I would not be understood as denying, in this argument, a previous, perhaps a natural tendency in the character of Burns, to undue and intemperate excitement: but the impression upon my own mind is strong, that this bias might have been checked and regulated, and turned to good account by the noble and learned patrons of his genius. Tried by the statutes of strict morality, a man like Burns has many things to plead in his own defence, which those of less mind and dimmer intellect cannot justly claim as their own: and it is in the unwillingness to make this distinction, that the world are, too often, unfair judges in cases of character. A distinguished writer thus elegantly remarks, upon a similar subject.

"The world is habitually unjust in its judgments: It is not the few inches of deflection from the mathematical orbit, which are so easily measured, but the ratio of these to the whole diameter, which constitutes the real aberration. With the world, this orbit may be a planet's, its diameter the breadth of the solar system: or it may be a city hippodrome, nay, the circle of a mill-course, its diameter a score of feet or paces—but the inches of deflection, only, are measured; and it is assumed that the diameter of the mill-course, and that of the planet, will yield the same ratio when compared with them. Here, then, lies the root of the blind, cruel condemnation of such men as Robert Burns, which one never listens to with approval. Granted—the ship comes into harbor with her shrouds and tackle damaged, and is the pilot therefore blame-worthy, because he has not been all-wise and all-powerful? For us to know how blame-worthy he is, tell us how long and how arduous his voyage has been."

But, after all, it is chiefly with Burns as a poet that we have to do—it is in this light that posterity will regard him, and it is into the hands of this tribunal that he must, finally, be resigned. I would that time had allowed me to refer more particularly to the works of this delightful bard, than I have been enabled to do on the present occasion. They began with his earliest, and were continued until his latest years. Scattered along his devious, and often gloomy path, they seem like beautiful wild flowers, which he threw there to cheer and animate the passer-by, with their undying bloom and sweet fragrance. "In the changes of language his songs may, no doubt, suffer change—but the associated strain of sentiment and of music will perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps down the Vale of Yarrow, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowdenknowes."

I have had occasion, in the course of this essay, to remark, that the songs of Burns are, by far, the most finished productions of his muse: and his admirers may safely rest his fame upon them alone, even if his longer and more elaborate poems should fail to secure him the immortality he deserves. The celebrated Fletcher somewhere says, "Give me the making of a people's songs, and let who will make their laws!" And Burns has, in the composition of his songs, placed himself on an equality with the legislators of the world! for where, in the cottage or the palace, are they unsung? Whose blood has not thrilled, and whose lip has not been compressed, as the noble air of "Scots! wha hae wi' Wallace bled!" has swelled upon his ear? Who cannot join in the touching and beautiful chorus of his "Auld lang syne?" Who has not laughed over his "Willie brewed a peck o' maut," nor felt the rising tear of sympathetic sadness whilst listening to his "Farewell to Ayr!" and his celebrated "Mary in Heaven?" In all these, and many more, which are familiar as very proverbs in our mouths, the poet has shown such a versatility, and yet such an entireness of talent—such tenderness and delicacy in his sorrow—yet withal, so pure and delightful a rapture in his mirth; he weeps with so true and feeling a heart, and laughs with such loud, and at the same time such unaffected mirth, that he finds sympathy wherever his harp is strung. The subjects he chose, and the free, natural style in which he treated them, have won him this praise—and it shall endure, the constant and lasting tribute of generation after generation.

But it has been beautifully said, (and who will not agree in the sentiment?) that "in the hearts of men of right feelings, there exists no consciousness of need to plead for Burns. In pitying admiration, he lies enshrined in all our hearts, in a far nobler mausoleum than one of marble: neither will his works, even as they are, pass away from the memory of men. While the Shakspeares and Miltons roll on like mighty rivers through the country of thought, bearing fleets of traffickers and assiduous pearl-fishers on their waves, this little Vauclusa Fountain will also arrest the eye: For this also is of nature's own and most cunning workmanship, and bursts from the depths of the earth with a full, gushing current, into the light of day. And often will the traveller turn aside to drink of its clear waters, and muse among its rocks and pines."

For Heaven, sweet bard! on thee bestowed
A boon, beyond all name:
And, bounteous, lighted up thy soul
With its own native flame.
Soft may thy gentle spirit rest,
Sweet poet of the plain!
Light lay the green turf on thy breast,
Till it's illum'd again!

CHANGE.

If by my childhood's humble home
I chance to wander now,
Or through the grove with brambles grown,
Where cedars used to bow,
In search of something that I loved—
Some little trifling thing
To mind me of my early days,
When life was in its spring,—
I find on every thing I see
A something new and strange;
Time's iron hand on them and me
Hath plainly written—Change.
My pulse beats slower than it did
When childhood's glow was on
My cheek, and colder, calmer now
Doth life's red current run.
The stars I gaz'd with rapture on,
When youthful hopes were high,
With sterner years have seem'd to change
Their places in the sky.
And moonlit nights are plenty now—
How few they used to be!
When, with my little urchin crew,
I shouted o'er the lea.
I've sought the places where we play'd
Our boyish "hide and call;"
Alas! the tyrant Change has made
A common stock of all—
And bartered for a place of graves
That lea and all its bloom:
O, how upon the walls I wept,
To think of Change and Doom!
The lovely lawn where roses grew,
Is strewn with gravestones o'er;
And half my little playmate crew
Have slept to wake no more
Till Change itself shall cease to be,
And one successive scene
Of stedfastness immutable
Remain where Change hath been.
It may sometimes make old men glad
To see the young at play;
But always doth my soul grow sad
When thoughts of their decay
Come rushing with the memories
Of what my own hopes were—
When Hudson's waters and my youth
Did mutual friendship share.