d once
indeed have been before my own door in the street.

"When pleasure fascinates the mental sight,
Affliction purifies the visual ray,
Religion hails the drear, the untried night,
And shuts, for ever shuts! life's doubtful day."

R. B.

* * * * *

CCCXXX.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[Cromek informed me, on the authority of Mrs. Burns, that the
"handsome, elegant present" mentioned in this letter, was a common
worsted shawl.]

_February, 1796._

Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your handsome, elegant present to Mrs.
Burns, and for my remaining volume of P. Pindar. Peter is a delightful
fellow, and a first favourite of mine. I am much pleased with your
idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings.
I am extremely willing to lend every assistance in my power. The Irish
airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses for.

I have already, you know, equipt three with words, and the other day I
strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I
admire much.

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms.[288]

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In my
by-past songs I dislike one thing, the name Chloris--I meant it as the
fictitious name of a certain lady: but, on second thoughts, it is a
high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral
ballad. Of this, and some things else, in my next: I have more
amendments to propose. What you once mentioned of "flaxen locks" is
just: they cannot enter into an elegant description of beauty. Of this
also again--God bless you![289]

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 288: Song CCLXVI.]

[Footnote 289: Our poet never explained what name he would have
substituted for Chloris.--Mr. Thomson.]

* * * * *

CCCXXXI.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[It is seldom that painting speaks in the spirit of poetry Burns
perceived some of the blemishes of Allan's illustrations: but at that
time little nature and less elegance entered into the embellishments
of books.]

_April, 1796._

Alas! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre
again! "By Babel streams I have sat and wept" almost ever since I
wrote you last; I have only known existence by the pressure of the
heavy hand of sickness, and have counted time by the repercussions of
pain! Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible