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 incomprehen