eye and manifest to his ear, he could paint with a life and a humour which Burns seems alone to excel."[41] In private life, Wilson was a model of benevolence and of the social virtues; he was devoid of selfishness, active in beneficence, and incapable of resentment.  Before his departure for America, he waited on every one whom he conceived he had offended by his juvenile escapades, and begged their forgiveness; and he did not hesitate to reprove Burns for the levity too apparent in some of his poems.  To his aged father, who survived till the year 1816, he sent remittances of money as often as he could afford; and at much inconvenience and pecuniary sacrifice, he established the family of his brother-in-law on a farm in the States.  He was sober even to abstinence; and was guided in all his transactions by correct Christian principles.  In person, he was remarkably handsome; his countenance was intelligent, and his eye sparkling.  He never attained riches, but few Scotsmen have left more splendid memorials of their indomitable perseverance.[42] FOOTNOTES: 

[41] The “Songs of Scotland,” by Allan Cunningham, vol. i. p. 247.

[42] The most complete collection of his poems appeared in a volume published under the following title:—­“The Poetical Works of Alexander Wilson; also, his Miscellaneous Prose Writings, Journals, Letters, Essays, &c., now first Collected:  Illustrated by Critical and Explanatory Notes, with an extended Memoir of his Life and Writings, and a Glossary.”  Belfast, 1844, 18vo.  A portrait of the author is prefixed.

CONNEL AND FLORA.

    Dark lowers the night o’er the wide stormy main,
    Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;
    Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore,
    But Connel returns to his Flora no more.

    For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death,
    O’er Connel’s lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
    While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
    He lies, to return to his Flora no more.

    Ye light fleeting spirits, that glide o’er the steep,
    Oh, would ye but waft me across the wild deep! 
    There fearless I’d mix in the battle’s loud roar,
    I’d die with my Connel, and leave him no more.

MATILDA.

    Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o’er the deep,
      Ye breezes, that sigh o’er the main,
    Here shelter me under your cliffs while I weep,
      And cease while ye hear me complain.

    For distant, alas! from my dear native shore,
      And far from each friend now I be;
    And wide is the merciless ocean that roars
      Between my Matilda and me.

    How blest were the times when together we stray’d,
      While Phoebe shone silent above,
    Or lean’d by the border of Cartha’s green side,
      And talk’d the whole evening of love!