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"Twas mine to prove the fellest pangs
That slighted love can feel:

'Tis thine to weep that one rash act,
Which bids this long farewell.'

This was the only amour in which our Bard was engaged, and his muse was ever after destined to sing of loves which he never felt, and of beauties which he never saw. Whether from a desire to avoid the eye and observation of her whom he was so long ac customed to please, or from a wish to see mankind in other parts of the world, he about this period, for the first time, quitted his parental roof," and went to Bolton. Not finding employment immediately, and the little stock which former industry had supplied being exhausted, he resolved to enter on board his Majesty's navy. Having packed up in a handkerchief the scanty remains of a scanty wardrobe, he, with a companion in distress, set out for the nighest seaport. Stopping at a country ale-house for refreshment, they fortunately met with a countryman of their own, a native of Paisley, and, like themselves, a weaver by profession. Being informed from whence they came, and where they were bound, he, with the partiality of a countryman, and the sympathy of a friend, accommodated them for the night, and in the morning provided them with employment, so suitable to their wishes, that they had both the pleasurable satisfaction of earning their supper before it was eat. After a residence of two years in England, ROBERT returned to Paisley in 1802, that he might attend the last days of a dying father, and pay the last tribute to his memory. Filial piety was ever a powerful emotion in ROBERT's mind, and at the death of his father he turned with anxious solicitude to the fate of his widowed mother. He considered attention to her as a debt of gratitude; and while his heart was bent to sorrowful reflection by the recent melancholy event, he, in the tenderness of his soul, wrote the following lines:

Why heaves my Mother oft the deep-drawn sigh,
Why starts the big tear glist'ning in her eye?
Why oft retire to hide her bursting grief?
Why seeks she not, nor seems to wish relief?
'Tis for my Father, mould'ring with the dead,
My Brother, in bold manhood, lowly laid,

And for the pains which age is doom'd to bear,

She heaves the deep-drawn sigh, and drops the secret tear.
Yes, partly these her gloomy thoughts employ,
But mostly this o'erclouds her every joy,
She grieves to think she may be burthensome,
Now feeble, old, and tott'ring to the tomb.

O hear me, Heaven! and record my vow,
Its non-performance let thy wrath pursue!
I swear-Of what thy providence may give,
My Mother shall her due maintenance have.
'Twas her's to guide me through life's early day,
To point out virtue's paths, and lead the way;
Now, while her pow'rs in frigid langour sleep,
'Tis mine to hand her down Life's rugged steep:
With all her little weaknesses to bear,
Attentive, kind, to sooth her every care.
'Tis nature bids, and truest pleasure flows
From lessening an aged Parent's woes.'

This vow" was kept with the sacredness of truth to the last hour of his life. It speaks the filial affections of his heart, and will long remain an honourable testimony of his worth.

"As many of the inimitable poems of the immortal BURNS were composed while his rustic hands guided the peaceful plough over the rugged land, honoured with his birth, so were our Bard's at the equally irksome, but less inviting, labours of the loom. Curiosity may be apt to inquire how a man in his dependent circumstances found leisure for his studies, without a deprivation of other and more necessary duties. Besides his attachment to the poetic muse, he had a slight acquaintance with music, the sister art, and could with tolerable ease step over any common air on a wind instrument. He delighted to discover any valuable, old, or neglected airs. Whenever any melody fastened on his imagination, he became immediately ambitious to unite it to appropri ate words, and, by humming it over at his loom, his fancy soon supplied his wishes, without any considerable relaxation of his labour. His writing desk, which was simply a deal board, stood always at his elbow, and held his pen, ink, paper, a music book, and a German flute. When his thoughts had gained a regular poetic form, they were committed to writing, and his labour im

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mediately resumed, so that the mere act of writing was all the injury which his fortune sustained by his poetic studies. this manner, and under these circumstances, were written most of those beautiful songs, which have spread the Poet's fame through every corner of the land that gave him birth, and will be sung and listened to with approbation, while a taste for the simple effusions of untutored nature remains. ROBERT's popularity was now fixed on a base too broad to be easily shaken. His songs were sung in every company, and his fame, by some means, had reached the metropolis of the British empire. A Poetical Maga zine on a very splendid style was published in London about the year 1805. He had the honour to be solicited as a correspondent, and furnished them with a number of pieces. It was evident that ROBERT, from this period, entertained a much higher opinion of his poetical talents than he had hitherto done, and yielded too implicitly to the opinions of those who urged him to collect his works into a volume. The reception it met with, was, however, extremely flattering to the author, the whole impression being bought up in a few weeks; and although it contained an indiscriminate collection of his whole works, it was received by the public with the most flattering applause. His songs were so particularly admired, that it was difficult for the author to enter a room without hearing them sung from some contiguous apartment. This was a satisfaction to his soul which he could not conceal, as it always immediately abstracted his mind from the conversation of his friends. This was the happiest period of ROBERT's life. He had gained the pinnacle of his wishes-the labour of many years were before the public-the number of his friends were increased, and he had as yet listened only to the gentle censures of friendship, or the more welcome voice of applause. But the day that opens in sunshine often closes in clouds and storms. The most general approbation is always clouded by some discordant voice, and malignity and envy had yet to discharge their shafts Nature had not sufficiently armed his soul against the attacks of either. Being often in company, they were ever ready to note and narrate any little weaknesses he possessed, nor was he always exempt from the immediate attacks of ignorance and presumption. These he resented with all the zeal of one conscious

of his own abilities, and jealous of his reputation and fame. But the sincere compliments of a thousand friends could not fortify his mind against a single foe. Every insult he received from ignorance and envy was treasured in his memory, and sat brooding like a canker-worm at his heart. His temper became jealous, short, and irritable, and a melancholy gloom often pervaded his mind. The compliments of his friends were sometimes taken for the concealed arrows of ridicule, and happiness had fled for ever from his soul. His fame was still the favourite idol of his heart, and he contemplated a new volume that would put malevolence to the blush, and envy to defiance. The concurring opinion of the public convinced him of what he was before unwilling to believe, that the strength of his genius lay in the writing of Scottish songs. Every effort of his fancy was now exclusively devoted to the lyric muse. Nearly a hundred songs of exquisite beauty were composed, many of which, but for an unhappy deprivation of reason, which tempted him to destroy them, would have given him immortal fame. He corresponded with, and was honoured by visits from some eminent literary and musical characters. Their complimentary epistles elevated his hopes, and in some measure dispelled the gloom of his heart. The day of exultation and triumph, he hoped, was fast approaching; the day that was to elevate his fame, and put his enemies to shame. His works were corrected, arranged, and offered to a Bookseller for publication. A few weeks passed over, and they were returned without being opened, or any offer for them made. This was the severest blow his hopes ever sustained. His fortitude was, unequal to the shock. Other real or imaginary insults succeeded, and he again sunk into the most gloomy despondency. He considered the world as combined in battle array against him; that friends were false, and that his fame was lost. The bloom of his cheek began to fade; his eyes became hollow, serious, and contracted; his voice was at times mournful, tremulous, and low, and his whole frame seemed sinking into decay. The agitation of his mind was evident by its abstraction from the conversation of his friends. He delighted to talk long on particular subjects. Reason began to lose its influence over his mind, but his dear fame was still the favourite idol of his heart. A few days before

his death he called on a friend, and expressed his desire to tra vel through the country, that he might know what the world thought of him. He wished to become a member of some of the masonic lodges, and collected a number of his friends together for that purpose. During the performance of that ceremony, which is not wonderfully calculated to inspire serious emotions, the big tears rolled in rapid succession down his mournful cheeks. The act of initiation over, he was seated by the grand master's side. The derangement of his mind then became more apparent. A song was called for, and the singer, in compliment to him, sung The Burnside. ROBERT rose, and with an aspect serious and sad as the dying culprit, when he holds his imploring hands to heaven, told, that when this song was written, he knew nothing of masonry. His imagination pictured it as having a relation to that order. The company gazed; his friends blushed; but the unhappy Bard was insensible to either. On the morning of May 16th, 1810, he visited a friend in Glasgow. His eyes were then wild and disordered; his pulse beat with violent agitation, and an alarming perspiration bathed his brow. His complaints of the treachery of his friends, the decay of his fame, and the insupportable misery of life were incessant. His friend endeavoured to sooth him, but in vain; and some indications of a desire to leave a world that he hated, made it necesssary to convey him home. He was then more tranquil; and, after appointing a time for seeing his friend on the morning, went to bed, and appeared to sink into a calm sleep. About three o'clock his mother was alarmed by the barking of a favourite dog. She rose to quiet the animal, and found that ROBERT had left the house. His friends were alarmed, and after a little search, he was found dead in a tunnel of the burn that had been the scene of one of his earliest songs."

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