member any part of his conversation distinctly enough to be quoted, nor did I ever see him again, except in the street, where he did not recognise me, as I could not expect he should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what literary emoluments have been since his day) the efforts made for his relief were extremely trifling. "I remember on this occasion I mention, I thought Burns's acquaintance with English Poetry was rather limited, and also, that having twenty times the abilities of Allan Ramsay and of Fergusson, he talked of them with too much humility as bis models; there was, doubtless, national predilection in his estimate. "This is all I can tell you about Burns. I have only to add, that his dress corresponded with his manner. He was like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the Laird. I do not speak in malem partem, when I say, I never saw a man in company with his superiors in station and information, more perfectly free from either the reality or the affectation of embarrassment. I was told, but did not observe it, that his address to females was extremely deferential, and always with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged their attention particularly. I have heard the late Duchess of Gordon remark this.-I do not know anything I can add to these recollections of forty years since." -Lockhart's Life of Burns. One of the few good poets of America, has honored the memory of Scotia's favourite son with the following charming verses: TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN AUTUMN, 1822. Wild rose of Alloway! my thanks Thou 'minds't me of that autumn noon, When first we met upon "the banks And braes o' bonny Doon." Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, And will not thy death-doom be mine, Not so his memory, for whose sake The memory of Burns-a name That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, A nation's glory, and her shame, In silent sadness up. A nation's glory-be the rest Forgot-she's canonized his mind, And it is joy to speak the best I've stood beside the cottage bed, Where the bard-peasant first drew breath; A straw-thatched roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument-that tells to Heaven Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, The pride that lifted Burns from earth, The rich, the brave, the strong. And if despondency weigh down There have been loftier themes than his, And lays lit up with poesy's Purer and holier fires. Yet read the names that know not death, His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light up the cheek: And his, that music, to whose tone In cold or sunny clime. And who hath heard his song, nor knelt O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, On fields where brave men "die or do," In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, From throne to cottage hearth? What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When "Scots wha hea wi' Wallace bled," Or “Auld lang Syne" is sung! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And when he breathes his master-lay All passions in our frame of clay Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, Wit, pathos, poetry are there, And death's sublimity. And BURNS, though brief the race he ran, Through care, and pain, and want, and woe, The proud alone can feel; He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen, Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear, and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye, And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard!-his words are driven, Praise to the man! a nation stood And still, as on his funeral day, Men stand his cold earth-couch around, With the mute homage that we pay And consecrated ground it is, The last, the hallow'd home of one Who lives upon all memories, Though with the buried gone. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, Sages with Wisdom's garland wreathed, And lowlier names, whose humble home Are there o'er wave and mountain come, Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have prest All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, They linger by the Doon's low trees, But what to them the sculptor's art, F. G. HALLECK. The remains of Alloway Kirk, of which the above is a correct representation, lay within a few yards of the road leading from Ayr to Carrick. It is a place of extreme antiquity, but has been long decaying. Burns rendered it very conspicuous by his inimitable Tam O'Shanter. In the burial ground lie the remains of the poet's father, over whom is placed a stone, which bears the following inscription. |