very name which it was idly attempted to strip him of, and that the acts of a legislature prevented from being placed on his tomb-stone, survives, and is restored to his memory; and the magic power of transcendant genius has married the illegal sound to song and high romance, and made it the favourite of the fair, and music to the ears of fashion; and his grave, far away among the hills though it be, a place to travel to a spot to sit upon-and a theme for musings such as mine!-What a lesson to rulerswhat a proud though long-deferred triumph of justice and immortal right!

C.

LINES,

Written on a Blank Leaf of Keats' Poems.
'Tis ours agen; that old and beauteous power,
Which Poesy possessed when Earth was young!
A spirit hath appeared that speaks a tongue
Strange, wild, and forceful; on us like a shower
O' the sunny time of spring-a golden dower
That comes to crown with wealth an early love-
The bubbling tingle of a fount half hid
Between o'erarching oaks, (a sturdy grove,)
The ethereal spirit throned on beauty's lid-

Or the rich deep blush o' the summer ripened grape-
Or one, or all, for it hath varied shape;

The natural and doric sweetness stealeth,
Which these boy-lays in every line revealeth;
He with the lavish bounty of that one

(Then was the time when deeds of love were done)
Who shared the fruitage of immortal birth,
(The offspring of a god,) with one of earth,
Doth now endow the present age with fame,

And to posterity consigns the glory of his name!

THE JOURNEYMAN RHYMER.

"I'd rather be a kitten and cry mew,

Than one of these same metre ballad-makers:

I'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turn'd,

Or a dry wheel grate on an axle tree,

And that could set my teeth nothing on edge,

Nothing so much as mincing poetry:

'Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag."-Shakspeare.

POETRY is a magnificent and exalted art: It is a nobler result of the intellectual power of man, than the profoundest

science, or most subtle and erudite research. The votary of physical study may benefit the world by his discoveries and improvements-may add to the wealth and comfort of society at large, and diminish the pain and toil of necessary labour, as Watt and Arkwright have done—may enlarge the boundaries of our knowledge of matter to an extent almost surpassing belief, as has been the case with Newton and Herschel, or may give to philanthropy a noble boon from scientific induction and experiment, of which the safety lamp of Davy may be called a luminous instance; and the student of the human mind may elaborate his metaphysical cogitations by the light of the sickly midnight taper, and promulgate his system of thought with the most disinterested desire of benefiting mankind-but it is the proud and peculiar privilege of the poet to delight! Instruction he frequently aims at, but to excite refined and pleasurable sensations is particularly his object-failing in which, he fails completely. I do not here use the word pleasure as expressive of that soothing and tranquilising satisfaction which men of a certain temperament exclusively denominate by that appellation, as it appears to me to be frequently allied to terror itself, and as closely connected with the grand, terrific, and powerful, as with the quiet and peaceful in imagination or reality.

A great poet, whilst he summons the images of these perceptions, is then one of the most intellectual and sensitive of beings, although in him feelings constantly predominate over things. His life is like a succession of days passed on the summit of an alpine height. He commands from his elevation at once a telescopic and a microscopic view of nature. His range of vision is more comprehensive and extended, when he looks down on the characteristics of passion and the frame of society, than the minds of those who tread their measured thoughts through the beaten paths of custom and authority; while his upward gaze scans sights, and his soul holds communion with beings and creation, the existence of which the less elevated dwellers of the world would feel a difficulty in believing. In the elevation of his soul he has storms and tempests, while all is serenity and peace in the valley of common life beneath him; but often too when the plain is deluged, and the pealing thunder rolls round the base of the mountain, he breathes a pure atmosphere and resides in safety on its summit.

It will easily be guessed that I do not thus speak of the swarm of versifiers, whom the crowd call poets. They

have more modesty, at least those who have any merit, than to name themselves as such, and are seldom found to assume a title to that wit, of which they are commonly, however, the most discriminative and humble, yet fervent admirers. There are, in the present day, writers, who, for their amusement, or to soothe their feelings and embody their silent imaginings, have produced verses of great power and exquisite pathos, while they have never, for a moment, fancied themselves afloat on the stream of immortality, nor have ever refrained from mixing with society and engaging in the business of life, with the same warmth and alacrity as if they had not been visited with passing inspiration.

But, since the well-merited success of Burns and Bloomfield, Cunningham and Hogg, and even Clare, another class of versifiers has appeared, as destitute of modesty as they are of discernment, limited in their education, and idle in their inclination, who have imagined that the thrilling glow with which they conned the lines of those writers, who-from addressing nature and the unsophisticated and universal feelings of humanity, are even more intelligible to the rude than to the polished, to the illiterate than to the learned, the peasant than the peer-was a spark of the flame which had called forth the lays, over which they hung with delight; and they thus mistook the fervour of the moment's pleasure, for the bodily inspiration of their country's doric Muse.

Burns wrote the language of his native country, and they suppose that the fluency of his style arose from its facility; and for his pure and homely vigour, substitute vulgarity and cant; and for his wit, scepticism and obscenity. The provincial press has groaned with their effusions, and the cottage of the peasant has been invaded by their visits, in the disposal of their absurdities, while their deserted shuttle, and forgotten benches and work tables, were consigned to cob-webs and neglect!

In a short excursion to the country a few weeks ago, I met with an individual who was a perfect representative of the tribe of poetasters I have noticed. When I first observed him, he was seated on a broken fragment of the whin dyke which surrounded the enclosure that served for the united purposes of a play-ground to the children of the parish-school, situated hard by, a bleaching-green to their mothers, and an appropriate arena for the quoit and putting-stone contests of their fathers and elder playmates. The youngsters were gathered round him in

groups, and while some listened to the praises of a commodity which he held in his hand, wrapped up in the folds of a dirty blue handkerchief, besmeared with snuff, others amused themselves with forming balls of moist clay, and from the other side of the wall discharging them at the luckless head of " Rhyming Davy;" for such, on inquiring the cause of the assemblage, was the name by which I learned he was known to the children. On observing me, he unclosed the dirty tin snuff-box he had previously flourished in his hand, and often very leisurely and consequentially filling his nose with a portion of its contents, and replacing it in his ragged waistcoat, he rose, and, on touching his hat, began to remove the pins by which the blue napkin before-mentioned was fastened. Its contents were books, or rather copies of a pamphlet, of which he immediately presented me with one, and opening its title-page, inquired at me gif I would like to buy a new poem about the dull trade and Sir William Wallace ?" I glanced at the work, paid the trifle that was demanded for it, and then perused the title page, which ran as follows:

THE

WEAVER'S LAMENT ON THE DULL TIMES;

OR,

Muslin Kail an' Cauld Pottatoes;

IN

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

TO WHICH IS ADDED,

SIR WILLIAM WALLACE OF ELLERSLIE,

AN ODE,

Dedicated to Dr. Cowthykaul.

BY DAVID TAYLOR,

F. P. P.

which initial letters, I afterwards learned, stood for his former trade and his present one— -that is-Fisherman and Puir Poet.

The appearance of this wandering bard was miserable in the extreme. His hat, on one side, was totally destitute of rim, an old blue coat, served scantily, by the longitude of its tails, to hide the half-patched rents in the covering of his limbs; and although the day was cold, and the

ground wet, his toes peered through his shoes, which were in lamentable plight.

"Do you find this poetical trade a profitable one, friend?" said I.

66

"Weel I wat I canna say that I do," replied Davy, again refreshing himself with a dose of snuff, yet," " he added, with an air of infinite self-importance," there's nae resisting the biddings o' the Muses;-but have ye seen the extract frae my new Tragedy? 'Od I've a notion ye'll be for a copy." Here he unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, and pulled out from his dark and shagged bosom some fragments of papers, tied by a piece of tape, into the corner of a shred of paper, the colour of which it was difficult to distinguish. I observed that it contained several undisposed-of copies of his "Lament." He then produced, from an adjoining depository in the lining of his coat, a small green glass phial of ink, and taking off his chapeau, produced from the folds of the band, by which it was surrounded, a miserable stump of a pen"Here mun, put doun your name, you'll fin' Dr. Daseandaidle doun there for twa, an' the Minister for ane, and Mr. Barebottom, the dominie, for anither, an' Mrs. Claverclack, the landlady o' the yill house doun by-heth, so she may-mony a braw penny I ha'e birled in her house for aquavitae. There's twa huner and twenty-ane doun, but Tamie Duncan, the printer i' the Sautmarket, says I maun ha'e three huner afore he begin. The price o't's to be aughteenpence, paid aforehan', in short."

"What is the subject of the piece ?" said I, as I handed him the money. "Wallace to be sure!" he rejoined, as if it were a matter of astonishment that I should suppose he would choose any other theme for an historical play. "Here's an extract from the first act-the scene 's in the toun o' Lunnon, and the Dramatis Personas are a beef-eater an' the hangman-an' ye' maun ken, that if I could get aneugh o' ink an' writing paper, I'm gaun to do for auld Scotland what Shakspeare did for English history-write ten or twal tragedies about her kings and great heroes. I ha'e yin already planned to be ca'd Fergus the First, an' they'll be a' finished next No'urday."

Here I observed a friend passing, and as I had some business with him, I took a hasty leave of Rhyming Davy. Having joined Mr. Dousechaffs, a worthy elder of the parish, after settling our business, I inquired, with surprise, what could induce a man like him, a member of the session, and an example to all beneath him, to encourage such an idle