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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 bis 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 malein 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,
And braes o' bonny Doon.”
Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,
My sunny hour was glad and brief,
Art withered-flower and leaf.
Wild rose of Alloway,
My,bosom bore thee far and long;
Immortal as his song.
That calls, when brimmed her festal cup,
In silent sadness up.
Forgot-she's canonized his mind,
We may of human kind.
Where the bard-peasant first drew breath;
A straw-wrought couch beneath.
His monument—that tells to Heaven
To that bard-peasant given !
Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming hour,
A Poet's pride and power.
The power that gave a child of song
The rich, the brave, the strong.
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions, then,
The roll of common men.
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres,
Yet read the names that know not death,
Few nobler ones than Burns are there, And few have worn a greener wreath
Than that which binds his hair. 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
The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cold or sunny clime.
Before its spell with willing knee,
The poet's mastery.
O’er the heart's sunshine, and its showers, O’er passion's moments, bright and warm,
O’er reason's dark, cold hours :
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 dreams of youth, and truth, and love,
With “ Logan's” banks and braes. And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, All passions in our frame of clay
Come thronging at his call; Imagination's world of air,
And our own world, its gloom and glee,
And death's sublimity. *
Though rough and dark the path he trod,
The image of his God.
Through care, and pain, and want, and woe, .
With wounds that only death could heal, Tortures, the poor alone can know,
The proud alone can feel ; He kept his honesty and truth,
His independent tongue and pen, And moved, in manhood and in youth,
Pride of his fellow men. Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, ·
A hate of tyrant and of knave,
Of coward, and of slave;
That could not fear, and would not bow,'
And on his manly brow.
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown,
The birds of fame are flown. Praise to the man! a nation stood
Beside his coffin with wet eyes, Her brave, her beautiful, her good,
As when a lov'd one dies. And still, as on his funeral day,
Men stand bis cold earth-couch around, With the mute homage that we pay
To consecrated ground, And consecrated ground it is,
The last, the hallow'd home of one
Though with the buried gone.
Shrines to no code or creed confin'd:
The Meccas of the mind.
Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power, And warriors with their bright swords sheathed,
The mightiest of the hour;
Is lit by fortune's dimmer star,
From countries near and far ;
Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have prest
The Switzer's snows, the Arab's sand,
My own green forest-land.
Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,
His fields and streams among.
And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr,
The Poet's tomb is there.
His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns ?
The name of Robert BURNS? 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.