too prophetic, to admit of his looking at life dramatically. In fact, no poet of modern times has had in him so much of the prophet.

In the world of Nature, to be the revealer of things hidden, the sanctifier of things common, the interpreter of new and unsuspected relations, the opener of another sense in men; in the moral world, to be the teacher of truths hitherto neglected or unobserved, the awakener of men's hearts to the solemnities that encompass them, deepening their reverence for the essential soul, apart from accident and circumstance, making us feel more truly, more tenderly, more profoundly, lifting the thoughts upward through the shows of time to that which is permanent and eternal, and bringing down on the transitory things of eye and ear some shadow of the eternal, till

We feel through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness;

this is the office which he will not cease to fulfil as long as the English lasts.

What Earth's far-off lonely mountains do for the plains and the cities, that Wordsworth has done and will do for literature, and through literature for society; sending down great rivers of higher truth, fresh, purifying winds of feeling, to those who least dream from what quarter they come. The more thoughtful of each generation will draw nearer and nearer and observe him more closely, will ascend his imaginative heights, and sit under the shadow of his profound meditations, and, in proportion as they do so, will become more noble and pure in heart.

J. C. SHAIRP: 1868.

8 Winsome marrow is pleasant companion; a phrase much used in the old ballad poetry

of Scotland. In this case, the "winsome marrow" was the poet's sister.

2 "Let Yarrow folk, from Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,

Go back to Yarrow, 't is their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling:
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;

But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

3 There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;

And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus ;

4

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?

4 What's Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder."

Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;

My true-love sigh'd for sorrow;

And look'd me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow!

5 "O, green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,"
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

Fair hangs the apple from the rock,
But we will leave it growing.

O'er hilly path and open strath,

6

We'll wander Scotland thorough ;7

But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.

4 Lintwhite is but another form of linnet.

6 Holm is meadow, or a low, flat tract of rich land on the banks of a river.

6 Strath is much the same as holm; low, alluvial land.

7 Through and thorough are, properly, but different forms of the same word, and the two were formerly used indiscriminately. Of course the old usage is here admitted for the rhyme.

THOUGHTS ON BURNS.

6 Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow :
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.

7 Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it :
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it ?8

The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome marrow!
For when we're there, although 't is fair,
'T will be another Yarrow.

8 If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly;

Should we be loth to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy;

Should life be dull, and spirits low,
'T will soothe us in our sorrow,

That Earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow."

375

WORDSWORTH.

THOUGHTS ON BURNS:

SUGGESTED NEAR HIS RESIDENCE, ON THE BANKS OF THE NITH.

1 Too frail to keep the lofty vow

That must have follow'd when his brow

Was wreathed (The Vision tells us how)
With holly spray,

8 Yarrow is a stream made classic by many dear old tales and ballads of "love and sorrow"; and the poet fears that the reality will break the spell of romance, and dissipate the pleasing vision he has of the spot.

9 The Vision is the title of one of Burns's longer poems. A portion of it is given on page 132, under the heading, "The Genius of Scotland."

He falter'd, drifted to and fro,
And pass'd away.

2 Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
In social grief,-

Indulged as if it were a wrong

To seek relief.

3 But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
And prompt to welcome every gleam
Of good and fair,

Let us beside this limpid stream
Breathe hopeful air.

4 Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right
His course was true,

When wisdom prosper'd in his sight
And virtue grew.

5 Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth's season bland,
When side by side, his book in hand,
We wont to stray,

Our pleasure varying at command
Of each sweet lay.

6 How oft inspired must he have trod
These pathways, yon far-stretching road!
There lurks his home; in that abode,
With mirth elate,

Or in his nobly-pensive mood,
The Rustic sate.

7 Proud thoughts that image overawes;
Before it humbly let us pause,

And ask of Nature, from what cause
And by what rules

ROBERT BURNS AS A MAN.

She train'd her Burns to win applause
That shames the schools.

8 Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Are felt the flashes of his pen ;

He rules 'mid winter snows, and when
Bees fill their hives ;

Deep in the general heart of men
His power survives.

9 What need of fields in some far clime
Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,
And all that fetch'd the flowing rhyme
From genuine springs,

Shall dwell together till old Time
Folds up his wings?

10 Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,

And memory of Earth's bitter leaven,
Effaced for ever.

11 But why to him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share

With all that live?

The best of what we do and are,

Just God, forgive!

377

WORDSWORTH.

ROBERT BURNS AS A MAN.

We love Burns, and we pity him; and love and pity are prone to magnify. Criticism, it is sometimes thought, should be a cold business we are not sure of this; but, at all events, our concern with Burns is not exclusively that of critics. True and genial as his poetry must appear, it is not chiefly as a poet, but as a man,