ing mournful refrain, others satirical, but all flung
off, one can see, at a sitting; in the few verses the mood is exhausted,
and while the result remains, the cause is forgotten even by himself.
Several of these short poems are almost perfect in feeling and execution.
The melancholy ones are full of a serious grace, while in the satirical a
laughing devil of glee and malice sparkles in every line. Some of these
latter are dangerous to touch as a thistle--all bristling and angry with
the spikes of satiric scorn.

In his allegorical poems--"The Golden Targe," "The Merle and the
Nightingale," "The Thistle and the Rose"--Dunbar's fancy has full scope.
As allegories, they are, perhaps, not worth much; at all events, modern
readers do not care for the adventures of "Quaking Dread and Humble
Obedience"; nor are they affected by descriptions of Beauty, attended by
her fair damsels, Fair Having, Fine Portraiture, Pleasance, and Lusty
Cheer. The whole conduct and machinery of such things are too artificial
and stilted for modern tastes. Stately masques are no longer performed
in earls' mansions; and when a sovereign enters a city, a fair lady, with
wings, representing Loyalty, does not burst out of a pasteboard cloud and
recite a poetical address to Majesty. In our theatres the pantomime,
which was originally an adumbration of human life, has become degraded.
Symbolism has departed from the boards, and burlesque reigns in its
stead. The Lord Mavor's Show, the last remnant of the antique
spectacular taste, does not move us now; it is held a public nuisance; it
provokes the rude "chaff" of the streets. Our very mobs have become
critical. Gog and Magog are dethroned. The knight feels the satiric
comments through his armour. The very steeds are uneasy, as if ashamed.
But in Dunbar the allegorical machinery is saved from contempt by colour,
poetry, and music.

Quick surprises of beauty, and a rapid succession of pictures, keep the
attention awake. Now it is--

"May, of mirthful monethis queen,
Betwixt April and June, her sisters sheen,
Within the garden walking up and down."

Now--

"The god of windis, Eolus,
With variand look, richt like a lord unstable."

Now the nightingale--

"Never sweeter noise was heard with livin' man,
Nor made this merry, gentle nightingale;
Her sound went with the river as it ran
Out throw the fresh and flourished lusty vale."

And now a spring morning--

"