No More Learning

Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod;
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:
See from this cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail!

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains:
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign,
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure,
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

* * * * *




LXXIII.

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND

OF THE AUTHOR'S.

[John M'Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and brother to that
Isabella M'Leod, for whom Burns, in his correspondence, expressed
great regard. The little Poem, when first printed, consisted of six
verses: I found a seventh in M'Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this
edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the M'Leod family had
endured many unmerited misfortunes. I observe that Sir Harris Nicolas
has rejected this new verse, because, he says, it repeats the same
sentiment as the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have
retained it. ]


Sad thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms:
Death tears the brother of her love
From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabella's morn
The sun propitious smil'd;
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That nature finest strung:
So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And so that heart was wrung.

Were it in the poet's power,
Strong as he shares the grief
That pierces Isabella's heart,
To give that heart relief!

Dread Omnipotence, alone,
Can heal the wound He gave;
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast;
There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.

* * * * *




LXXIV.

TO MISS LOGAN,

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS FOR A NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

JAN. 1, 1787.

[Burns was fond of writing compliments in books, and giving them in
presents among his fair friends. Miss Logan, of Park house, was sister
to Major Logan, of Camlarg, and the "sentimental sister Susie," of the
Epistle to her brother. Both these names were early dropped out of the
poet's correspondence. ]


Again the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv'n,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heav'n.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail:
I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

* * * * *




LXXV.