[This letter, Robert Chambers says,
concluded
with requesting Miss
Alexander to allow the poet to print the song which it enclosed, in a
second edition of his Poems.
Alexander to allow the poet to print the song which it enclosed, in a
second edition of his Poems.
Robert Burns
_
MY DEAR SIR,
I this moment receive yours--receive it with the honest hospitable
warmth of a friend's welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens always up
the better blood about my heart, which your kind little recollections
of my parental friends carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there that
man is blest! 'Tis there, my friend, man feels a consciousness of
something within him above the trodden clod! The grateful reverence to
the hoary (earthly) author of his being--the burning glow when he
clasps the woman of his soul to his bosom--the tender yearnings of
heart for the little angels to whom he has given existence--these
nature has poured in milky streams about the human heart; and the man
who never rouses them to action, by the inspiring influences of their
proper objects, loses by far the most pleasurable part of his
existence.
My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till after
harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not
comply with your friendly invitation. When it will be I don't know,
but if I can make my wish good, I will endeavour to drop you a line
some time before. My best compliments to Mrs. ----; I should [be]
equally mortified should I drop in when she is abroad, but of that I
suppose there is little chance.
What I have wrote heaven knows; I have not time to review it; so
accept of it in the beaten way of friendship. With the ordinary
phrase--perhaps rather more than the ordinary sincerity,
I am, dear Sir,
Ever yours,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXX.
TO MISS ALEXANDER.
[This letter, Robert Chambers says, concluded with requesting Miss
Alexander to allow the poet to print the song which it enclosed, in a
second edition of his Poems. Her neglect in not replying to this
request is a very good poetic reason for his wrath. Many of Burns's
letters have been printed, it is right to say, from the rough drafts
found among the poet's papers at his death. This is one. ]
_Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. _
MADAM,
Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fancy and
capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a
larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of
judgment and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties
that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem,
which he begs leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit
any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge; but it is the
best my abilities can produce; and what to a good heart will, perhaps,
be a superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent.
The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say, Madam,
you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in
the favourite haunts of my muse on the banks of the Ayr, to view
nature in all the gayety of the vernal year. The evening sun was
flaming over the distant western hills; not a breath stirred the
crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading 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 endeavour 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?
MY DEAR SIR,
I this moment receive yours--receive it with the honest hospitable
warmth of a friend's welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens always up
the better blood about my heart, which your kind little recollections
of my parental friends carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there that
man is blest! 'Tis there, my friend, man feels a consciousness of
something within him above the trodden clod! The grateful reverence to
the hoary (earthly) author of his being--the burning glow when he
clasps the woman of his soul to his bosom--the tender yearnings of
heart for the little angels to whom he has given existence--these
nature has poured in milky streams about the human heart; and the man
who never rouses them to action, by the inspiring influences of their
proper objects, loses by far the most pleasurable part of his
existence.
My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till after
harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not
comply with your friendly invitation. When it will be I don't know,
but if I can make my wish good, I will endeavour to drop you a line
some time before. My best compliments to Mrs. ----; I should [be]
equally mortified should I drop in when she is abroad, but of that I
suppose there is little chance.
What I have wrote heaven knows; I have not time to review it; so
accept of it in the beaten way of friendship. With the ordinary
phrase--perhaps rather more than the ordinary sincerity,
I am, dear Sir,
Ever yours,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXX.
TO MISS ALEXANDER.
[This letter, Robert Chambers says, concluded with requesting Miss
Alexander to allow the poet to print the song which it enclosed, in a
second edition of his Poems. Her neglect in not replying to this
request is a very good poetic reason for his wrath. Many of Burns's
letters have been printed, it is right to say, from the rough drafts
found among the poet's papers at his death. This is one. ]
_Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. _
MADAM,
Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fancy and
capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a
larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of
judgment and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties
that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem,
which he begs leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit
any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge; but it is the
best my abilities can produce; and what to a good heart will, perhaps,
be a superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent.
The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say, Madam,
you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in
the favourite haunts of my muse on the banks of the Ayr, to view
nature in all the gayety of the vernal year. The evening sun was
flaming over the distant western hills; not a breath stirred the
crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading 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 endeavour 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?
