in the other extreme. The expression is a
little awkward, and the sentiment too serious. Stanza the second I am
well pleased with; and I think it conveys a fine idea of that amiable
part of the sex--the agreeables; or what in our Scotch dialect we call
a sweet sonsie lass. The third stanza has a little of the flimsy turn
in it; and the third line has rather too serious a cast. The fourth
stanza is a very indifferent one; the first line, is, indeed, all in
the strain of the second stanza, but the rest is most expletive. The
thoughts in the fifth stanza come finely up to my favourite idea--a
sweet sonsie lass: the last line, however, halts a little. The same
sentiments are kept up with equal spirit and tenderness in the sixth
stanza, but the second and fourth lines ending with short syllables
hurt the whole. The seventh stanza has several minute faults; but I
remember I composed it in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this
hour I never recollect it but my heart melts, my blood sallies, at the
remembrance.

* * * * *

_September._

I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. Smith, in his
excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most painful
sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of
fortitude may bear up tolerably well under those calamities, in the
procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand; but when our own
follies, or crimes, have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up
with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitent sense
of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command.

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those
That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say, 'It was no deed of mine;'
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added--'Blame thy foolish self!'
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse;
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt--
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,
Nay, more, that every love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell; in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its ag