Thus, while Burns is not at all great for New World study, in the
sense that Isaiah and Eschylus and the book of Job are unquestionably
great--is not to be mention'd with Shakspere--hardly even with current
Tennyson or our Emerson--he has a nestling niche of his own, all
fragrant, fond, and quaint and homely--a lodge built near but outside
the mighty temple of the gods of song and art--those universal
strivers, through their works of harmony and melody and power, to ever
show or intimate man's crowning, last, victorious fusion in himself of
Real and Ideal. Precious, too--fit and precious beyond all singers,
high or low--will Burns ever be to the native Scotch, especially to
the working-classes of North Britain; so intensely one of them, and so
racy of the soil, sights, and local customs. He often apostrophizes
Scotland, and is, or would be, enthusiastically patriotic. His country
has lately commemorated him in a statue.[40] His aim is declaredly
to be 'a Rustic Bard.' His poems were all written in youth or young
manhood, (he was little more than a young man when he died.) His
collected works in giving everything, are nearly one half first drafts.
His brightest hit is his use of the Scotch patois, so full of terms
flavor'd like wild fruits or berries. Then I should make an allowance
to Burns which cannot be made for any other poet. Curiously even the
frequent crudeness, haste, deficiencies, (flatness and puerilities by
no means absent) prove upon the whole not out of keeping in any
comprehensive collection of his works, heroically printed, "following
copy," every piece, every line according to originals.
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