gusto of Burns in the verse-epistles. The lines in which he describes how poetry
"doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow,
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace:
. . . .
By the murmur of a spring,
Or a least bough's rusteling,
. . . .
She could more infuse in me
Than all nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man,"
are quite in the spirit of Burns's
"The Muse! nae poet ever fand her
Till by himself he learned to wander
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
And no' think lang,"
and many another passage where the Scotch poet's joie de vivre is most pure and delightful. Wither's Fair Virtue is an extraordinary rhapsody, but the strangest thing about it is the skill with which the clear high note is sustained without wearying or growing wearied. The Fidelia belongs to an artificial kind, and is far too long, but even in it there are balanced, pointed lines, which were certainly known to Pope when he wrote Eloisa to Abelard—
"Banish those thoughts and turn thee to my heart!
Come once again and be what once thou wert!
Revive me by those wonted joys repairing
That am nigh dead with sorrow and despairing!
So shall the memory of this annoy
But add more sweetness to my future joy!"
