ABSTRACT
The man that cannot discern the excellencies of Robert Burns's poetry is far beyond the reach of poor abilities to point them out and perhaps beyond the consciousness of any thing except mere animal existence. The power ascribed to the music of Timotheus, is a scribable also to the poetry of Burns, which instantly transmits the varied and successive emotions of its author, and infects the reader with all the enthusiasm of his mirth or despondency, his affection or resentment, his applause or derision. A gross blunder of the English public has been talking of Burns as if the character of his poetry ought to be estimated with an eternal recollection that he was a peasant. Burns neither acknowledged adversity as the 'tamer of the human breast', nor knew the golden curb which discretion hangs upon passion. The political predilections, for they could hardly be termed principles, of Burns, were entirely determined by his feelings.
