Whether Paradise be found We should hold a large discourse, Till the Friend might half forget And the Lady scarce remember What was worn the last December. SHE THOUGHT OF HIM TOO DEEPLY. A BALLAD. BY MRS. C. E. DA PONTE. SHE thought of him too deeply, she thought of him too well, But thrilling were the wishes he murmured in her ear In the shadow of the twilight, when he alone was near. Sweet words! sweet hopes! sweet tokens! and must ye be, at last, Then she bid him seek that other, and not to heed her fate, And would he then forget her, must other scenes efface The hour had come to sever, he did not dare to dwell One low faint sob was bursting from the lips he bent to press- And her life was one stern sorrow-yet her steps with others went, And dimmed earth's sweetest blessing-the dream of what was past. A FESTIVAL, A TOURNAMENT, AND A JUBILEE. THE recent festival to the memory of Burns, the great poet of the people in the highest and best sense of universal humanity, celebrated upon the spot which gave him birth, from the spirit in which it was undertaken, from the character of the people who were participants in it, and from the sympathy of all who read the English tongue, deserves to find an echo far beyond the great numbers even who sent up no feeble representation of the voice of posterity in the acclamations from his native Ayrshire and by the side of his humble cot. Honor then to Burns! Let the full-orbed sound expand upon the listening ear, as it is caught by a nation of freemen and rings far away beyond the Alleghanies. Honor to Burns! It is seemly that the Democratic Review should seize this or any other occasion to utter a few heartfelt words in praise of the clear-spoken, eloquent peasant, who has left upon record in words not to be gainsayed, in demonstration more striking than ever fell from the pen of the philosopher or the life of statesman, the great truth, that there is a heart in the people, the rude, toil-worn people, to love and be loved. In Robert Burns spoke out the voice of man. There was no accidental glitter of station, no trickery of literary artifices, to divert him from the simple voice of genius speaking from the soul. We feel, as we read or listen, that his words are the words of an oracle, and despise all the measurement of scholars and critics. "Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, My MUSE, tho' hamely in attire, May touch the heart." There is an incidental proof of Burns's humanity-of the strong feeling of personality, of the simple passion under which he wrote. His birth-place of Ayr looked off upon the sea, which, on that exposed shore, must often present much of its peculiar grandeur. Yet there is scarcely an image in all Burns's poetry drawn from the sea. It certainly is not familiar to us in his songs which spring from within. Now, an inferior writer would have availed himself of the remarkable objects around him, and commenced by somehow appropriating Ailsa Craig, or_any_other distinguished monument. But Burns, true to his genius, wrote from the heart outward. His songs are never deficient in illustration, but the heart selects for him; and, passing by mere material grandeur, chooses "Bonnie Doon," a humble brook, or the banks and braes, sacred to his HIGHLAND MARY, because he loves them. But the genius of Burns is a never-ending theme. There were peculiar circumstances, too, in this celebration, which must have brought the occasion home with peculiar force to the people of Scotland. It was something more than the heartfelt utterance of the voice of posterity to the great poet. It was a solemn act of justice, a recognition of the debt due the man, rendered to the persons of his children, before his personal memory and the long train of associations held by his own generation and their sons had passed away into tradition. It was the tribute, as beautifully stated by the chairman, the Earl of Eglinton, of admiring and repentant Scotland, the last meeting of old and tearful men and of the sons of Burns's contemporaries, who came to ask absolution from those of his blood, the poet's sons, for the neglect of his own generation. There sat the three sons of the poet, now themselves in years and retiring from the business of life, while thousands came before them in succession and doffed the hat and bent the head in recognition, not so much of the author as of the person, the blood and reflected image of the man, Robert Burns. It was a celebration, too, not of the nobility or the literary men of the country, but of the people of Scotland who assembled, it is said, to the number of fifty thousand. Lord Eglinton and Professor Wilson indeed presided, but they were accompanied by few of their own class. The leading authors invit ed were too old or too far away to be present, and the nobility were drawn off to a neighboring cattle show. We do not regret their absence. The nobility might indeed have conferred honor upon themselves; they could add nothing to the memory of Burns. The authors might have bestowed a new grace upon the ceremonies with their nicely chosen words and subtle compliments, but the fact was greater than anything to be said of it Wordsworth was indeed already there, in the fresh ardor his poems dedicated to Burns-nay, to those very sons now living-must have, at some time, inspired many with, who were present; and Campbell, though lately dead, still lived in song on the lips of the poet's admirers; and our own Halleck, though far away, was present, too, in his sympathy with the Wild Rose of Alloway. "His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought word that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek; And his that music, to whose tone Truly and nobly sang Wordsworth. "Well might I mourn that HE was gone, How Verse may build a princely throne Here was that throne set up in the hearts of men, "the posthumous, the finer incense." The people gathered from all sides, crowding the familiar spots consecrated by the poet's genius, which has studded the whole district with monuments to his memory. The brigs of Ayr acted a conspicuous part in the procession, and were as lively and social as in the poet's lifetime, when they indulged in the celebrated Amabœan altercations. The 'drowsy dungeon clock,' and' Wallace tower,' bore friendly testimony to the hour. The bell of roofless old Alloway once more shook in its aged head like a prattler of the past of matters more ghostly than the poet's story, for it was of the dim vanishing form of the poet himself. Doon, forgetful of old fears and terrors, put on a gay arch of green, and the humble clay cot, the first nestling place of the Mavis of Scotland, was smothered in garlands. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair! Fusiliers, bag-pipers, free masons, crispins, weavers, ancient foresters with arrows, proceeded to the air, of ‘A man's a man for a' that.’ Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that. When they reached the fields in the neighborhood of the monuments, they were diverted by a well acted chase of Tam o'Shanter, and passed the time in dancing while the rest of the company assembled in a pavilion constructed for the occasion, to feast and listen to the speeches of Lord Eglinton and Christopher North. The remarks of the former were very happy. "The Chairman then rose amidst the most enthusiastic applause. He said,Ladies and gentlemen, the subject of the toast which I am now going to bring before you, is one of such paramount importance on this occasion, and is so deeply interesting, not only to those whom I now have the honor to address, but to all whom genius is dear, that I could have wished it committed to more worthy hands; more particularly when I see the enormous assemblage collected here-the distinguished persons who grace our board to-day. (Cheers.) It is only because I conceive that my official position renders me the most formal and fitting, though most inefficient, mouth-piece of the inhabitants of this county-(Hear, hear, and cheers) that I have ventured to introduce myself before you on this occasion, and to undertake the onerous, though gratifying duty of proposing in such an assemblage the thrilling toast-The Memory of Burns.' (Great applause. The company rising to testify their approbation by the waving of handkerchiefs.) This is not a meeting for the purpose of recreation and amusement; it is not a banquet at which a certain number of toasts printed on paper are to be proposed and responded to, which to-day marks our preparations; it is the enthusiastic desire of a whole people to pay honor to their countryman; it is the spontaneous offering of a nation's feelings towards the illustrious dead, and added to this the desire to extend a hand of welcome and friendship to those whom he has left behind. (Tre mendous applause.) Here, on the very spot where he first drew breath, on the very ground which his genius has hallowed, beside the Old Kirk of Alloway, which his verse has immortalised, beneath the monument which an admiring and repentant people have raised to him(great applause)-we meet, after the lapse of years, to pay our homage to the man of genius. (Loud cheers.) The master-mind who has sung the Isle of Palms'-who has revelled in the immortal 'Noctes'-who has already done that justice to the memory of the bard, which a brother poet can alone do-Christopher himself is here-(great applause)anxious to pay his tribute of admiration to a kindred spirit. The historian who has depicted the most eventful period of the French empire, the glorious triumphs of Wellington, is here (cheers)-Clio, as it were, offering up a garland to Erato. (Loud chcers.) The distinguished head of the Scottish Bar is here (cheers) in short, every town and every district; every class, and every sex, and every age, has come forward to pay homage to their poet. The honest lads whom he so praised, and whose greatest boast is to belong to the Land of Burns, are here. (Cheers.) The bonny lasses whom he so praised, those whom he loved and sung, are here; they have followed hither to justify, by their loveliness, the Poet's worth (great applause); while the descendant of those who dwelt in the 'Castle of Montgomerie,' feels himself only too highly honored in being permitted to propose the memory of him who then wandered there unknown on the banks of Fail. (Loud cheering.) How little could the pious old man who dwelt in yonder cottage with his 'lyart haffets' o'erspreading his venerable brow-when he read the big ha' bible,' could have guessed that the infant prattling on his knee was to be the pride of his nationthe chief among the poetic band-was to be one of the brightest planets that glow around the mighty sun of the Bard of Avon-(cheers)-in knowledge and originality-second to none in the fervent expression of deep feeling, in the genuine perception of the beauties of nature; and equal to any who revel in the fairy land of poesy. (Cheers.) Well may we rejoice that Burns is our own!—that no other spot can claim to be the birth-place of our Homer except the spot on which we stand. (Cheers.) Oh! that he could have foreseen the futurity of fame created for him this day, when the poet and the historian, the peer and the peasant, vie with each other in paying the tribute of their admiration to the humble but mighty genius of him whom we hail as the first of Scottish Poets. (Cheers.) Such a foresight might have alleviated the dreary hours of his sojourn at Mossgiel― might have lightened the dark days of his pilgrimage on earth. (Cheers.) Well does he deserve our homage who has portrayed the Cottar's Saturday Night'not in strains of inconsiderate mirth, but in solemnity and truth-who breathed the patriotic words that tell of the glories of our Wallace, immortalising alike the poet and the hero; he who could draw inspiration from the humble daisy, breathed forth the heroic words of The Song of Death,' -strains, the incarnation of poetry and love, and yet of the bitterest shafts of satire and ridicule !-obeying but the hand of nature, despising all the rules of art, yet trampling over the very rules he set at naught. (Loud cheers.) At his name every Scottish heart beats high. He has become a household word alike in the palace and the cottage. Of whom should we be proud-to whom should we pay homage, if not to our own immortal Burns. (Cheers) But I feel I am detaining you too long in the presence of a Wilson and an Alison. (Cries of no, no,' and applause.) In such a presence as these, I feel that I am not a fit person to dilate upon the genius of Burns. I am but an admirer like yourselves. There are others present, who are brother poets, kindred geniuses-men who, like Burns, have created a glorious immortality to themselves to them will I commit the agreeable task of more fully displaying before you, decked out with their eloquence, the excellence of the poet and the genius of the man, and to extend and welcome his sons to the land of their father—(cheers)— and I will now ask you, in their presence, on the ground his genius has rendered sacred-on the banks and braes o' bonny Doon'-to join with me in drinking one overflowing bumper, and in joining to it every expression of enthusiasm which you can, to The Memory of Burns.' The toast was received with the most rapturous and enthusiastic bursts of applause." John Wilson followed, and if there were any man living who had a right to speak on the occasion it was he. He has devoted his best literary talents, with the ripeness of many years, to the illustration of the character of Burns. He has brought to the books in which he has recorded his impressions, the sum of the experience of a joyful youth, a poetic manhood spent hand in hand with nature, who has unlocked for him the most secret recesses of her treasure-house of wood, mountains and lake; and not less familiar with the best and most intellectual of the last prolific age, he has brought the humor and undying enthu'siasm of Christopher North, and the richly freighted eloquence of Professor Wilson. His manly form was the delight of thousands as he thus introduced the toast "Welcome to the sons of Burns." "Were this festival to commemorate the genius of Burns, and it were asked what need is there of such commemoration, since his fame is co-extensive with the literature of our land, and inherent in every soul, I would answer that though admiration of the poet be indeed unbounded as the world, yet we, as compatriots to whom it is more especially dear, rejoice to see that universal sentiment concentrated in the voice of a great assembly of his own people-that we rejoice to meet in thousands to honor him who has delighted each single one of us all at his own hearth. (Loud cheers.) But this commemoration expresses, too, if not a profounder, yet a more tender sentiment; for it is to welcome his sons to the land which their father illustrated to indulge our national pride in a great name, while, at the same time, we gratify in full breasts the most pious of affections. (Cheers.) It was customary, you know, in former times, to crown great poets. No such ovation honored our bard: yet he, too, tasted of human applause he enjoyed its delights, and he knew the trials that attend it. Which, think you, would he have preferred? Such a celebration as this in his lifetime, or fifty years after his death? I cannot doubt that he would have preferred the posthumous, because the finer incense. I would not even in the presence of his sons pass altogether over the father's faults. But surely they are not to be elaborately dwelt upon in this place, and upon an occasion like this. It is consolatory to see how the faults of those whom the people honor, grow fainter and more faint in the national memory, while their virtues grow brighter and still more bright; and if in this, injustice has been done them-and who shall dare to deny that cruellest injustice was once done to Burns-the succeeding generations become more and more charitable to the dead, and desire to repair the wrong by some profounder homage. Truly said, them. All that is ethereal in their being 'the good which men do lives after alone seems to survive; and, therefore, all our cherished memories of our best men, and Burns was among our best, ought to be invested with all consistent excellences; for far better do their virtues instruct us by the love which they inspire, than ever could their vices admonish us. Burns, who, while sorely oppressed in his own generous breast by the worst of anxieties-the anxiety of providing the means of subsistence to those of his own household and his own hearth-was, notwithstanding, no less faithful to that sacred gift with which by heaven he had been endowed. (Applause.) Obedient to the holy inspiration, he ever sought it purely in the paths of poverty-to love which is indeed from heaven. From his inexhaustible fancy, warmed by the sunshine of his heart, even in the thickest gloom, he strewed along the weary ways of the world flowers so beautiful, that even to eyes that weep-that are familiar with tears—they looked as if they were flowers dropped from heaven. Among mighty benefactors to mankind, who will deny that Robert Burns is entitled to a high place? He who reconciled poverty to its lot, who lightened the burden of care, made toil charmed with its very task-work, and almost reconciled grief to the grave; who, by one immortal song, has sanctified for ever the poor man's cot, and by a picture which genius alone, inspired by piety, could have conceived, a picture so tender and yet so true of that happy night, that it seems to pass, by some sweet transition, from the working world into that hallowed day of God's appointment, and made to breathe a heavenly calm-a holy serenity. Now, I hold that such sentiments as these which I have expressed, if they be true, afford a justification at once of the character of Burns-his moral and intellectual character-that places him beyond the possibility of detraction, amongst the highest order of human beings who have benefited their race by the expression of noble sentiment and glorious thoughts. The people of Scotland loved their great poet. They loved him because he loved his own order, nor ever desired, for a single hour, to quit it. They loved him because he loved the very humblest condition of humanity, so much, that by his connection he saw more truly, |