XVII.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole : But, haply, in some cottage far apart, [soul; May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol.

XVIII.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request That HE, who stills the rav'n's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

XIX.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of GOD;" And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind. What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load," Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

XX.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! [sent!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet

content!

And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their muchlov'd isle.

XXI.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide
That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted
heart:

Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert;

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament & guard!

[Of the origin of this truly sacred drama, Gilbert Burns gives the following distinct ac

count.-"Robert had frequently remarked to me that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, 'Let us worship God!' used by a decent, sober head of a family, introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author, the world is indebted for 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.' When Robert had not some pleasure in view in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday afternoons- those precious breathing times to the labouring part of the community

of

and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their number abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing the author repeat 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.' I do not recollect to have read or heard any thing by which I was more highly electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy through my soul. The Cotter, in the Saturday Night,' is an exact copy my father in his manners, his family devotion, and exhortations; yet the other parts of the description do not apply to our family. None of us were ever at service out among the farmers round.' Instead of our depositing our 'sair-won penny-fee' with our parents, my father laboured hard, and lived with the most rigid economy, that he might be able to keep his children at home, thereby having an opportunity of watching the progress of our young minds, and forming in them early habits of piety and virtue; and from this motive alone did he engage in farming, the source of all his difficulties and distresses."

The remark of an old inmate of Dunlophouse, on this poem, may amuse some readers. -When Burns was first invited to dine there, a westlin dame, who acted as housekeeper, appeared to doubt the propriety of her mistress entertaining a mere ploughman who made rhymes, as if he were a gentleman of old descent. By way of convincing Mrs. M'Guistan, (that was the good woman's name) of the Bard's right to such distinction, Mrs. Dunlop gave her "The Cotter's Saturday Night" to read. This was soon done; she returned the volume with a strong shaking of the head, saying, "Nae doubt gentlemen and ladies think mickle o' this, but for me its naething but what I saw i'my father's house every day, and I dinna see how he could hae tauld it in ony other way."

"The Cotter's Saturday Night' is tender and moral, solemn and devotional, and rises at length into a strain of grandeur and sublimity which modern poetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments of patriotism, with which it concludes, correspond with the rest of the poem. In no age or country have the pastoral muses breathed such elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be excepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form only. It is to be regretted that Burns

did not employ his genius on other subjects of the same nature, which the manners and customs of the Scottish peasantry would have amply supplied. Such poetry is not to be estimated by the degree of pleasure which it bestows: it sinks deeply into the heart, and is calculated, far beyond any other human means, for giving permanence to the scenes and the characters it so exquisitely describes."-CURRIE. "The most exquisite of his series of poems is "The Cotter's Saturday Night.' The characters and incidents, which the poet here describes in so interesting a manner, are such as his father's cottage presented to his observation: they are such as may everywhere be found among the virtuous and intelligent peasantry of Scotland. "I recollect once he told me,' says Professor Stewart, 'when I was admiring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth which they contained.' With such impressions as these upon his mind, he has succeeded in delineating a charming picture of rural innocence and felicity. The incidents are wellselected, the characters skilfully distinguished, and the whole composition is remarkable for the propriety and sensibility which it displays." -DR. IRVING.

pro

"Burns is almost equally distinguished for his tenderness and humour; for a faculty of combining them both in the same subject, not entirely without parallel in the older poets, but altogether singular among modern writers. The passages of pure humour are entirely Scottish, and untranslateable. They consist in the most picturesque representations of life and manners, enlivened and even exalted by traits of excellent sagacity and unexpected reflection. His tenderness is of two sorts; that which is combined with circumstances and characters of humble and ludicrous simplicity; and that which is duced by gloomy and distressful impressions acting on a mind of keen sensibility. The passages which belong to the former description are the most exquisite and original, and indicate the greatest and most amiable turn of genius; both as being accompanied by fine and feeling pictures of humble life, and as requiring that delicacy as well as justness of conception, by which alone the fastidiousness of an ordinary reader can be reconciled to such representations. The exquisite description of "The Cotter's Saturday Night' affords, perhaps, the finest example of this sort of pathetic. Its whole beauty cannot, indeed, be discerned, but by those whom experience has enabled to judge of the admirable fidelity and beauty of the picture."—JEFFREY.

The beautiful picture of family devotion drawn by the Poet is now almost extinct: the farmer no longer presides among his menials, like a father with his family, and the sound of

psalm and prayer is but seldom heard among the farm onsteads and cottages. Washington Irving perceived a similar falling off in the south" It was once," says he, "almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom has fallen into neglect; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony."]

The First Psalm.

THE man, in life wherever plac'd,
Hath happiness in store,
Who walks not in the wicked's way,
Nor learns their guilty lore!

Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awe

Still walks before his God.

That man shall flourish like the trees, Which by the streamlets grow; The fruitful top is spread on high,

And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guilt

Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast.

For why? that God the good adore

Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest.

In his version of the First Psalm, Burns did not greatly improve on the original. In simplicity the sacred minstrel of the days of the Stuarts surpasses the Poet of Kyle; but let the reader judge for himself:

"That man hath perfect blessedness
Who walketh not astray,
In counsel of ungodly men,

Nor stands in sinner's way,
Nor sitteth in the scorner's chair;
But placeth his delight
Upon God's law, and meditates
On his law day and night.
"He shall be like a tree that grows
Near planted by a river,
Which in his season yields his fruit,
And his leaf fadeth never;
And all he doth shall prosper well.
The wicked are not so;
But like they are unto the chaff,

Which wind drives to and fro.

"In judgment therefore shall not stand

Such as ungodly are;

Nor in th' assembly of the just

Shall wicked men appear. For why? the way of godly men Unto the Lord is known: Whereas the way of wicked men Shall quite be overthrown."

The First Sir Verses

OF THE

Ninetieth Psalm.

O THOU, the first, the greatest friend
Of all the human race!
Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads
Beneath Thy forming hand,
Before this pond'rous globe itself,
Arose at thy command;

That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds
This universal frame,

From countless, unbeginning time
Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast,

Appear no more before thy sight

Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;
Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!"

Thou layest them with all their cares,
In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood Thou tak'st them off
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow'r,
In beauty's pride array'd;
But long ere night cut down, it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.

In this instance Burns was happier. We subjoin the original verses of the Scottish version.

"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place

In generations all.

Before thou ever hadst brought forth

The mountains great or small;

Ere ever thou hadst form'd the earth,

And all the world abroad;

Ev'n thou from everlasting art
To everlasting God.

"Thou dost unto destruction

Man that is mortal turn;

And unto them thou say'st, Again

Ye sons of men return,

Because a thousand years appear
No more before thy sight
Than yesterday, when it is past,
Or than a watch by night.

"As with an overflowing flood

Thou carry'st them away: They like asleep are, like the grass That grows at morn are they. At morn it flourishes and grows, Cut down at ev'n doth fade; For by thine anger we're consum'd Thy wrath makes us afraid."

The ninetieth psalm-the Scottish versionwas a great favourite in the household of the Poet's father. To devotional verse, therefore, the mind of Burns was directed early; but there were other impulses." The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in,” he writes to Dr. Moore, "was the Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning,—

"How are thy servants blest, O Lord!"

I particularly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boyish ear:

"For though on dreadful whirls we hung,

High on the broken wave."

is evidently an allusion to his separation from his bonnie Jean. Burns seems to have glanced into futurity with a prophetic eye images of misery and woe darkened the distant vista: and when he looked back on his career he saw little to console him.-"I have been, this morning," he observes, " taking a peep through, as Young finely says, "The dark postern of time long elapsed.' 'Twas a rueful prospect! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! My life reminded me of a ruined temple. What strength, what proportion, in some parts! What unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others! I kneeled down before the Father of Mercies and said :-'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son." I rose, eased and strengthened.' In various poems Burns has exhibited the picture of a mind under the deep impressions of real sorrow. 'The Lament, the Ode to Ruin,' 'Despondency,' and Winter, a Dirge,' are of this character. Burns often indulged in those melancholy views of the nature and condition of man, which are so congenial to the temperament of sensibility. -CURRIE.]

A Prayer

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

O THOU Great Being! what thou art
Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee
Are all thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands,
All wretched and distrest;
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey Thy high behest.

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!

O, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But, if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;
Then man my soul with firm resolves,

To bear and not repine!

The following melancholy note appears in the original memoranda of the Poet :-There was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broken by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened, and indeed effected, the utter ruin

The variations are taken from the original M.S. in the Poet's own hand-writing.

of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed this prayer.

A Prayer

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Of all my hope and fear!
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;
As something, loudly, in my breast,

Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that Thou hast form'd me
With passions wild and strong;
And list ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do Thou, All-Good! for such Thou art,

In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and Goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

Stanzas,

ON THE SAME OCCASION.* WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between: Some gleams of sunshine' mid renewing storms. Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms: I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath His sin-avenging rod. Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!" Fain promise never more to disobey; But should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way: Again in folly's path might go astray ;†

Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for Heav'nly mercy pray, Who act so counter Heav'nly mercy's plan? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation

ran?

O Thou great Governor of all below!

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,

† VAR.-Again by passion would be led astray. M.S. If one so black with crimes dare call on thee. M.S.