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handwriting of the immortal hard, "And ye shall not swear by my name falsely-I am the Lord. Levit. 19th chap. 12th verse;" and on the corresponding leaf of the second volume, "Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oath. Matth. 5th chap. 33d verse." On the second blank leaf of each volume, there are the remains of "Robert Burns, Mossigiel," in his handwriting, beneath which is drawn a masonic emblem. At the end of the first volume there is a lock of Highland Mary's hair. There is a mournful interest attached to these sacred volumes - sacred from their contents, and sacred from having been a pledge of love from the most gifted of Scotland's bards to the artless object of his affections, from whom he was separating, no more to meet on this side the grave. The life of Burns was full of romance, but there is not one circumstance in it all so romantic and full of interest as those which attended and followed the gift of these volumes. He was young when he wooed and won the affections of Mary, whom he describes as "a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love." The attachment was mutual, and forms the subject of many of his earlier lyrics, as well as of the productions of his later years, which shows that it was very deeprooted. Before he was known to fame, steeped in poverty to the very dregs, and meditating an escape to the West Indies from the remorseless fangs of a

hard-hearted creditor, he addressed to his "dear girl" the song which begins,

""Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,

And leave auld Scotia's shore?
Will you go to the Indies, my Mary,
And cross the Atlantic's roar?"

But neither Burns nor his Mary was doomed to "cross the Atlantic's roar," nor to realize those dreams of mutual bliss which passion or enthusiasm had engendered in their youthful imaginations. — Burns was called to Edinburgh, there to commence his career of fame, which was to terminate in chill poverty, dreary disappointment, and dark despair; while Mary's happier lot, after a transient gleam of the sunshine of life, was to be removed to a better and a happier world. Her death shed a sadness over his whole future life, and a spirit of subdued grief and tenderness was displayed whenever she was the subject of his conversation or writings. — Witness as follows:

"Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomerie,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie;

There simmer first unfolds her robes,
An' there they langest tarry,
For there I took my last farweel
O' my sweet Hieland Mary!"

In a note appended to this song, Burns says, "This was a composition of mine in my early life,

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before I was known at all to the world. My Highland lassie was a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love. After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affection, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot on the banks of the Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell before she would embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the autumn following, she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock; where she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave in a few days, before I could even hear of her illness."

It was at this romantic and interesting meeting, on the banks of the Ayr, that the Bibles before us were presented to Mary; and he must have a heart of stone, indeed, who can gaze on them without his imagination calling up feelings in his bosom too big for utterance. On that spot they exchanged Bibles and plighted their faith to each other, the stream dividing them, and the sacred book grasped by both over its purling waters. This was the only token of affection each had to give the other, and the wealth of the Indies could not have procured a better or more appropriate one.

In Lockhart's Life of Burns we are informed that, several years after the death of Mary, on the anniversary of the day which brought him the melancholy intelligence, he appeared, as the twilight

advanced, (in the language of his widow,) "very sad about something;" and though the evening was a cold and keen one in September, he wandered into his barnyard, from which the entreaties of his wife could not, for some time, recall him. To these entreaties he always promised obedience, but these promises were but the lip-kindnesses of affection, no sooner made than forgotten, for his eye was fixed on heaven, and his unceasing stride indicated that his heart was also there. Mrs. Burns's last approach to the barnyard found him stretched on a mass of straw, looking abstractedly on a planet which, in a clear, starry sky, "shone like another noon," and having prevailed on him to return into the house, he instantly wrote, as they stand, the following sublime verses, "To Mary in Heaven," which have thrilled through many breasts, and drawn tears from many eyes, and which will live the noblest of the lyrics of Burns while sublimity and pathos have a responding charm in the hearts of Scotchmen.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend this breast?

That sacred hour can I forget?
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love?

Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene.

The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of the winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

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