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.
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.
Robert Burns
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? Such was the scene,--and such the hour, when, in a
corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's
workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape or met a poet's eye,
those visionary bards excepted, who hold commerce with aerial beings!
Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn
eternal peace with such an object.
What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised plain
dull historic prose into metaphor measure.
The enclosed song was the work of my return home: and perhaps it but
poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene.
I have the honour to be,
Madam,
Your most obedient and very
humble Servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXXI.
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? Such was the scene,--and such the hour, when, in a
corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's
workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape or met a poet's eye,
those visionary bards excepted, who hold commerce with aerial beings!
Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn
eternal peace with such an object.
What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised plain
dull historic prose into metaphor measure.
The enclosed song was the work of my return home: and perhaps it but
poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene.
I have the honour to be,
Madam,
Your most obedient and very
humble Servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXXI.
