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pow’r:

      I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame,

      Thy natal hour.

      “With future hope, I oft would gaze,

      Fond, on thy little early ways,

      Thy rudely carroll’d, chiming phrase,

      In uncouth rhymes,

      Fir’d at the simple, artless lays

      Of other times.

      “I saw thee seek the sounding shore,

      Delighted with the dashing roar;

      Or when the north his fleecy store

      Drove through the sky,

      I saw grim Nature’s visage hoar

      Struck thy young eye.

      “Or when the deep green-mantled earth

      Warm cherish’d ev’ry flow’ret’s birth,

      And joy and music pouring forth

      In ev’ry grove,

      I saw thee eye the general mirth

      With boundless love.

      “When ripen’d fields, and azure skies,

      Called forth the reaper’s rustling noise,

      I saw thee leave their evening joys,

      And lonely stalk,

      To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise

      In pensive walk.

      “When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,

      Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along,

      Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,

      Th’ adored Name

      I taught thee how to pour in song,

      To soothe thy flame.

      “I saw thy pulse’s maddening play,

      Wild send thee pleasure’s devious way,

      Misled by Fancy’s meteor-ray,

      By passion driven;

      But yet the light that led astray

      Was light from Heaven.

      “I taught thy manners-painting strains,

      The loves, the ways of simple swains,

      Till now, o’er all my wide domains

      Thy fame extends;

      And some, the pride of Coila’s plains,

      Become thy friends.

      “Thou canst not learn, nor can I show,

      To paint with Thomson’s landscape glow;

      Or wake the bosom-melting throe,

      With Shenstone’s art;

      Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow,

      Warm on the heart.

      “Yet, all beneath the unrivall’d rose,

      The lowly daisy sweetly blows;

      Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throws

      His army shade,

      Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,

      Adown the glade.

      “Then never murmur nor repine;

      Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;

      And, trust me, not Potosi’s mine,

      Nor king’s regard,

      Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine,

      A rustic bard.

      “To give my counsels all in one,

      Thy tuneful flame still careful fan;

      Preserve the dignity of man,

      With soul erect;

      And trust, the universal plan

      Will all protect.

      “And wear thou this,”—she solemn said,

      And bound the holly round my head:

      The polish’d leaves and berries red

      Did rustling play;

      And like a passing thought, she fled

      In light away.

      XXV. HALLOWEEN[28]

      “Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,

      The simple pleasures of the lowly train;

      To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

      One native charm, than all the gloss of art.”

Goldsmith.

      [This Poem contains a lively and striking picture of some of the superstitious observances of old Scotland: on Halloween the desire to look into futurity was once all but universal in the north; and the charms and spells which Burns describes, form but a portion of those employed to enable the peasantry to have a peep up the dark vista of the future. The scene is laid on the romantic shores of Ayr, at a farmer’s fireside, and the actors in the rustic drama are the whole household, including supernumerary reapers and bandsmen about to be discharged from the engagements of harvest. “I never can help regarding this,” says James Hogg, “as rather a trivial poem!”]

      Upon that night, when fairies light

      On Cassilis Downans[29] dance,

      Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,

      On sprightly coursers prance;

      Or for Colean the rout is ta’en,

      Beneath the moon’s pale beams;

      There, up the Cove,[30] to stray an’ rove

      Amang the rocks an’ streams

      To sport that night.

      Amang the bonnie winding banks

      Where Doon rins, wimplin’, clear,

      Where Bruce[31] ance rul’d the martial ranks,

      An’ shook his Carrick spear,

      Some merry, friendly, countra folks,

      Together did convene,

      To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks,

      An’ haud their Halloween

      Fu’ blythe that night.

      The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat,

      Mair braw than when they’re fine;

      Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe,

      Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’;

      The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer babs,

      Weel knotted on their garten,

      Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs,

      Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin’

      Whiles fast at night.

      Then, first and foremost, thro’ the kail,

      Their stocks[32] maun a’ be sought ance;

      They steek their een, an’ graip an’ wale,

      For muckle anes an’ straught anes.

      Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,

      An’ wander’d through the bow-kail,

      An’ pou’t, for want o’ better shift,

      A runt was like a sow-tail,

      Sae bow’t that night.

      Then, straught or crooked, yird

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