ing leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious endeavours to please him, can eye your elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such was the scene and such the hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's eye; those visionary bards excepted who hold commerce with aërial beings! Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. "What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. "The enclosed song was the work of my return home; and perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene. * * * * * * "I have the honour to be, Madam, Your most obedient, and very humble servant, "ROBERT BURNS." 'Twas even the dewy fields were green, All nature listening seemed the while, A maiden fair I chanced to spy; Fair is the morn in flowery May, And sweet is night in Autumn mild; O had she been a country maid, And nightly to my bosom strain The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. * Hang, Scotticism for hung. Variation. The lily's hue and roses dye Bespoke the lass o' Ballochmyle. Then pride might climb the slippery steep, To tend the flocks, or till the soil, With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. In the manuscript book in which our poet has recounted this incident, and into which the letter and poem are copied, he complains that the lady made no reply to his effusions, and this appears to have wounded his self-love. It is not, however, difficult to find an excuse for her silence. Burns was at that time little known; and where known at all, noted rather for the wild strength of his humour, than for those strains of tenderness in which he afterwards so much excelled. To the lady herself his name had perhaps never been mentioned, and of such a poem she might not consider herself as the proper judge. Her modesty might prevent her from perceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and that her beauty was awakening strains destined to immortality on the banks of the Ayr. It may be conceived, also, that supposing the verse duly appreciated, delicacy might find it difficult to express its acknowledgments. The fervent imagination of the rustic bard possessed more of tenderness than of respect. Instead of raising himself to the condition of the object of his admiration, he presumed to reduce her to his own, and to strain this high-born beauty to his daring bosom. It is true, Burns might have found precedents for such freedoms among the poets of Greece and Rome, and indeed of every country. And it is not to be denied, that lovely women have generally submitted to this sort of profanation with patience, and even with good humour. To what purpose is it to repine at a misfortune which is the necessary consequence of their own charms, or to remonstrate with a description of men who are incapable of control? "The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact.” It may be easily presumed, that the beautiful nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may have been, did not reject with scorn the adorations of our poet, though she received them with silent modesty and dignified reserve. The sensibility of our bard's temper, and the force of his imagination, exposed him in a particular manner to the impressions of beauty; and these qualities, united to his impassioned eloquence, gave him in turn a powerful influence over the female heart. The banks of the Ayr formed the scene of youthful passions of a still tenderer nature, the history of which it would be improper to reveal, were it even in our power; and the traces of which will soon be discoverable only in those strains of nature and sensibility to which they gave birth. The song in vol. iv. entitled Highland Mary, is known to relate to one of these attachments. "It was written," says our bard," on one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days." The object of this passion died early in life, and the impression left on the mind of Burns seems to have been deep and lasting Several years afterwards, when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his recollections in the following impassioned lines.-In the manuscript book from which we extract them, they are addressed To Mary, in Heaven! THOU lingering star, with less'ning 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.his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met 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'er hung with wild woods, thick'ning, green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, Till too, too soon, the glowing west My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast |