The retribution with which the errors of Burns chastised him, holds out impressive warning to all who are capable of drawing wisdom from example. If happiness could have found a resting-place in one of the most honest hearts that ever struck against a manly bosom; if happiness had been with noble poetry, with an eloquence that never failed, with an imagination rich as the breast of nature, and bright as the stars in heaven; if happiness could have been brought down from the sky by lofty and aspiring sentiments, or fixed upon earth by generous and gentle affections; then happiness would have been the lot of Burns. But Burns had contracted habits to which peace soon becomes a stranger; and he who has such habits, be he bard, or be he beggar, has already entered on the evil day; he may say in all the bitterness of his soul, “Farewell the tranquil mind.” It would seem as if Burns pictured by anticipation his own sad fate when he wrote the Bard’s Epitaph. “Whom did the poet intend?” asks Wordsworth, as quoted by Allan Cunningham, “who but himself—himself anticipating the too probable termination of his own course. Here is a sincere and solemn avowal—a public declaration from his own will—a confession at once devout, poetical and human—a history in the shape of a prophesy!” What more was required of the biographer than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding had been realized, and the record was authentic. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, or hot to rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals, the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by, But with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs himself life’s mad career, Wild as the wave; Here pause, and through the starting tear, Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn, and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame, But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stained his name. Reader, attend, whether thy soul Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole, Or darkly grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit, Know prudent, cautious, self-control Is wisdom’s root. Thus much I thought I might venture on our poet’s life; I shall now proceed to offer some remarks upon his genius.