, that a light precedes in the night every funeral, †This alludes to a superstition prevalent in Eskdale and marking the precise path it is to pass. While all the venal tribes decay, Thy works shall gain O'er every mind a boundless sway, And lasting reign. When winter binds the harden'd plains, Our blessing with our sons remains, ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. BY WILLIAM ROSCOE. REAR high thy bleak majestic hills, Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, That ever breath'd the soothing strain? As green thy towering pines may grow, As clear thy streams may speed along, As bright thy summer suns may glow, As gaily charm thy feathery throng; And dull and lifeless all around, What tho' thy vigorous offspring rise, With step-dame eye and frown severe And all his vows to thee were due: In opening youth's delightful prime, ¡ That wak'd him to sublimer thought: Where wild flowers pour'd their rathe perfume, And with sincere devotion brought To thee the summer's earliest bloom. But ah! no fond paternal smile His limbs inur'd to early toil, His days with early hardships tried: Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, And met at morn his earliest smile. The soft and shadowy hope inspire. Now spells of mightier power prepare, Bid brighter phantoms round him dance; Let flattery spread her viewless snare, And fame attract his vagrant glance; Let sprightly pleasure too advance, Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone, "Till lost in love's delirious trance He scorn the joys his youth has known. Let friendship pour her brightest blaze, And point them from the sparkling bowl; And let the careless moments roll In social pleasures unconfin'd, And lead his steps those bowers among, To more refin'd sensations rise: And freed from each laborious strife, There let him learn the bliss to prize That waits the sons of polish'd life. Then, whilst his throbbing veins beat high And shroud the scene in shades of night; Her specter'd ills and shapes of woe: And shew beneath a cheerless shed, With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, In silent grief where droops her head, The partner of his early joys; And let his infant's tender cries His fond parental succour claim, And bid him hear in agonies A husband's and a father's name. 'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds; -Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, And wave thy heaths with blossoms red But never more shall poet tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard is dead That ever breath'd the soothing strain. d; ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. Soul of the Poet! wheresoe'er, And fly like fiends from secret spell, For he was chief of bards that swell And love's own strain to him was given With Pythian words, unsought, unwilled Who that has melted o'er his lay Nor skilled one flame above to fan To weigh the inborn worth of man! Him in his clay-built cot the muse On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse And all their scorn of death and chains? And see the Scottish exile, tanned Encamped by Indian rivers wild, O deem not, midst this worldly strife, It is the muse that consecrates And thou, young hero, when thy pall Such was the soldier ;-Burns, forgive * Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack on the Polish lancers. TO A FRIEND WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OF WRITING NO MORE POETRY. BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. [ween DEAR Charles, whilst yet thou wert a babe, I Oh! for shame return! ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS'S BIRTH-DAY. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, WHAT bird in beauty, flight, or song, Who sang as sweet and soar'd as strong 1796. His plume, his note, his form could BURNS, For whim or pleasure, change; He was not one, but all by turns, With transmigration strange :— poems to the nobility and gentry of the Caledonian Hunt. |