Picturesque and faithful to nature as these descriptions of Spring most assuredly are, rich in imagery, and glowing with poetic inspiration, yet has BURNS, by blending equal powers of delineation with emotions of the tenderest pathos, rendered his portraits of the same season, by this very charm of contrast, still more endearing and impressive. Frequent, indeed, as are his sketches of vernal scenery, there is scarcely one but what is thus commingled with the sweetest feelings of love and pity; and it is this happy and almost constant intermixture of minute description with sentiment and passion which has given to the poetry of Burns such a wide and ever-during dominion over the human heart. I shall now select from our Scottish bard a few specimens of this delightful union of imagery and pathos whilst painting the Mornings of Spring.

Now Spring has clad the grove in green,

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers;

The furrow'd waving corn is seen

Rejoice in fostering showers:
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe!

And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art:

My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;

But love, wi" unrelenting beam,

Has soorch'd my fountains dry.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings

In morning's rosy eye;
As little reckt I sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare

O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.-

The wretch whose doom is, "hope nae mair,"

What tongue his woes can tell :
Within whase bosom, save despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.

The features attendant on this the most beautiful season of the year are yet further marked and extended in the following lines, which, like those that I have just quoted, make a powerful appeal to our sympathy.

Again rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry plough-boy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shrill,
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

I conclude these instances with a quotation from the "Lament of Mary Queen of Scots on the Approach of Spring," a poem equally estimable for the loveliness of its descriptive touches, and for the pensive strain and maternal tenderness which so sweetly characterise its stanzas.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the chrystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;

But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring ;
The mavis mild, wi' mony a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae:

The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May rove their sweets amang;

But I, the queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.—

My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,

That ne'er wad blink on mine!

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee;

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!

O soon, to me, may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And in the narrow house o' death

Let winter round me rave;

And the next flow'rs that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave.

Burns, of whom I entertain a vivid and cherished recollection, from having met him more than once whilst resident in Edinburgh, during the years 1786-7-8 and 9, is one of those few poets who, from the strength and originality with which they have painted the emotions of their own breasts, have built for themselves an ever-during mansion in the human heart. Though alloyed, indeed, with many errors and frailties which cannot be too much regretted, there glowed in the bosom of the Scottish bard a spirit of the most generous and ardent philanthropy, nor was ever man of genius, I believe, more thoroughly beloved by his relatives and friends.