Of A

FRIEND'S AMOUR.

"Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself! And sweet affection prove the spring of woe."

HOME.

[The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Robert Burns and Jean Armour. "This was a most melancholy affair," says the poet in his letter to Moore, "which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart and mistaken the reckoning of rationality." Hogg and Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh at than account for, say this Poem was "written on the occasion of Alexander Cunningham's darling sweetheart alighting him and marrying another:--she acted a wise part." With what care they had read the great poet whom they jointly edited in is needless to say: and how they could read the last two lines of the third verse and commend the lady's wisdom for slighting her lover, seems a problem which defies definition. This mistake was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a second issue of the volume.]

I.

O thou pale orb, that silent shines, While care-untroubled mortals sleep! Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep! With woe I nightly vigils keep, Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam, And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream.

II.

A joyless view thy rays adorn The faintly marked distant hill: I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill: My fondly-fluttering heart, be still: Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease! Ah! must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace!

III.

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim; No shepherd's pipe--Arcadian strains; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: The plighted faith; the mutual flame; The oft-attested Pow'rs above; The promis'd father's tender name; These were the pledges of my love!

IV.

Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur'd moments flown! How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and hers alone! And must I think it!--is she gone, My secret heart's exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan? And is she ever, ever lost?

V.

Oh! can she bear so base a heart, So lost to honour, lost to truth, As from the fondest lover part, The plighted husband of her youth! Alas! life's path may be unsmooth! Her way may lie thro' rough distress! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, Her sorrows share, and make them less?

VI.

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd, That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, And not a wish to gild the gloom!

VII.

The morn that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe: I see the hours in long array, That I must suffer, lingering slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the distant, western main.

VIII.

And when my nightly couch I try, Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, Keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, From such a horror-breathing night.

IX.

O! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway! Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray! The time, unheeded, sped away, While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, To mark the mutual kindling eye.

X.

Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set! Scenes never, never to return! Scenes, if in stupor I forget, Again I feel, again I burn! From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, Life's weary vale I'll wander thro'; And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn A faithless woman's broken vow.

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XLII.

DESPONDENCY.

AN ODE.

["I think," said Burns, "it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, and loves an embodied form in verse, which to me is ever immediate ease." He elsewhere says, "My passions raged like so many devils till they got vent in rhyme." That eminent painter, Fuseli, on seeing his wife in a passion, said composedly, "Swear my love, swear heartily: you know not how much it will ease you!" This poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition, and gives a true picture of those bitter moments experienced by the bard, when love and fortune alike deceived him.]

I.

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear, I set me down and sigh: O life! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I! Dim-backward as I cast my view, What sick'ning scenes appear! What sorrows yet may pierce me thro' Too justly I may fear! Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; My woes here shall close ne'er But with the closing tomb!

II.

Happy, ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard! Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, Yet while the busy means are ply'd, They bring their own reward: Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, Unfitted with an aim, Meet ev'ry sad returning night And joyless morn the same; You, bustling, and justling, Forget each grief and pain; I, listless, yet restless, Find every prospect vain.

III.

How blest the solitary's lot, Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, Within his humble cell, The cavern wild with tangling roots, Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, Beside his crystal well! Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, By unfrequented stream, The ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream; While praising, and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high, As wand'ring, meand'ring, He views the solemn sky.

IV.

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd Where never human footstep trac'd, Less fit to play the part; The lucky moment to improve, And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting art: But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste, The solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest! He needs not, he heeds not, Or human love or hate, Whilst I here, must cry here At perfidy ingrate!

V.

Oh! enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown! How ill exchang'd for riper times, To feel the follies, or the crimes, Of others, or my own! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage! The fears all, the tears all, Of dim declining age!

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XLIII.