Burns
seemed cold, bloodless, unattractive, rise up lovely in their own silent
domains, before the dreaming fancy of the tender-hearted Shepherd. The
still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales where he passed all
his days, inspired him with ever-brooding visions of Fairy Land, till,
as he lay musing on the brae, the world of shadows seemed, in the clear
depths, a softened reflection of real life, like the hills and heavens
in the water of his native lake. When he speaks of Fairy Land, his
language becomes aerial as the very voice of the fairy people, serenest
images rise up with the music of the verse, and we almost believe in the
being of those unlocalised realms of peace, and of which he sings like a
native minstrel.

Yes, James--thou wert but a poor shepherd to the last--poor in this
world's goods--though Altrive Lake is a pretty little bit farmie--given
thee by the best of Dukes--with its few laigh sheep-braes--its somewhat
stony hayfield or two--its pasture where Crummie might unhungered
graze--nyuck for the potato's bloomy or ploomy shaws--and path-divided
from the porch the garden, among whose flowers "wee Jamie" played. But
nature had given thee, to console thy heart in all disappointments from
the "false smiling of fortune beguiling," a boon which thou didst hug to
thy heart with transport on the darkest day--the "gift o' genie," and
the power of immortal song.

And has Scotland to the Ettrick Shepherd been just--been generous--as
she was--or was not--to the Ayrshire peasant?--has she, in her conduct
to him, shown her contrition for her sin--whatever that may have
been--to Burns? It is hard to tell. Fashion tosses the feathered
head--and gentility turns away her painted cheek from the Mountain Bard;
but when, at the shrine of true poetry, did ever such votaries devoutly
worship? Cold, false, and hollow, ever has been their admiration of
genius--and different, indeed, from their evanescent ejaculations, has
ever been the enduring voice of fame. Scorn be to the scorners! But
Scott, and Wordsworth, and Southey, and Byron, and other great bards,
have all loved the Shepherd's lays--and Joanna the palm-crowned, and
Felicia the muse's darling, and Caroline the Christian poetess, and all
the other fair female spirits of song. And in his native land, all
hearts that love her streams, and her hills, and her cottages, and her
kirks, the bee-humming garden and the primrose-circled fold, the white
hawthorn and th