No More Learning

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy.

We part--but, by these precious drops
That fill thy lovely eyes!
No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?

* * * * *




LXXIX.

VERSES

WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT
AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY.

[Who the young lady was to whom the poet presented the portrait and
Poems of the ill-fated Fergusson, we have not been told. The verses
are dated Edinburgh, March 19th, 1787. ]


Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!
O thou my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

* * * * *




LXXX.

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT,

MONDAY, 16 April, 1787.

[The Woods for whom this Prologue was written, was in those days a
popular actor in Edinburgh.
He had other claims on Burns: he had been
the friend as well as comrade of poor Fergusson, and possessed some
poetical talent. He died in Edinburgh, December 14th, 1802. ]


When by a generous Public's kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is granted--honest fame;
When _here_ your favour is the actor's lot,
Nor even the _man_ in _private life_ forgot;
What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow,
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?

Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng,
It needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song;
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar,
For genius, learning high, as great in war--
Hail, CALEDONIA, name for ever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear!
Where every science--every nobler art--
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,
Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam;
Here History paints, with elegance and force,
The tide of Empires' fluctuating course;
Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan,
And Harley[68] rouses all the god in man.
When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite,
With manly lore, or female beauty bright,
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace,
Can only charm as in the second place,)
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,
As on this night, I've met these judges here!
But still the hope Experience taught to live,
Equal to judge--you're candid to forgive.
Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet,
With decency and law beneath his feet:
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name;
Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame.

O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving hand
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land!
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire:
May every son be worthy of his sire;
Firm may she rise with generous disdain
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain;
Still self-dependent in her native shore,
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar,
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 68: The Man of Feeling, by Mackenzie. ]

* * * * *




LXXXI.

SKETCH.