Dr. Knox. Chatterton was, indeed, badly enough off; but he was at least saved from the pain and shame of reading this woful lamentation over fallen genius, which circulates splendidly bound in the fourteenth edition, while he is a prey to worms. As to those who are really capable of admiring Chatterton's genius, or of feeling an interest in his fate, I would only say, that I never heard any one speak of any one of his works as if it were an old well-known favourite, and had become a faith and a religion in his mind. It is his name, his youth, and what he might have lived to have done, that excite our wonder and admiration. He has the same sort of posthumous fame that an actor of the last age has an abstracted reputation which is independent of any thing we know of his works. The admirers of Collins never think of him without recalling to their minds his Ode on Evening, or on the Poetical Character. Gray's Elegy, and his poetical popularity, are identified together, and inseparable even in imagination. It is the same with respect to Burns: when you speak of him as a poet, you mean his works, his Tam o' Shanter, or his Cotter's Saturday Night. But the enthusiasts for Chatterton, if you ask for the proofs of his extraordinary genius, are obliged to turn to the volume, and perhaps find there what they seek; but it is not in their minds; and it is of that I spoke. The Minstrel's song in Ælla is I think the best. «O! synge untoe my roundelaie, my roundeday, bar with dy O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, bring ber L hole day me Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, at here d de Al under the wyllowe-tree. And Black hys cryne as the wyntere nyght, We hate Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe. Mie love ys dedde, ded Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, the winth night, The Loommer Snow Al under the wyllowe tree. The within thee, Swote hys tongue as the throstles note, atent with, av Quycke ynne daunce as thought cann bee, as the Gane be O! hee lys bie the wyllowe-tree. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered dell belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe sy ige, « To the nyghte-mares as theie goe., mada See the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, 4 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, ratio d. vitende Al under the wyllowe-tree, ith Heere, upon mie true loves grave, my life's Ne one hallie seyncte to save Al the celness of a mayde. Mie love ys dedde, ' Gonne to his deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe-tree. bytes Wythe mie hondes I'll dent the brieres mind his pe Rounde hys hallie corse to gre, " Ouphante fairies, lyghte your fyres, Heere mie boddie stille schalle bee. Mie love ys dedde, . Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.. Mie love ys dedde, .. Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, ¿'. Water wytches, crownede wythe reytes, I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. + To proceed to the more immediate subject of the present Lecture, the character and writings of Burns.-Shakspeare says of some one, that "he ✰ was like a man made after supper of a cheeseparing." Burns, the poet, was not such a man. He had a strong mind, and a strong body, the fellow to it. He had a real heart of flesh and blood beating in his bosom-you can almost hear it throb. Some one said, that if you had shaken hands with him, his hand would have burnt yours. The Gods, indeed, " made him poetical;" but nature had a hand in him first. His heart was in the right place. He did not "create a soul under the ribs of death," by tinkling siren sounds, or by piling up centos of poetic diction; but for the artificial flowers of poetry, he plucked the mountain-daisy under his feet; and a fieldmouse, hurrying from its ruined dwelling, could inspire him with the sentiments of terror and pity. He held the plough or the pen with the same firm, manly grasp; nor did he cut out poetry as we cut out watch-papers, with finical dexterity, nor from the same flimsy materials. Burns was not like Shakspeare in the range of his genius; but there. is something of the same magnanimity, directness, and unaffected character about him. He was not a sickly sentimentalist, a namby-pamby poet, a mincing metre-ballad-monger, any more than : Shakspeare. He would as soon hear " a brazen candlestick tuned, or a dry wheel grate on the axletree." He was as much of a man-not a twentieth part as much of a poet as Shakspeare. With but little of his imagination or inventive power, he had the same life of mind: within the narrow circle of personal feeling or domestic incidents, the pulse of his poetry flows as healthily and vigorously. He had an eye to see; a heart to feel:no more. His pictures of good fellowship, of social glee, of quaint humour, are equal to any thing; they come up to nature, and they cannot go beyond it. The sly jest collected in his laughing eye at the sight of the grotesque and ludicrous in mannersthe large tear rolled down his manly cheek at the sight of another's distress. He has made us as well acquainted with himself as it is possible to be; has let out the honest impulses of his native disposition, the unequal conflict of the passions in his breast, with the same frankness and truth of description. His strength is not greater than his weakness: his virtues were greater than his vices. His virtues belonged to his genius: his vices to his situation, which did not correspond to his genius. It has been usual to attack Burns's moral character, and the moral tendency of his writings at the same time; and Mr. Wordsworth, in a letter |