And yet this man, so natural, keeping his cheek so close to the breast of nature, strangely enough thought that Pope and Churchill and Shenstone and Thomson and Lyttelton and Beattie were great poets. His first poem was addressed to Nellie Kilpatrick, daughter of the blacksmith. He was in love with Ellison Begbie, offered her his heart and was refused. She was a servant, working in a family and living on the banks of the Cessnock. Jean Armour, his wife, was the daughter of a tailor, and Highland Mary, a servant--a milk-maid. He did not make women of goddesses, but he made goddesses of women. POET OF LOVE. Burns was the poet of love. To him woman was divine. In the light of her eyes he stood transfigured. Love changed this peasant to a king; the plaid became a robe of purple; the ploughman became a poet; the poor laborer an inspired lover. In his "Vision" his native Muse tells the story of his verse: "When youthful Love, warm-blushing strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th' adored Name, I taught thee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flame." Ah, this light from heaven: how it has purified the heart of man! Was there ever a sweeter song than "Bonnie Doon"? "Thou'lt break my heart thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate, For sae I sat and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate." or, "O, my luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune." It would consume days to give the intense and tender lines--lines wet with the heart's blood, lines that throb and sigh and weep, lines that glow like flames, lines that seem to clasp and kiss. But the most perfect love-poem that I know--pure the tear of gratitude--is "To Mary in Heaven:" "Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? "That sacred hour can I forget? Can I forget the hallow'd grove Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! "Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of wingèd day.