310 To see profusion that he must not share; To sce these joys the sons of pleasure know 315 The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign 320 Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes 325 Now lost to all,— her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town, 335 She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,— Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 340 345 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, 350 Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 355 360 That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 365 Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, And took a long farewel, and wished in vain 370 To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe; His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 375 380 O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, At every draught more large and large they grow, Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 385 390 395 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 400 Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 405 410 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 415 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 420 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796) 425 430 The greatest poet of Scotland, the most original of the eighteenthcentury poets of Great Britain, one of the best song writers of the world, these are epithets not too extravagant to apply to Robert Burns. Born to a most humble life, a poor country ploughboy, without the advantages of education or of training in his art, he has nevertheless succeeded beyond all but a few in touching the heart of mankind. He was born to be the poet of lyrical passion, to sing the joys and sorrows, the hopes and fears, the loves and yearnings and ambitions of the homely human nature which he knew and so well understood. Except in one or two poems his aim is not action or dramatic intensity; and he displays little of the reflective quality and sustained imagination that also characterize the highest order of poets. He felt rather than thought; he sang rather than philosophized. Tender and sympathetic toward all living things, he has a message for our hearts from the heart of Nature. Generous and impulsive, he carries us with him in his recital of experiences whether imaginary or real. And in Burns the experience is usually real. With a gay and lively humor he lends such zest to rural scenes, the Fair, the mirth of Hallowe'en, the pleasures of the village inn that, like his simple heroes, we live it all again. When once Burns had sung, no singer could be artificial and succeed. By the warmth of his lyrics he thawed "the eighteenth-century frost" of Pope and his followers. By his dialect poems he turned the broad, provincial Ayrshire into a national and literary tongue. Still, at the best, his was only a half life, with possibilities half realized. The early years were a struggle with harsh necessity; the later, a struggle with dissipation and despair. Had his will power been as strong as his passions were deep, and his life as pure as his ideals high, it is impossible to surmise how successful both in life and letters he might have been. For his nature was at bottom both sensitive and reverent; his religious feeling deep and sincere. Despite its blemishes and notwithstanding his own imperfections, perhaps, after all because of the passion of them, — his poetry stands out honest, manly, and inspiring. 1759-1786. — Burns was born in a small clay-built cottage on a little farm two miles south of the Scottish town of Ayr, and close to the old Alloway Kirk of his Tam o' Shanter. His father was an intelligent, God-fearing man, but very poor; and the lad's education was necessarily of the most fragmentary character. From his fourteenth to his twenty-fourth year, young Burns worked hard as the principal laborer on his father's farm. All this time, however, he was a great reader, devouring, among other things, the Spectator, Shakespeare, Pope, and the ballads of Scotland. These Scottish ballads seem early to have aroused a spirit of artistic emulation, and we soon hear of the young poet, as he guides his plough, fitting words of his own to ancient Scottish tunes. When about twenty-three years of age he went to a neighboring town to learn the trade of flax-dressing; and here were sown the seeds of the evil habits which did so much to ruin his later life. In 1784 his father died; and, with his brother, Robert rented a farm at Mossgiel, where many of his best poems were written, among others The Cotter's Saturday Night. But the farm proved a failure; and the poet, wearied with that kind of life, and harassed by the consequences of his youthful follies, laid plans for emigrating to the West Indies. To secure money for the expenses of this voyage, he published, in 1786, a small volume of Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect. The result was entirely unexpected. Scotland was taken by storm; and the poet was induced to pay a visit to Edinburgh, where he became the literary and social lion of the day. 1786-1796. Burns spent a winter at Edinburgh, partly in the cultivated circles of that great literary centre; partly with rough and drunken companions at the taverns and social clubs of the city. With the proceeds of a second edition of his poems he took the lease of a farm at Ellisland in southern Scotland. Then he married Jean Armour, the most permanent of his many loves. This, the period in which Tam o' Shanter was written, was the happiest of his life; but it was a period of very brief duration. In 1789 he secured a position as exciseman, that is, inspector of liquors and other goods liable to an internal revenue tax. His habits of intemperance were now becoming constantly worse, and from the day, in 1791, when he finally abandoned his farm for a residence in the neighboring town of Dumfries, his downfall was rapid. It is true that during periods of remorse and temporary reform he still continued to write immortal songs; but his health had been shattered, and his spirits were broken. At last, in July, 1796, when only thirty-seven years old, the poet died. |