Robert Burns adopts the name Sylvander to address Clarinda, a married woman from whom he craves more than friendship. He recalls the instant her beauty struck him, leaving him too overwhelmed to do anything but gaze in despair. Love pierces him, yet he hides behind a front of mere companionship—honour and fear hold him back. He suffers silently, groaning with a pain he can’t quite conceal. When Clarinda coldly tells him to send word through a servant, Charles, it chills his urge to write, until passionate impatience wins out. He offers a wry, self-mocking excuse: he wrote only because he “had nothing else to do.” The poem closes with a plea to accept his friendship if not his love, and to stop forbidding his letters. A mood of aching longing and gentle frustration pervades the lines—a man caught between fierce desire and the constraints of propriety, his tone both tender and lightly ironic.
203. Sylvander to Clarinda — Summary
WHEN dear Clarinda, 1 matchless fair, First struck Sylvander’s raptur’d view, He gaz’d, he listened to despair, Alas! ’twas all he dared to do.
Love, from Clarinda’s heavenly eyes, Transfixed his bosom thro’ and thro’; But still in Friendships’ guarded guise, For more the demon fear’d to do.
That heart, already more than lost, The imp beleaguer’d all perdue; For frowning Honour kept his post— To meet that frown, he shrunk to do.
His pangs the Bard refused to own, Tho’ half he wish’d Clarinda knew; But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan— Who blames what frantic Pain must do?
That heart, where motley follies blend, Was sternly still to Honour true: To prove Clarinda’s fondest friend, Was what a lover sure might do.
The Muse his ready quill employed, No nearer bliss he could pursue; That bliss Clarinda cold deny’d— “Send word by Charles how you do!”
The chill behest disarm’d his muse, Till passion all impatient grew: He wrote, and hinted for excuse, ’Twas, ’cause “he’d nothing else to do.”
But by those hopes I have above! And by those faults I dearly rue! The deed, the boldest mark of love, For thee that deed I dare uo do!
O could the Fates but name the price Would bless me with your charms and you! With frantic joy I’d pay it thrice, If human art and power could do!
Then take, Clarinda, friendship’s hand, (Friendship, at least, I may avow;) And lay no more your chill command,— I’ll write whatever I’ve to do.SYLVANDER.
Note 1. A grass-widow, Mrs. M’Lehose. [back]