No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
No nerves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur; -
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears the unbroken blast from every side;
Vampire booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame; Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes!1 He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,
By blockheads' daring into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must

wear;

Foiled, bleeding, tortured, in the unequal strife,
The hapless Poet flounders on through life;
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired,
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired,
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
Dead, even resentment, for his injured page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's
rage!

1 Alluding to the eminent anatomist, Professor Alexander Monro, of the Edinburgh University.

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceased,
For half-starved snarling curs a dainty feast,
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
O Dulness! portion of the truly blest! •
Calm sheltered haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremeз
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease they sip it up:

Conscious the bounteous meed they well de

serve,

They only wonder "some folks" do not starve.
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.
When Disappointment snaps the clue of Hope,
And through disastrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that "fools are fortune's care."
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.
Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train,

Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;

In equanimity they never dwell,

By turns in soaring heaven or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe,
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear!
Already one strong hold of hope is lost-

Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust;
Fled, like the sun eclipsed as noon appears,
And left us darkling in a world of tears!
O hear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer!-
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare!
Through a long life his hopes and wishes crown,
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!
May bliss domestic smooth his private path,
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath,
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE,

WITH BAYS.

Written at the suggestion of the Earl of Buchan, for the inauguration of a temple built to Thomson on Ednam Hill.

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,

Unfolds her tender mantle green,

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between:

While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade:
While Autumn, benefactor kind,

By Tweed erects his agèd head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed:

While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet Poet of the year!

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.1

1 Burns, in looking into Collins for his verses to the mem ory of Thomson, had probably glanced at the same poet's exquisite Ode to Evening, for the three concluding verses are manifestly imitated in this Address:

"While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve,

While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light:

"While sallow Autumn fills thy cup with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes:

"So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favorite name!"

LOVELY DAVIES.

TUNE- Miss Muir.

Burns had become acquainted, probably at Friars' Carse, with a beautiful young Englishwoman, a relation of the Riddels, and also connected by the mar riage of a sister with the noble family of Kenmure in the neighboring stewartry. Deborah Davies — for this was her name- was of small stature, but exquisitely handsome, and she possessed more than an average share of mental graces. With his usual sensibility to female beauty, but especially that of a refined and educated woman, Burns became an idolater of Miss Davies, and the feelings which possessed him soon led to an effusion of both prose and verse. She was the subject of the two following songs.

O HOW shall I, unskilfu', try

The poet's occupation,

1"One day, while Burns was at Moffat"- thus writes Allan Cunningham-" the charming, lovely Davies rode past, accompanied by a lady tall and portly: on a friend asking the poet, why God made one lady so large, and Miss Davies so little, he replied in the words of the epigram:

"Ask why God made the gem so small,

And why so huge the granite?

Because God meant mankind should set
The higher value on it."