too late; the pride of Nicoll was inflamed into a high degree of passion, by the neglect which he had already suffered. He had ordered the horses to be put to the carriage, being determined to proceed on his journey alone; and they found him parading the streets of Fochabers, before the door of the inn, venting his anger on the postillion, for the slowness with which he obeyed his commands. As no explanation nor entreaty could change the purpose of his fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced to the necessity of separating from him entirely, or of instantly proceeding with him on their journey. He chose the last of these alternatives, and seating himself beside Nicoll in the post-chaise, with mortification and regret, he turned his back on Gordon Castle where he had promised himself some happy days. Sensible however of the great kindness of the noble family, he made the best return in his power, by the following poem.*

I.

Streams that glide in orient plains,

Never bound by winter's chains;

Glowing

*This information is extracted from a letter of Dr.

Couper of Fochabers to the Editor.

Glowing here on golden sands,
There commix'd with foulest stains
From tyranny's empurpled bands :
These, their richly gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle Gordon.

II.

Spicy forests, ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,
Bent on slaughter, blood and spoil :
Woods that ever verdant wave,

I leave the tyrant and the slave,
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms, by Castle Gordon.

III.

Wildly here without controul,
Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober pensive mood,

Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood;

Life's poor day I'll musing rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,

Where waters flow and wild woods wave,

By bonnie Castle Gordon.*

Burns

* These verses our poet composed to be sung to Morag, a Highland air, of which he was extremely fond.

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the greater part of the winter 1787-8, and again entered into the society and dissipation of that metropolis. It appears that on the 31st day of December he attended a meeting to celebrate the birth-day of the lineal descendant of the Scottish race of Kings, the late unfortunate Prince Charles-Edward. Whatever might have been the wish or purpose of the original institutors of this annual meeting, there is no reason to suppose that the gentlemen of which it was at this time composed, were not perfectly loyal to the King on the throne. It is not to be conceived that they entertained any hope of, any wish for, the restoration of the house of Stewart; but over their sparkling wine, they indulged the generous feelings which the recollection of fallen greatness is calculated to inspire; and commemorated the heroic valour, which strove to sustain it in vainvalour worthy of a nobler cause and of a happier fortune. On this occasion our bard took upon himself the office of poet-laureate, and produced an ode, which, though deficient in the complicated rhythm and polished versification that such compositions require, might on a fair competition, where energy of feelings and of expression were alone in question, have won the butt of Malmsey from the real laureate of that day.

The

The following extracts may serve as a speci

men.

False flatterer, Hope, away !
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore:
We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,
To prove our loyal truth-we can no more;
And owning heaven's mysterious sway,
Submissive, low, adore.

II.

Ye honoured mighty dead!

Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,
Your king, your country, and her laws!

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led,

And fell a martyr in her arms,

(What breast of northern ice but warms?)

To bold Balmerino's undying name,

Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high flame, Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim.*

* In the first part of this ode there is some beautiful imagery which the poet afterwards interwove in a happier manner, in the Chevalier's Lament, (see vol. 11. p. 145.) But if there were no other reasons for omitting to print the entire poem, the want of originality would be sufficient. A considerable part of it is a kind of rant, for which indeed precedent may be cited in various other odes, but with which it is impossible to go along.

III.

Not unrevenged your fate shall be,

It only lags the fatal hour;
Your blood shall with incessant cry
Awake at last th' unsparing power.
As from the cliff, with thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes along,

With doubling speed and gathering force,
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in
the vale;

In relating the incidents of our poet's life in Edinburgh, we ought to have mentioned the sentiments of respect and sympathy with which he traced out the grave of his predecessor Fergusson, over whose ashes in the Canongate church-yard he obtained leave to erect an humble monument, which will be viewed by reflecting minds with no common interest, and which will awake in the bosom of kindred genius, many a high emotion.* Neither should we pass over the continued friendship he experienced from a poet then living, the amiable and accomplished Blacklock.—To his encouraging advice, it was owing, (as has already appeared) that Burns,instead of emigrating to the West

Indies,

*See vol. 11 p. 66-73: where the epitaph will be found.