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tude; but the satisfaction of the senate was clouded by the appearance of Tetricus; nor could they suppress a rising murmur, that the haughty emperor should thus expose to public ignominy the person of a Roman and a magistrate.
But, however in the treatment of his unfortunate rivals Aurelian might indulge his pride, he behaved towards them with a generous clemency, which was seldom exercised by the ancient conquerors. Princes who, without success, had defended their throne or freedom, were frequently strangled in prison, as soon as the triumphal pomp ascended the Capitol. These usurpers, whom their defeat had convicted of the crime of treason, were permitted to spend their lives in affluence and honorable repose. The emperor presented Zenobia with an elegant villa at Tibur, or Tivoli, about twenty miles from the capital; the Syrian queen insensibly sunk into a Roman matron, her daughters married into noble families, and her race was not yet extinct in the fifth century.
LADY ANNE BARNARD.
Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of the Earl of Balcarres, was born in 1750, and died in 1825. She was a friend and correspondent of Scott and of Lady Byron; some of her letters to the latter have been published during the late controversy as to the cause of her separation from Lord Byron.
The ballad which follows, written when she was twenty-one years of age, is unsurpassed for tender feeling and truth to nature.
AULD ROBIN GRAY.
WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e’e,
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride,
He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
My father couldna wark my mither couldna spin-
My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back ;
My father urged me sair — my mither didna speak,
I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
O, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';
I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to die,
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin,
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
For, O, Robin Gray, he is kind to me.
Robert Burns was born on the 25th of January, 1759, near the town of Ayr, in Scotland. Both his parents are said to have been possessed of more than common abilities. The future poet was in his boyhood a grave and dull lad, but was well instructed by his teacher and by his father in the ordinary branches of an English education. At fifteen he performed the labor of a man on the farm, but contrived to find leisure for reading many books, especially some plays of Shakespeare, the works of Pope, and a collection of songs. pored over them, says he, "driving my cart or walking to labor, song by song, verse by verse, carefully noticing the true tender or sublime from affectation and fustian." After the death of his father he took a farm at Mossgiel, where he resided four years. This was the most fruitful period of his life, during which he wrote many of his most striking poems. These were printed at Kilmarnock, and copies finding their way to Edinburgh, their suc
cess was immediate and unbounded. The poet was invited to the capital, and was received with the heartiest enthusiasm. A new edition of his poems was published, by which he realized a handsome sum, and he returned home a famous man. Shortly after he was appointed an exciseman, with a salary of seventy pounds. It is very seldom that a public office does not work some mischief to the incumbent, and the case of Burns was no exception
the rule. His character and habits from this time were changed rapidly for the worse. Evil associates gathered around him, dragging him deeper into dissipation, until, while still in early manhood, his vital powers gave way, and he died at the age of thirty-seven.
Perhaps the best idea of the songs of Burns can be had from his own preface: "The poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha, at the plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures, of my native soil, in my native tongue. I tuned my wild, artless notes as she inspired." The finest phrases of the critic can add nothing to this. Every lover of poetry feels a thrill in reading Burns-the touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. His songs are as far from the learned verses made by antique rules, as his own Daisy, wet with the morning dew, is from its waxen counterfeit; they are Nature's blossoms, that can give no account of themselves, opening to the eye of heaven, and not to the eye of man; they are the miracles which are impossible till they happen. Genius in its absolute sense is always a superlative; the differences are in kind, but not in degree; and probably the world will wait as long for another Burns as for another Shake
The poems of Burns are published in a great variety of forms. Critical articles without number have appeared in the reviews; but the reader who wishes to obtain the most accurate idea of the man, and of his genius, should read the able, thorough, and appreciative essay by his great countryman, Carlyle.
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.1
My loved, my honored, much respected friend,
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been ;
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
1 A legal practitioner in Ayr, of considerable oratorical talents, who was among the first to befriend the poet.
This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
The expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher' through
His wee bit ingle3 blinkin' bonnily,
His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet,
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears,
Gars "auld claes 12 look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
Their master's and their mistress's command
An' mind their labors wi' an eydent1 hand,
6 Heedful. 11 Makes.
5 By and by.
"An' O, be sure to fear the Lord alway! An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang' astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!"
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Weel pleased the mother hears its nae wild, worthless rake.
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben3—
A strappin' youth; he taks the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.* The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave."
O, happy love!—where love like this is found!
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."
1 Go. Bashful.
Is there in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth,
2 Almost half.