they were capable of much that was unworthy—and yet they did not suffer or repent. Some were deniers, and some were sensualists—the deniers had fine art, and the sensualists had fine sentiments—and all were men of genius. I have no reply to make, except that, in such men, their genius, as their humanity, was of partial, though intense development; and that such was a class to which Burns did not belong. He was neither a denier nor a sentimentalist. He was a _man_—take him for all in all—and he was a poet in the whole compass of the _man_. The man spoke through the poet, not in gladness only, but, also, in every note of sorrow and compunction. What sombre power in his Ode to Despondency. Oppressed with grief, oppressed with care, A burden more than I can bear, I sit me down and sigh: O life! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I! Dim, backward, as I cast my view, What sick’ning scenes appear!— What sorrows yet may pierce me through, Too justly, I may fear! Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; My woes here, shall close ne’er, But with the closing tomb. See this again, in the affection with which he loved the sombre phases of external nature, and the force with which he painted them. Thus he meditates in Winter: The sweeping blast—the sky o’ercast— The joyless winter-day, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please— Their fate resembles mine. Then passing from this low-breathing despondency, we have lyric tragedy shouting down despair in a kind of reckless ecstacy. Bold and brave is this “Song of Death:” Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun; Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Our race of existence is run. Thou grim King of Terrors—thou life’s gloomy foe— Go, frighten the coward and slave; Go, teach _them_ to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, No terrors hast thou to the brave!