Besides the songs of nature and of human emotion, Burns has given us a large number of poems for which no general title can be given.  Noteworthy among these are “A man’s a man for a’ that,” which voices the new romantic estimate of humanity; “The Vision,” from which we get a strong impression of Burns’s early ideals; the “Epistle to a Young Friend,” from which, rather than from his satires, we learn Burns’s personal views of religion and honor; the “Address to the Unco Guid,” which is the poet’s plea for mercy in judgment; and “A Bard’s Epitaph,” which, as a summary of his own life, might well be written at the end of his poems.  “Halloween,” a picture of rustic merrymaking, and “The Twa Dogs” a contrast between the rich and poor, are generally classed among the poet’s best works; but one unfamiliar with the Scotch dialect will find them rather difficult.

Of Burns’s longer poems the two best worth reading are “The Cotter’s Saturday Night” and “Tam o’ Shanter,”—­the one giving the most perfect picture we possess of a noble poverty; the other being the most lively and the least objectionable of his humorous works.  It would be difficult to find elsewhere such a combination of the grewsome and the ridiculous as is packed up in “Tam o’ Shanter.”  With the exception of these two, the longer poems add little to the author’s fame or to our own enjoyment.  It is better for the beginner to read Burns’s exquisite songs and gladly to recognize his place in the hearts of a people, and forget the rest, since they only sadden us and obscure the poet’s better nature.

WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827)

    Piping down the valleys wild,
      Piping songs of pleasant glee,
    On a cloud I saw a child,
      And he laughing said to me: 
    “Pipe a song about a lamb;”
      So I piped with merry cheer. 
    “Piper, pipe that song again;”
      So I piped:, he wept to hear. 
    “Piper, sit thee down and write
      In a book, that all may read;”
    So he vanished from my sight,
      And I plucked a hollow reed,
    And I made a rural pen,
      And I stained the water clear,
    And I wrote my happy songs
      Every child may joy to hear.[206]

Of all the romantic poets of the eighteenth century, Blake is the most independent and the most original.  In his earliest work, written when he was scarcely more than a child, he seems to go back to the Elizabethan song writers for his models; but for the greater part of his life he was the poet of inspiration alone, following no man’s lead, and obeying no voice but that which he heard in his own mystic soul.  Though the most extraordinary literary genius of his age, he had practically no influence upon it.  Indeed, we hardly yet understand this poet of pure fancy, this mystic this transcendental madman, who remained to the end of his busy life an incomprehensible child.