"The world is habitually unjust in its judgments: It is not the few inches of deflection from the mathematical orbit, which are so _easily_ measured, but the _ratio_ of these to the _whole_ diameter, which constitutes the _real_ aberration. With the world, this orbit may be a planet's, its diameter the breadth of the solar system: or it may be a city hippodrome, nay, the circle of a mill-course, its diameter a score of feet or paces--but the inches of _deflection_, _only_, are measured; and it is assumed that the diameter of the mill-course, and that of the planet, will yield the same ratio when compared with them. Here, then, lies the root of the blind, cruel condemnation of such men as Robert Burns, which one never listens to with approval. Granted--the ship comes into harbor with her shrouds and tackle damaged, and is the pilot therefore blame-worthy, because he has not been _all_-wise and _all_-powerful? For us to know _how_ blame-worthy he is, tell us how long and how arduous his voyage has been." But, after all, it is chiefly with Burns as a _poet_ that we have to do--it is in _this_ light that _posterity_ will regard him, and it is into the hands of this tribunal that he must, finally, be resigned. I would that time had allowed me to refer more particularly to the works of this delightful bard, than I have been enabled to do on the present occasion. They began with his earliest, and were continued until his latest years. Scattered along his devious, and often _gloomy_ path, they seem like beautiful wild flowers, which he threw there to cheer and animate the passer-by, with their undying bloom and sweet fragrance. "In the changes of language his songs may, no doubt, suffer change--but the associated strain of sentiment and of music will perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps down the Vale of Yarrow, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowdenknowes."