Mornings in spring; or, Retrospections, biographical, critical, and historical
Drake, Nathan, 1766-1836
U^mrr, •<.<• 'S^^'S^Kc I^. :^ cj-.l^ ©s 3 lg 1 ■ ■■ ..L^ ^^x: ■- <:<:::■ <: .^« University of California • Berkeley #f i.^' MORNINGS IN SPRING: RETROSPECTIONS, BIOGRAPHICAL, CRITICAL, AND HISTORICAL. NATHAN DRAKE, M.D. H.A.L. AUTHOR OF ESSAYS ON PERIODICAL LITERATURE, &C. " How sweet in morning hours. When vernal airs stir the fresh-blowing flowers, The light that shines reflected from the past!" Rogers. IjV two volumes. VOL. IL LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET. MDCCCXXVIII. LONDON : PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WIIITEFniARi CONTENTS VOL. II. No. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. XIX. XX. XXI. XXII. Chaucer, Dunbar, and Burns compared. On the character of Ossian, as drawn by the Irish bards. Miss Brool<%'s Reliques of Irish poetry The CliflPords of Craven, continued The same, continued Biographical sketch of the Rev. Richard Hole, with critical remarks on his Ar- thur, a poetical romance The same, continued The same, concluded The CHffords of Craven, continued The same, concluded Milton and Galileo — Their interview at Arcetri in Tuscany. — Vision of Galileo. —Sonnet. — Collins's fragment, entitled " The Bell of Arragon," completed Page 1 37 65 101 132 157 197 237 282 313 MORNINGS IN SPRING. No. XIII. Call up Him that left half told The story of Camhnscan bold. Milton. And sage Dunbar. The bard has run his race. But glitters still the Grolden Terge on high. Dyer. And Burns, whose happy style, Whose manner-painting strains Recall the days. When tender joys, with pleasing smile. Blest our young ways. Telford. It has been beautifully observed by Warton, in his History of English Poetry, that Chaucee may be resembled to " a genial day in an English Spring, A brilliant sun enlivens the face of nature with an unusual lustre : the sudden appearance of cloudless skies, and the unexpected warmth of a tepid atmo- sphere, after the gloom and the inclemencies of a VOL. 11. B » MORNINfiS IN SPRING. tedious winter, fill our hearts with the visionary prospect of a speedy summer ; and we fondly an- ticipate a long continuance of gentle gales and ver- nal serenity. But winter returns with redoubled horrors : the clouds condense more formidably than - before ; and those tender buds and early blossoms which were called forth by the transient gleam of a temporary sunshine are nipped by frosts, and torn by tempests.**' Thus, " most of the poets," he adds, " that im- mediately succeeded Chaucer, seem rather relapsing into barbarism, than availing themselves of those striking ornaments which his judgment and ima- gination had disclosed. They appear to have been insensible to his vigour of versification, and his flights of fancy. It was not, indeed, likely that a poet should soon arise equal to Chaucer : and it must be remembered that the national distractions which ensued had no small share in obstructing the exercise of those studies which delight in peace and repose. His successors, however, approach him in no degree of proportion *."" This exquisite illustration is one amongst a series from the pen of the same critic, which has con- • Vol. ii. ito. edit. p. 51. MORNINGS IN SPRING. 3 tributed to place the genius and character of the writings of Chaucer in their proper point of view. It had previously been supposed, from a too partial acquaintance with the works of our bard, that hu- mour and delineation of character were the depart- ments in which he could alone establish a claim to excellence ; but it has been amply proved by the nistorian of our poetry, that to these provinces of his art were added the more peculiarly poetical ones which originate in a display not only of inventive and descriptive powers, but occasionally of those which unfold the emotions of pity and terror. It will, therefore, be barely sufficient in this place to remind the reader, that whilst a vast majority of the Canterbury Tales and their Prologues exhibit the richest vein of humorous characterization, an equal opulency is discoverable both in these and other parts of his works, in the serious and more elevated flights of fancy and of feeling. Thus, as faithful delineations of the beauties of nature, what can be more fresh and distinct than many of the landscapes which he has given us in the Flower and Leaf^ the Romaunt of the Rose, and the Complaint of the Black Knight ? How splendid, and, at the same time, how frequently terrific and sublime is b2 ^ 4- MORNINGS IN SPRING. the imagery, and even the incidents, in the wild but powerfully written tales of Palamon and Arcite, and Cambuscan, and with what deep and com- miserating sympathy do we hang over the pathetic narratives of Troilus and Creseda and Patient Griseldis ! It is evident that a union of talents of this wide range must necessarily be of rare occurrence ; nor can we wonder that a century should elapse before a poet in any high degree approaching the genius of Chaucer made his appearance in bur island*. * Amongst those who may be reckoned the immediate suc- cessors of Chaucer, Lydgate is without doubt entitled, on the score at least of descriptive and pathetic powers, to more notice than he has yet obtained. In universality of genius, and especially in the departments of humour and character- painting, he is immeasurably below his great predecessor; but there is a perspicuity in his diction, and a circumstan- tiality in his narration, which are sometimes truly pleasing, and he has given us several proofs of the exquisite tenderness of his heart. He has experienced, therefore, hard measure from Wiirton, when he declares him to have been " seldom pathetic,'* (Hist, of English Poetry, vol. ii. p 58) ; and still harder from Percy, Ritson, and Pinker ton, who have abso- lutely loaded him with contempt. It was reserved for Gray to do justice to this forgotten bard, who, though buried, as it were, beneath an immense mass of occasional, and therefore, in general, uninteresting verses, has every now and then a MORNINGS IN SPRING. 5. Not, indeed, until Dunbar arose in the sister king- dom, had we another instance of the combination passage of truly redeeming power. Two instances of this kind are quoted by our great lyric poet, of which the second is beyond all praise, and shows how deeply the Monk of Bury could enter into the distresses of love and maternal fondness. " Canace, condemned to death by OEolus her father, sends to her guilty brother Macareus the last testimony of her un- happy passion : '' Out of her swoone when she did abbraide. Knowing no mean but death in her distresse, To her brother full piteouslie she said, ' Cause of ray sorrowe, roote of my heavinesse, That whilom were the sourse of my gladnesse ; ^Vhen both our joys by wille were so disposed. Under one key our hearts to be inclosed — " ' This is mine end, I may it not astarte ; O brother mine ! there is no more to saye ; Lowly beseeching with all mine whole heartc. For. to remember specially, I praye ; If it befall my littel sonne to dye. That thou mayst after some mynd on us have, SuflPer us both be buried in one grave. ^^ '* ' I hold him strictly twene my arme's twein. Thou and nature laide on me this charge ; He, guiltlesse, muste with me suffer paine : And sith thou art at freedome, and at large. Let kindness oure love not so discharge, 6 MOltNlNGS IN SriUNti. of first-rate abilities for humour and comic painting, with an equally powerful command over the higher But have a minde, wherever that thou be. Once on a day upon my child and me. " ' On thee and me dependeth the trespace. Touching our guilt and our great offence ; But, welaway ! most angelik of face, Oure childe, young in his pure innocence. Shall agayn right suffer death's violence. Tender of limbes, God wote, full guilteless. The goodly faire, that lieth here speechless. " * A mouth he has, but wordes hath he none ; Cannot complaine, alas ! for none outrage. Nor grutcheth not, but lies here all alone. Still as a lambe, most meke of his visage. What heart of stele could do to him damage. Or suffer him dye, beholding the manere. And looke benigne of his twein eyen clere ?' " I stop here," says Gray, " not because there are not great beauties in the remainder of this epistle, but because Lydgate, in the three last stanzas of this extract, has touched the very heart-strings of compassion with so masterly a hand, as to merit a place among the greatest poets. The learned reader will see the resemblance they bear to one of the most admirable remnants of all antiquity, I mean the fragment of Simonides (unhappily it is but a fragment), preserved to us by Dionysius Halicarnassensis ; and yet, I believe that no one will imagine that Lydgate had ever been or heard of it. As to Ovid, from MORNINGS IN SPRING. 7 regions of fiction and imagination. Than The Thistle and the Rose, and The Golden Terge of the Scottish bard, there cannot be two poems of similar length which exhibit greater warmth and luxuriancy of description, or greater skill in the in- vention and arrangement of the allegorical imagery. They certainly rival in opulence and strength of colouring the most highly finished allegorical pic- tures of his great master Chaucer, for such he ever acknowledged him to be ; whilst, at the same time, in all that regards preservation of character, felicity of incident, and richness of humour, w^here, even in the Canterbury Tales, shall we find two pieces superior to The Twa Carried Women and the Widow, and the Freirs of Berwick P The latter narrative, more especially, is conducted, both as to its fable and its characters, with a thorough know- ledge of human nature, with the most minute fidelity in point of description, and with a pungency and originality of humour which has seldom, if ever, been surpassed. whom Boccaccio might borrow many of his ideas in this story, it will be easily seen, upon comparison, how far our poet has surpassed him." Mathias's M^okks or Gray, Vol, ii. p. (j6, et scq. O MORNINGS IN SPRING. To these four capital pieces, Dunbar has added a multitude of minor productions, chiefly of a lyrical cast, and which are not less remarkable for their ethic and satiric vigour, than for their frequent touches of moral sublimity and bold personification, blended too, as is often the case, with strokes of genuine pathos. Of this description, amongst many others, are the poems entitled " The Daunce^'' *' Lair is vain without Governances^ " On the Warlds Instabilities'' " On Contents'" " No Treasure without Gladnesses^ and the " Meditatioun^ Written in Wynter.'''' In depicting the passions or fiends who form the Dramatis Personce in the Daunce, the poet has introduced several features of mingled sublimity and terror, not unworthy even of the genius of Shakspeare ; as, for instance, in the pro- sopopoeia of Anger : Then Ire came in with sturt and strife. His hand was ay upon his knife ; nor will the reader forbear to admire the sweet moral pathos which has given an undying charm to the beautiful stanzas on Winter. If we now take a retrospect of our British poetry from the period of Dunbar to the commencement of the nineteenth century, excluding, however, the MORNINGS IN SPRING. 9 drama as a separate and distinct province, and, of course, all consideration of the mighty and diversi- fied genius of Shakspeaje, where, it may be asked, shall we find such another concentration of varied talent, such a blending of satire, and humour, and characteristic delineation, with the higher faculties subservient to passion, imagination, and lofty de- scription, as we have just pointed out in the in- stances of Chaucer and Dunbar ? Where, I will venture to reply, but in the person of Burns ? who it may safely be asserted has rivalled these poets in humour, description, and moral satire, and even surpassed them in the pathetic, the ter- rible, and the sublime. Of the merits of a poet so well known, and so deservedly popular as is Robert Burns, it would, in the present day, be altogether superfluous to enter into any formal discussion ; and for the purpose which I have in view, that of a brief comparison of his character and powers as a writer, with those which have been ascribed to Chaucer and Dunbar, little more is required than a classification, under a few distinct heads, of some of his best pieces, which, vividly recollected as they must be by nearly all. 10 MORNINGS IN SPRING. will, without any further criticism, establish the parallel intended. In the first place, then, as productions which ex- hibit a great and equal portion of pathos and de- scriptive power, I may mention the poems entitled " J Winter Nighty " Winter, a Dirge,'" " De- spondency^'' " Man was made to mourn,'''' " The La- ment,'''' " The Mountain Daisy,'''' and the major part of the songs. These latter, indeed, are, for their exquisite tenderness, and the beauty of their local scenery, perfectly unrivalled. In the higher pro- vince of the pathetic and sublime, who will refuse to award a very marked distinction to " The^ Cotter if Saturday Night,'''' to " The Vision,^ " Bruce to his Troops^'' and " The Song of Death," effusions warm from the heart, and instinct with all the energy, sublimity, and feeling, which patriotism, religion, and domestic affection could supply. Of that remarkable interunion of humour with the deeper emotions of the mind and heart, which I have noticed as so strongly characterizing the mvise of Burns, numerous instances might be se- lected ; but it will suffice, as examples of humour combined with tenderness, or moral satire, or vivid MOllNINGS IN SPRING. 11 powers of description, to call to our recollection the poems entitled " The Death and Dying Words of poor Maillie,'" " The Aidd Farmer'' s Salutaticm^ '' The Twa Dogs;' " Halloween;' " The Holy Fair;' and " The Brigs of Ayr ;"" and of the still rarer combination of humorous delineation with the terrible and sublime, no more striking illustrations can be required than the " Address to the Deii;"* and " Tarn O'Shanter," Than the last, indeed, I know of no narrative which presents so masterly a display of contrasted talent ; a transition so complete from scenery that would do honour to the pencil of Ho- garth, to that which breathes the most awful and heart-harrowing terror. Having drawn this parallel, in relation to the ge- nius and talents of Chaucer, Dunbar, and Burns, in very general terms, I feel tempted, from its close affinity with the title of these volumes, to enter upon one topic of resemblance amongst these poets more at large, and that is, their peculiar attachment to, and fondness for describing, the Mornings of Spring. Chaucer appears, indeed, at no time more at home than when painting this beautiful period of the day and year, and his landscapes seem glowing as it were with all the dewy freshness of nature. He 12 - MORNINGS IN SPUING. tells US, in short, that nothing could withdraw him from his studies, from his beloved books, but the pleasures of a morning in May : There is game none That from my bokis maketh me to goen. But it be seldom, on the holy day ; Save certainly when that the month of May Is comen, and I hear the fowlis sing ; And that the floweris 'ginnen for to spring, Farewell my book and my devotion. Legend of Good Women., We cannot, therefore, wonder at the frequent and minute descriptions which he has given us as the result of his early morning rambles at this interest- ing season. One of these, a perfect transcript from the living scene, I have much pleasure in selecting as a specimen : I rose anon, and thought I woulde goen Into the wood, to hear the birdis sing, When that the misty vapour was agone. And cleare and faire was the morrowing; The dew also, like silver in shining. Upon the leaves, as any baume sweet ; Till fiery Titan with his peccant heat Had dried up the lusty liquor new, Upon the hcrbis in the grcene mead ; And that the flowers, of many diverse hue, MORNINGS IN SPRING^ 13 Upon their stalkes gonin * for to spread. And for to splay out their leavis in brede f. Again the sun^ gold-humed X in his sphere, That down to them y-cast his beamis clear. And by a river forth I gan costay § Of water clear as beryl or chrystall. Till, at the last, I found a little way Toward a park, enclosed with a wall In compass round, and by a gate small. Whoso that would, he freely mighten gon Into this park, y-walled with green stone. And in I went to hear the birdis' sorig. Which on the branches, both in plain and vale, So loud y-sang, that all the wood y-rang, Like as it should shiver in pieces smale ; And as me though ten that the nightingale With so great might her voice began out- wrest Right as her heart for love would all to-brest. The soil was plain and smooth, and wonder soft. All over-spread with tapets that nature Had made herself; covered eke aloft With boughis green, the flowers for to cure. That in their beauty they may long endure, From all assault of Phoebus' fervent/ere ||, Which in his sphere so hot y-shone and clear. The air attempre, and the smoothe wind Of Zephyrus among the blossoms white, So wholesome was, and nourishing by kind. Began. f Abroad. % Gold-burnished. § To coast. II Fire. 14 MORNINGS IN SPRING. That smalle buddis, and round blossoms lite. In manner gan of her breath to delight. To give us hope that there fruit shall y-take Against autumn, ready for to shake. There saw I growing eke the fresh haw-thorn In white motley, that so sweet doth y-smell ; Ash, fir, and oak, with many a young acorn. And many a tree mo than I now can tell ; And, me before, I saw a little well That had his course, as I could well behold. Under a hill, with quidk streamis and cold. The gravel goldn ; the water pure as glass ; The bankis round the well environing. And soft as velvet was the younge grass That thereupon hastily came springing. The suit of trees, abouten compassing, Their shadow cast closing the well around. And all the herbis growing on the ground. Complaint of the Black Knight. Beautifully and minutely descriptive as these lines certainly are, they are surpassed in poetical spirit by the following address to May, from the Knighf s Tale. Than the three opening couplets, indeed, I know of no passage in any poet which, for harmony of versification and splendour of imagery, is entitled to superior praise. Considering the era at which they appeared, we cannot but be astonished at their production. MORNINGS IN SPRING. 15 The merry larke, messenger of the dale, Saluteth in her song the morrow graie ; And firie Phoebus riseth up so bright. That all the orient laugheth at the sight. And with his stremis dryeth in the greves * The silver droppis hanging in the leves. And Arcite, that in the court reallf With Theseus, his squier principall. Is risen, and looketh on the mery daie. And for to doen his observances to Male, Remembring on the poinct of his desire. He on his courser, startlyng as the fire. Is ridden into the fieldes him to plaie Out of the court, were it a mile or tweie, And to the grove of whyche I you tolde By adventure, his way he gan holde ; To maken him a garlonde of the greves. Were it of wodbind or hauthorn leves. And loud he sung agenst the sonne shene, " Mate, with all thy floures and thy grene. Welcome be thou, faire freshe Mate." In paraphrasing this admirable description, Dry- den has very judiciously adhered almost to the very words and rhythm of the first two couplets of Chaucer, conscious that, great master as he was of rhyme, he could not improve them. The third couplet he has deviated from, and for the worse ; but the inimitable I * Groves or bushes. t Royal. 16 • MORNINGS IN SPRING. spirit and freedom of Dryden"*s versification is nobly exemplified in his expansion of the elder poet''s ad- dress to May, where he has converted the two lines of his original into a picture of the most exquisite grace and beauty. I need not cr^ve a pardon for the introduction of such a copy by such an artist : The morning-lark, the messenger of day. Saluted with her song the morning gray ; And soon the sun arose with beams so bright. That all the horizon laugh'd to see the joyous sight. He with his tepid rays the rose renews. And licks the dropping leaves, and dries the dews ; When Arcite left his bed, resolv'd to pay Observance to the month of merry May : Forth on his fiery steed betimes he rode. That scarcely prints the turf on which he trod : At ease he seem'd, and prancing o'er the plains, Turn'd only to the grove his horse's reins, The" grove I nam'd before; and lighting there, A woodbine garland sought to crown his hair ; Then turn'd his face against the rising day. And rais'd his voice to welcome in the May. For thee, sweet month, the groves green liv'ries wear : If not the first, the fairest of the year : For thee the Graces lead the dancing Hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flow'rs ; When thy short reign is past, the fev'rish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on. MORNINGS IN SPRING. 17 So may thy tender blossoms fear no blite. Nor goats with venOTn'd teeth thy tendrils bite. As thou shalt guide ray wand'ring feet to find The fragrant greens I seek, my brows to bind. It would appear a difficult and a dangerous task to enter into competition with passages such as I have now given ; yet, rich and appropriate as these Chaucerian pictures must be esteemed, they are ri- valled, if not surpassed, by the Mornings in Spring of Dunbar. Both the " Golden Terge," and the '' Thistle and the Rose," open with the most glow- ing and delicious representations of the dawning of a vernal day. In the first of these the poet is de- scribed as leaving his bed with the morning star, and watching for the rising of the sun, the effects of which on the landscape he has painted with a warmth and fidelity worthy of the pencil of Titian : Right as the starre of day began to shyne. When gone to bed was Vesper and Lucyne, I raise, and by a rosier* did me rest : Upsprang the golden candle matutine. With clear depurit t bemis chrystalHne, Gladding the mirry fowlis in their nest. Or Phoebus was in purple cape revest %. Upsprang the lark, the heaven's raenstrel syne §, In May intill a morrow mirthfuUest. * Rose tree. t Purified. % Dressed. § Then. VOL. Ti. C 18 MORNINGS IN SPUING. Full angel-like thir birdis sang their hours Within their curtains green, within their bowers, Appareirdj white and red, with bloorais sweet : Enamel'd was the field with all colours : The pearled drops shook as in silver showers. While all in balm did branch and le\is Jleii * :. Depart fra Phoebus did Aurora greite f : Her chrystal tears I saw hang on the flowers, Which he, for love, all drank up with his heit. For mirth of May, with skippis and with hoppis. The birdis sang upon the tender croppis % With curious notes, as Venus chapel-clarks : The roses red, now spreading of their knoppis §, Were powder d bright with heavenly beryl-droppis. Through bemis red Icmyng || as ruby sparks ; The skyis rang with shouting of the larks ; The purple heaven owre skal'd in silver sloppis, Owre gilt the treis, branches, leaves, and barks. Down througK the rys % ane river ran with stremis Soiustily upon the lykand** lemis ' That all the lake as lamp did leme of light. Which shadowed all about with twinkling glemis ; The bewis f f baithit were in second bemis Through the reflex of Phoebus visage bright ; On every side the egeX\ raise on hicht; The bank was green, the sun was full of bemis. The streamers clear as starres in frosty night. * Float. t Weep. X Branches § Buds. II Shining. ^ Trees. •* Pleasant. ft Boughs. XX High-raised edges or banks. MORNINGS IN SPRING. 19 The crystal air, the saphire firmament. The ruby skyies of the red orient, Kest * beryl beams on igm'rald be wis green : The rosy garth t depaynt and redolent, With purple, azure, gold and gowlis X gent, Array'd was by Dame Flora the Queen, So nobilly, that joy was for to sene ; The rock against the river resplendent As low illuminate all the levis schene§. What through the merry fowlis harmony. And through the river's sound that ran me by. On Flora's mantle I sleeped where I lay ; Where soon, unto my dreamis phantasy, I saw approach, against the orient sky, Ane sail, as blossom white upon the spray, With mast of gold, bright as the star of day, Which tended to the land full lustily With swiftest motion through a crystal bay. After a vision of considerable length, and incom- parably rich in allegorical imagery, the poet is thus awakened from his slumber : And as I did awake of this swowning |I, The joyful fowlis merrily did sing For mirth of Phoebus tender bemis schene : * Cast, t Garden. + Gules, the heraldic term for red. § The rock resplendent from the reflection of the river, illuminated, as with loio or flame, all the bright leaves. II Dream. C.2 so MORNINGS IN SPRING. Sweet was the vapours, soft the morrowing. Wholesome the vale, depaint with flowers ying,. The air intemperate, sober and amene ; In white and red was all the earth besene. Through Nature's noble fresh enameling In mirthful May, of ev«ry moneth Queen. If we now turn to the initiatory stanzas of the Thistle and the Rose, in which the bard fancier himself addressed in a dream by May, who urge& him to write something in her honour, and to wel- come the return of Spring, we shall find a picture of not less consummate elegance and beauty, and perhaps of still greater animation : When March was with varying windis past, And April had with her silver showers Tane leave at Nature with ane orient blast, And lusty May, that mother is of flowers. Had made the birdis to begin their hoin-s *, Amang the tender odours red and white. Whose harmony to hear it was delight ; In bed at morrow sleeping as I lay, Methought Aurora with her crystal ene In at the window looked by the day. And Iiahit f me with visage pale and green ; On whose hand a lark sang,/ro the spleen %, *' Awake, Loveflli, out of your slumbering, See how the histy morrow doth upspring !" « Orisons. f Hailed. X With good will.. MORNINGS IN SPRING. 21 Methought fresh May before my bed upstude. In weed depaint of mony diverse hue. Sober, benign, and full of mansuetude. In bright attire of flouris forged new. Heavenly of color, white, red, brown, and bhie. Balmy in dew, and gilt with Phoebus' bemys ; Quhyl all the house illumynit of her lemys. Sluggard, she said, awake, anon, for shame. And in my honour something thou go write : The lark has done the merry day proclaim. To raise up lovers with comfort and delight; Yet nought increase thy courage to indite, Whose heart sometime has glad and blissful been, Sangis to make under the leavis green. The poet and his conductress then enter a gar- den filled with flowers, and breathing odours re- dolent of paradise, when immediately The purple sun, with tender bemys red. In orient bright as angel did appear. Through golden skyis putting up his head, Quhois gilt tresses shone so wonder clear. That all the world take comfort far and near. — And, as the blissful son of cherarchy *, The fowlis sung through comfort of the light; The birdis did with open voices cry, ^' O Lovers, fo away thow dully night. And welcome day that comforts every wight : Hail May, hail Flora, hail Aurora schene. Hail princess Nature, hail Venus, lovers queen !" * Hierarchy. — Job, ch. xxxviii. v. 7. The morning stur« singing together. ^^ MORNINGS IN SPRING. Picturesque and faithful to nature as these de- scriptions of Spring most assuredly are, rich in imagery, and glowing with poetic inspiration, yet has Burns, by blending equal powers of delineation with emotions of the tenderest pathos, rendered his portraits of the same season, by this very charm of contrast, still more endearing and impressive. Fre- quent, indeed, as are his sketches of vernal scenery, there is scarcely one but what is thus commingled with the sweetest feelings of love and pity ; and it is this happy and almost constant intermixture of minute description with sentiment and passion which has given to the poetry of Burns such a wide and ever-during dominion over the human heart. I shall now select from our Scottish bard a few specimens of this delightful union of imagery and pathos whilst painting the Mornings of Spring. Now Spring has clad the grove in green. And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; The furrow 'd waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers : Wliile ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weary stej>s of woe ! The trout within yon wimpling burn Glidey swift, a silver dart, MORNINGS m SPRING. S» And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art : My life was ance that careless stream. That wanton trout was I ; But love, wi' unrelenting beam. Has scorch'd ray fountains dry. — The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs And climbs the early sky. Winnowing blythe her dewy wings In morning's rosy eye ; As little reckt I sorrow's power. Until the flowery snare O' witching love, in luckless hour, Made me the thrall o' care. — The wretch whose doom is, " hope nae raair," What tongue his woes can tell : Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. The features attendant on this the most beauti- ful season of the year are yet further marked and extended in the following lines, which, like those that I have just quoted, make a powerful appeal to our sympathy. Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues. Her leafy locks wave in the breeze All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 24 MORNINGS IN SPRING. In vain to me the cowslips blaw. In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry plough-boy cheers his team, Wi' joy the ten tie seedsman stalks. But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims. And every thing is blest but I. The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, .And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step I meet him on the dewy hill. And when the lark, tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe- worn ghaist I hameward glide. I conclude these instances with a quotation from the " Lament of Mary Queen of Scots on the Ap- proach of Spring,'"* a poem equally estimable for the loveliness of its descriptive touches, and for the pensive strain and maternal tenderness whicli so sweetly characterise its stanzas. MORNINGS JN Sl'RING. 25 Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea : Now Phoebus cheers the chrystal streams. And glads the azure skies ; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing ; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring ; The mavis mild, wi' mony a note. Sings drowsy day to rest : In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank. The primrose down the brae ; The hawthorn's budding in the glen. And milk-white is the slae : The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang ; But I, the queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison Strang. — My son ! my son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine ; And may those pleasures gild thy reign. That ne'er wad blink on mine ! J2() MORNINGS IN SPRING. God keep thee frae thy mother's faes. Or turn their hearts to thee ; And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend. Remember him for me ! O soon, to me, may summer suns Nae mair light up the morn ! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn ! And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave ; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring Bloom on my peaceful grave. Burns, of whom I entertain a vivid and cherished recollection, from having met him more than once whilst resident in Edinburgh, during the years 1786-7-8 and 9, is one of those few poets who, from the strength and originality with which they have painted the emotions of their own breasts, have built for themselves an ever-during. mansion in the hu- man heart. Though alloyed, indeed, with many errors and frailties which cannot be too much re- gretted, there glowed in the bosom of the Scottish bard a spirit of the most generous and ardent phi- lanthropy, nor was ever man of genius, I believe, more thoroughly beloved by his relatives and friends. MORNINGS IN SPRING. ^7 Of a character of this description, every trait, however minute, is interesting ; nor can I well de- scribe the melancholy pleasure which I felt from reading the following recent account, written, I believe, by Allan Cunningham, of the indisposition, last moments, and death of this admirable poet. It is drawn up from personal knowledge and in- timacy, and in a tone of feeling and truth which leaves not a doubt of its fidelity. " The first time I ever saw Bums," says the ami- able writer, " was in Nithsdale. I was then a child, but his looks and his voice cannot well be forgotten ; and while I write this 1 behold him as distinctly as I did when I stood at my father's knee, and heard the bard repeat his Tam O' Shan- ter. He was tall, and of a manly make ; his brow broad and high ; and his voice varied with the cha- racter of his inimitable tale; yet through all its variations it was melody itself. He was of great personal strength, and proud too of displaying it ; and I have seen him lift a load with ease which few ordinary men would have willingly undertaken. — " The last time I saw Burns in life was on his return from the Brow-well of Solway. He had been aiHng all spring, and summer had come with- 28 MORNINGS IN SPRING. out bringing health with it ; he had gone away very ill, and he returned worse. He was brought back, I think, in a covered spring cart; and when he alighted at the foot of the street in which he lived he could scarce stand upright. He reached his own door with difficulty. He stooped much, and there was a visible change in his looks. Some may think it not unimportant to know that he was at that time dressed in a blue coat, with the undress nankeen pantaloons of the volunteers, and that his neck, which was inclining to be short, caused his hat to turn up behind, in the manner of the shovel hats of the episcopal clergy. Truth obliges me to add that he was not fastidious about his dress ; and that an officer, curious in the personal appearance and equipments of his company, might have ques- tioned the military nicety of the poet's clothes and arms. But his colonel was a maker of rhyme, and the poet had to display more charity for his com- mander''s verse than the other had to exercise when he inspected the clothing and arms of the careless bard. " From the day of his return home till the hour of his untimely death, Dumfries was like a besieged place. It was known he was dying, and the anxiety, MORNINGS IN SPRING. 29 not of the rich and the learned only, but of the me- chanics and peasants, exceeded aM belief. Where- ever two or three people stood together, their talk was of Burns and of him alone ; they spoke of his history, of his person, of his works, of his family, of his fame, and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an enthusiasm which wHl ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance. All that he said or was saying, the opinions of the physicians (and Maxwell was a kind and a skilful one) were eagerly caught up, and reported from street to street, and from house to house. " His good humour was unruffled, and his wit never forsook him. He looked to one of his fellow volunteers with a smile, as he stood by the bedside with his eyes wet, and said, ' John, don't let the awkward squad fire over me."* He was aware that death was dealing with him. He asked a lady who visited him, more in sincerity than in mirth, what commands she had for the other world. He re- pressed with a smile the hopes of his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his life drew near a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen increased. He was an exciseman, it is true — a name odious, from many 30 MOll KINGS IN SPKING. associations, to his countrymen — but he did his duty meekly and kindly, and repressed rather than en- couraged the desire of some of his companions to push the law with severity ; he was therefore much beloved, and the passion of the Scots for poetry made them regard him as little lower than a spirit inspired. It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets during the hours of remission from labour, and by these means I had an opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of al; ages. His differences with them in some important parts of human speculation and religious hope were forgotten and forgiven ; they thought only of his genius— of the delight his com- positions had diffused — and they talked of him with the same awe as of some departing spirit, whose voice was to gladden them no more. His last moments have never been described : he had laid his head quietly on the pillow awaiting dissolution, when his attendant reminded him of his medicine, and held the cup to his lip. He started suddenly up, drained the cup at a gulp, threw his hands before him like a man about to swim, and sprung from head to foot of the bed — fell with his face down, and expired with a groan. MORNINGS IN SPRING. 31 " When Burns died I was then young, but I was not insensible that a mind of no common strength had passed from among us. He had caught my fancy, and touched my heart with his songs and his poems. I went to see him laid out for the grave ; several eldern people were with me. He lay in a plain unadorned coffin, with a liiien sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed, and around the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn according to the usage of the country. He was wasted some- what by long illness ; but death had not increased the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly dark and deeply marked : the dying pang was visible in the lower part, but his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with gray, and inclining more to a wave than a curl. The room where he lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely on the heart than if his bier had been embellished by vanity and covered with the blazonry of high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the space of several minutes. We went, and others succeeded us : there was no jostling and crushing, though the crowd was great ; 32 MORNINGS IN SPRING. man followed man as patiently and orderly as if all had been a matter of mutual understanding ; not a question was asked, not a whisper was heard. This was several days after his death. It is the custom of Scotland to ' wake** the body — not with wild bowlings and wilder songs, and much waste of strong drink, like our mercurial neighbours, but in silence or in prayer : superstition says it is unsonsie to leave a corpse alone, and it is never left. I know not who watched by the body of Burns — much it was my wish to share in the honour ; but my extreme youth would have made such a request seem foolish, and its rejection would have been sure. " The multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave went step by step with the chief mourners ; they might amount to ten or twelve thousand. Not a word was heard ; and though all could not be near, and many could not see, when the earth closed on their darling poet for ever, there was no rude impa- tience shown, no fierce disappointment expressed. It was an impressive and mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions mingling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, with the remains of him who had sang of their loves and joys and domestic endearments. MORNINGS IN SPRING. 33 with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have since equalled. I could indeed have wished the military part of the procession away — for he was buried with military honours — because I am one of those who love simplicity in all that regards genius. The scarlet and gold — the banners displayed — the measured step and the military array, with the sound of martial instruments of music, had no share in in- creasing the solemnity of the burial scene, and had no connexion with the poet. '' I found myself at the brink of the grave into which he was about to descend for ever : there was a pause among the mourners, as if loth to part with his remains ; and when he was at last lowered, and the first shovelful of earth sounded on his coffin-lid, I looked up and saw tears on many cheeks where tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the fears of their comrade by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gazing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. The day was a fine one, the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a drop of rain fell from dawn to twilight. ** I saw another sight — a weeping widow and four VOL. II. D 34 MORNINGS IN SPRING. helpless sons; they came into the streets in their mournings, and public sympathy was awakened afresh ; I shall never forget the looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. The poet's life had not been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in forgiving ; but he was ho- noured then, and is honoured now, by the unalien- able affection of his wife, and the world repays her prudence and her love by its regard and esteem*." To this truly touching narrative, the heartfelt tribute of one who is known to possess talents of a nature congenial with those of which he has thus affectionately deplored the loss, I feel great plea- sure in being able to subjoin some exquisite stanzas on the genius of Burns, *' written on occasion of the Anniversary of his Birth-day being celebrated at Sheffield, March the 8th, 1820.'' When I add that they are from the pen of Montgomery, a poet endeared to us alike by the moral and devotional beauty, as by the pathos and originality of his muse, and that they have not yet made their appearance in any edition of his works, there can be few of my readers, I should imagine, who will not be grateful * London Magazine for August 1824, p. 117, et seq. MOKNINGS IN SPRING, 35 for their insertion. Their principal object seems to have been, forcibly to illustrate that variety and versatility of talent which so remarkably distin- guished the Scottish bard : What bird in beauty, flight, or song Can with the bard compare. 