poetical, with which the shelves of our bookstores and libraries are piled, particularly when the works of these writers are accessible to all; were it not so, we might present a few specimens of Thom's ability; indeed, since his book will probably never come into the hands of many of our readers, we are very strongly tempted to do this, but we cannot overcome our repugnance to such a course, and we therefore recommend all to the perusal of the volume itself, assuring them that they will find much pleasure therein, if they are lovers of good poetry. But we have already dwelt far too long on this individual case, and now pass to our general subject. Poets have been in all ages proverbially poverty-stricken; not those only of the second or third rank, but the greatest and most distinguished who have lived. In proof of this assertion it is unnecessary to drag from their resting-places the skeleton forms of bards who perished in far antiquity, or to summon from their wanderings on the shores of the Styx their lean shades, which, for the want of a farthing to pay their passage across, have till this day been compelled to roam about wretched and tormented. Examples are not wanting in modern times, both in this and in other lands, of half, yea, wholly, starved votaries of the "Hallowed Nine." Seventh-story garrets, and low cellars, in the dirty lanes of our cities, hovels and barns in the country, have been their abodesthree-legged tables, backless chairs, fireless grates, and shelves without books, their furniture-crownless or rimless hats, thread-bare, buttonless coats, and soleless shoes, their articles of dress. As for food, since they could not live on air, they ate what they could get, and were not over nice in the selection. Not always were they as well off even as this, being compelled occasionally "to lie in bed because their coats had gone to pieces, or to wear paper cravats because their linen was in pawn." This is no overdrawn picture, got up for effect, as all will testify who are at all familiar with the history of the ragged sons of genius. Such has been the fate of many of those who have sprung up in Scotland during the last two centuries, and who will live through their works in all coming time. Among the throng of poets who have had their origin in the heather land, from James I. to him whose history we have just sketched, few have had the good fortune to escape the common lot. Thompson was arrested for debt-Campbell and Scott were certainly not always free from pecuniary embarrassments——— Pollok could not be called rich-and Burns tottered to his grave, the mere shadow of his former self, haunted continually by his fears of incarceration for a five pound debt, and tormented by gloomy forebodings in regard to the future prospects of his loved family. These names are familiar to the world, and all men do and ever will delight to honor their possessors. But many of those who sung as sweetly, and gave promise of accomplishing as much, sunk under the weight of their misfortunes-passed to their long homes amid the neglect of the world, and were denied, to some extent, even the posthumous fame for which some of them struggled, and which is justly their due. Michael Bruce, born about the middle of the last century, in hum ble circumstances, is an illustration of what we have said. Called to cope with penury and disease, he passed away at the early age of twenty, and his name is hardly ever mentioned three miles from the little hamlet that claims the honor of giving him birth. Consumption early marked him for her own, and some of his best pieces were penned while he was passing through the dark "valley of the shadow of death." When we consider his youth-the dreams of hope that must often have passed through his mind-and the sad end that awaited him, we little wonder to hear him sing in the following melancholy strain : "Now spring returns, but not to me returns The vernal joy my better years have known; And all the joys of life with health are flown. "Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate, The tear starts to our eye as we think of poor Fergusson. Truly his life was a tragedy! We see him struggling manfully against the opposing tide, buffeting the surges of adversity, till his strength was all wasted, and then sinking despairingly, almost unpitied and unwept. We seem to hear that woeful shriek that rung through the cheerless dens of the Lunatic Asylum, when the bewildered maniac was carried there by his friends, his mother being unable to attend him at home. Dead, he was committed to the grave in the churchyard at Edinburgh, where he lay forgotten, until Burns, actuated by a "fellow feeling," which "makes us wondrous kind,"-perchance, too, catching a glimpse of his own fate through the mists of coming years, erected to his memory a humble tablet, on which was inscribed the following epitaph: "Here lies ROBERT FERGUSSON, Poet, Tannahill, the "weaver chiel," who came into existence in 1774, and voluntarily hurried himself out of it in his thirty-sixth year, was not inferior in song-writing to Burns himself, who is generally considered the standard of perfection. This unfortunate bard, admired yet neglected, courted by the great yet left to struggle alone with his hard fortune, depressed yet aspiring, sunk into a confirmed melancholy, which terminated in the sad manner we have intimated. These, I am aware, are humble names. The eye of the reader may see them for the first time, but this is the very reason we have mentioned them. The sweetest singer is not always the loudest. Had these been born in the higher, or even middle walks of life, their praises would have sounded on every tongue, and their works been found in every house. Their merits would have been heralded in newspapers, magazines, reviews, and encyclopædias, their society courted by the wealthy-patronage extended to them by the powerful. But, alas! these and other luckless children of poverty and song, were poor-they were not born with titles in their hands or money in their pockets, and sad experience taught them that the rugged path that leads to Parnassus is neither paved with gold nor always resplendent with glory. Here we may be indulged in a remark on the often-discussed question, "Which is more favorable to the advancement of literature, a Republican or a Monarchical form of government?" It is our humble opinion, that although in a monarchy every branch of literature may be carried to a far higher degree of perfection than in a republic, yet in the latter, literary men, the authors themselves, are much better off than in the former. A royal poet-laureate, it is true, may reap a golden harvest, but all cannot be poet-laureates. The system of patronage still employed to some extent toward literary merit in the kingdoms of Europe, though productive of some good results, is on the whole to be deprecated, for where it elevates one true genius, it depresses in a corresponding degree at least two others. It is in very many cases misapplied, and too often assurance instead of solid worth bears off the prize. Such poets as those we have mentioned, would have strode rapidly in this country to honor, and to say the least, independence. Had they been born here, their countrymen would have been proud to place them beyond the reach of the distress arising from the fear of starvation, and what is fully as important, would have had the ability. The proof of these assertions rests on the fact, that some who are infinitely inferior to them, are now enjoying at ease the gains arising from the sale of their doggerel rhymes. Another thing, which we regret to say has been in all ages a distinguishing mark of genius, belonged to too many of the humble poets of Scotland, in an eminent degree; namely, the want of a strictly moral character, or, since this is merely negative, the possession of what we must call an immoral character. By this we do not mean to imply that they were wicked in the worst sense of that term; for while on the one hand we would carefully avoid that idolatrous regard for such men, which renders us blind to all their faults, we would on the other defend them to the extent of our ability, from the malicious attacks of those pseudo-critics, who, with an ill-concealed air of selfconceit, search out and hold up to the world as unpardonable sins, what in common individuals no one would dream of calling by a harsher name than frailties. Out upon such Harpies! who, plumed with their own ideal purity, would defile, if they were able, by their polluting touch, the delicacies set before us by the intellect and fancy of those who perchance walk not always on the line they have been pleased to lay down. The true child of nature, possessed of acute sensibilities and impetuous passions, needs all the guards that can be furnished by the most favorable circumstances of life, to enable him to combat successfully with the temptations that hourly asssail him. When deprived of these so necessary defenses, little wonder is it, that he is often overcome in the unequal strife, and forced as it were against his will to wrong action. The secret of the dissipation of those poets with whom we have to do at present, is to be found in their endeavors to drown by their excesses the memory of past griefs, and to rid themselves of the maddening thoughts of the gloomy future that continually filled their souls in their sober reflecting moments. Moreover the natural joviality of their disposition, and that fondness for the society of kindred spirits which characterized them all, often led them to the beer-shop, and the snug little back room of the inn, there to engage in scenes of mirth and revelry. Deeply do we regret that they were thus led astray! Sad it is to reflect that some of them, (and here, alas! we must include the bard,) by their irregularities-we have not the heart to say crimes-shattered their bodies, debased their noble intellects, quenched the heaven-lit flame that burned in their breasts, and shortened their pathway to the tomb. But still we say, "let him who is without sin cast the first stone." The influence exerted by these poets upon the national mind cannot be calculated. Born and bred amid the wild mountains and glensfamiliar with all the scenes of joy and grief that occur in humble life, they speak directly to the hearts of their countrymen. In their works we meet no mysticism, no reasonings of cold speculative philosophy, no unintelligible intricacies of metaphysics, but the warm gushings of simple feeling and glowing affection. As priests of nature they sought from her alone their adornment. No key of labored criticism is required to lay open their beauties to the unlettered mass; but he who runs may read and understand. They sent not their works out upon the world, produced in the silence of a splendid library, whose walls were adorned with the paintings of the great masters, and whose shelves were stocked with the lore and the wisdom of all past ages. Oh, no! Ramsay composed while making wigs, (not a particularly romantic employment,) Burns while following the plough, Tannahill and Thom while plying the shuttle, and Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, whom Kit North can never cease eulogizing, while tending the "wooly people" on the hill-side. Neither will they be read only by the professional man in the retirement of his study, or the belle in her showy parlor the lassie, busied with her household cares, the laddie in the stable, the reaper in the field, the weaver at his loom, in short, all the children of toil, will beguile their several tasks with the melody of songs, composed by those whose lot in life was the same as their own, and who are on that account the dearer to their hearts. Their verses have alike charmed the high and the low; have been equally welcome in the castle halls of the lord, and the mountain shieling of the peasant. And, oh! who but those who have felt them in their own experience, can imagine the feelings of Scotchmen, when in their wide dispersion in other climes, (for their ubiquity is only equalled by that of the Yankees,) they read and sing the sweet strains of their country's bards! How is their patriotism aroused, when beyond the hills and plains, and billowy waste that intervenes, they behold, in imagination, "Scotia's glens and mountains blue, Nor Danish lions rallied!" How drops the bitter tear when they think of their voluntary exile from their native land: "Firm seat of religion, of valor, of truth, Of genius unshackled and free!" We had intended to enter more fully into the reasons of the poverty of these poets-to inquire how far they themselves were at fault, and how far their country; but we must bring our remarks thus abruptly to a close, for want of time and space. W. A. THE KING AND THE CAPTIVE. "On the morning of the day whereon the battle of Thermopylae was fought, an aged soothsayer and priest of the Malian Apollo, who had been dragged from the foot of the altar, where he was offering sacrifices for the successful adventure of the Grecian league, filled with portentous visions, demanded to be led before King Xerxes; and his request being granted, (whether through compassion or awe, I know not,) foretold the final overthrow of the Persian arms. The King, enraged at the Grecian's insolence, ordered him to be put to death, and fiercely turning to Mardonius, gave command to begin the battle.”— BURTON'S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. "THE Persian monarch, Xerxes, Is gone forth from the East With host of gilded warriors, Bedecked as for a feast; And like a cloud-clad tempest Shall Xerxes meet the foe, And like a smitten houndling, Shall Xerxes homeward go. "The God of Greek and Persian Shall drive thee back in shame, And every bold barbarian lose His dearly-purchased fame; Dark shall the star of Persia Gleam from the Eastern sky, Where frown the Orient Mountains O'er Horti Regii. "Turn back! turn back! thou tyraut, For ruin is before; Turn back! turn back! O monarch, Who sit'st on Persia's throne, "A moan of frenzied mothers, Of maids for lovers slain, And from the Persic shore, |