Picturesque and faithful to nature as these descriptions 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. Frequent, 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: And safe beneath the shady thorn My life was ance that careless stream, But love, wi" unrelenting beam, Has soorch'd my fountains dry. The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs In morning's rosy eye; O' witching love, in luckless hour, The wretch whose doom is, "hope nae mair," What tongue his woes can tell : The features attendant on this the most beautiful 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, In vain to me the cowslips blaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry plough-boy cheers his team, A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims, The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, I meet him on the dewy hill. And when the lark, tween light and dark, I conclude these instances with a quotation from the "Lament of Mary Queen of Scots on the Approach of Spring," a poem equally estimable for the loveliness of its descriptive touches, and for the pensive strain and maternal tenderness which so sweetly characterise its stanzas. Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Now Phoebus cheers the chrystal streams, But nought can glad the weary wight Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Now blooms the lily by the bank, The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But I, the queen of a' Scotland, My son! my son! may kinder stars And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, O soon, to me, may summer suns Let winter round me rave; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring 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 human heart. Though alloyed, indeed, with many errors and frailties which cannot be too much regretted, there glowed in the bosom of the Scottish bard a spirit of the most generous and ardent philanthropy, nor was ever man of genius, I believe, more thoroughly beloved by his relatives and friends. |