ore; and I could not once have
conceived how little I now am troubled by the thought of how long or
short a time they who remain on that shore may have sight of me. The
other day I chanced to be looking over a MS. poem, belonging to the year
1803, though not actually composed till many years afterwards. It was
suggested by visiting the neighbourhood of Dumfries, in which Burns had
resided, and where he died; it concluded thus:

'Sweet Mercy to the gales of heaven
This minstrel led, his sins forgiven;

The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,
And memory of earth's bitter leaven
Effaced for ever.'

Here the verses closed; but I instantly added, the other day,

'But why to him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share
With all that live?
The best of what we do and are.
Just God, forgive!'

The more I reflect upon this last exclamation, the more I feel (and
perhaps it may in some degree be the same with you) justified in
attaching comparatively small importance to any literary monument that I
may be enabled to leave behind. It is well, however, I am convinced,
that men think otherwise in the earlier part of their lives; and why it
is so, is a point I need not touch upon in writing to you.

Before I dismiss this subject let me thank you for the extract from your
intelligent friend's letter; and allow me to tell you that I could not
but smile at your Boston critic placing my name by the side of Cowley. I
suppose he cannot mean anything more than that the same measure of
reputation or fame (if that be not too presumptuous a word) is due to us
both.

German transcendentalism, which you say this critic is infected by,
would be a woeful visitation for the world.

The way in which you speak of me in connection with your possible visit
to England was most gratifying; and I here repeat that I should be truly
glad to see you in the delightful spot where I have long dwelt; and I
have the more pleasure in saying this to you, because, in spite of my
old infirmity, my strength exceeds that of most men of my years, and my
general health continues to be, as it always has been, remarkably good.
A page of blank paper stares me in the face; and I am not sure that it
is worth while to fill it with a sonnet which broke from me not long ago
in reading an account of misdoings in many parts of your Republ