To Mr. Elphinston. O thou whom poesy abhors! Whom poesy has turned out of doors! Heard'st thou yon groan? Proceed no further! I am determined to see you, if at all possible, on Saturday evening. Next week I must sing:— "The night is my departing night, The morn's the day I must awa': I hope ye 're a' my friends as yet. Gude night, and joy be wi' you a'!" If I could see you sooner, I would be so much the happier; but I would not purchase the dearest gratification on earth, if it must be at your expense in worldly censure; far less, inward peace! I shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling whole sheets of incoherence. The only unity (a sad word with poets and critics !) in my ideas is Clarinda. There my heart" reigns and revels.” "What art thou, Love? whence are those charms, That thus thou bear'st an universal rule? For thee the soldier quits his arms, The king turns slave, the wise man fool. In vain we chase thee from the field, And all those high resolves are broke!" I like to have quotations ready for every occasion. They give one's ideas so pat, and save the trouble of finding expressions adequate to one's feelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, &c., an embodied form in verse, which, to me, is ever immediate Goldsmith finely says of his muse: ease. "Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe: Who found me poor at first, and keep'st me so." My limb has been so well to-day that I have gone up and down stairs often without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on my own legs to dinner. It is only next street. Adieu ! SYLVANDER. The Same to the Same. MONDAY, 21st January, 1788. I AM a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. Clarinda, if ever you forget Sylvander may you be happy, but he will be miserable. Oh, what a fool I am in love! what an extraordinary prodigal of affection! Why are your sex called the tender sex, when I have never met with one who can repay me in passion? They are either not so rich in love as I am, or they are niggards where I am lavish. O Thou whose I am, and whose are all my ways! Thou seest me here, the hapless wreck of tides and tempests in my own bosom: do Thou direct to Thyself that ardent love for which I have so often sought a return, in vain, from my fellowcreatures! If Thy goodness has yet such a gift in store for me, as an equal return of affection from her who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than life, do Thou bless and hallow our bond of love and friendship; watch over us in all our outgoings and incomings, for good; and may the tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as the thread of man's immortal life! the I am just going to take your Blackbird, sweetest, I am sure, that ever sung, and prune its wings a little. The Same to the Same. SYLVANDER. GLASGOW, February 18, 1788, THE attraction of Love, I find, is in an inverse proportion to the attraction of the Newtonian phi losophy. In the system of Sir Isaac, the nearer objects are to one another the stronger is the attractive force: in my system, every milestone that marked my progress from Clarinda awakened a keener pang of attachment to her. How do you feel, my love? is your heart ill at ease? I fear it. God forbid that these persecutors should harass that peace which is more precious to me than my own! Be assured I shall ever think of you, muse on you, and, in my hours of devotion, pray for you. The hour that you are not in all my thoughts "be that hour darkness! let the shadows of death cover it! let it not be numbered in the hours of day!" "When I forget my darling theme, Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no more! I have just met with my old friend, the shipcaptain-guess my pleasure! To meet you could alone have given me more. My brother William, too, the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet me; and here are we three spending the evening. I arrived here too late to write by post; but I'll wrap half a dozen sheets of blank paper together, and send it by the Fly, under the name of a parcel. You shall hear from me next post town. I would write you a longer letter, but for the present circumstances of my friend. Adieu, my Clarinda ! I am just going to pro SYLVANDER. pose your health by way of grace-drink. Burns's Last Letter to Clarinda. FRIDAY, 9 o'clock, Night, 21st March, 1788. I AM just now come in, and have read your letter. The first thing I did was to thank the Divine Disposer of events that he has had such happiness in store for me as the connection I have had with you. Life, my Clarinda, is a weary, bar ren path; and woe be to him or her that ventures on it alone! For me, I have my dearest partner of my soul: Clarinda and I will make out our pilgrimage together. Wherever I am, I shall constantly let her know how I go on, what I observe in the world around me, and what adventures I meet with. Will it please you, my love, to get, every week, or at least every fortnight, a packet, two or three sheets, full of remarks, nonsense, news, rhymes, and old songs? Will you open, with satisfaction and delight, a letter from a man who loves you, who has loved |