A straw-thatched roof above his head,
A straw-wrought couch beneath.

And I have stood beside the pile,

His monument - that tells to heaven
The homage of earth's proudest isle
To the Bard Peasant given!

Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot,
Boy minstrel, in thy dreaming hour;
And know, however low his lot,

A Poet's pride and power:

The pride that lifted Burns from earth,
The power that gave a child of song
Ascendency o'er rank and birth,

The rich, the brave, the strong;

And if despondency weigh down
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then,
Despair thy name is written on the roll

Of common men.

There have been loftier themes than his,
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres,
And lays lit up with Poesy's

Purer and holier fires:

Yet read the names that know not death-
Few nobler ones than Burns are there;
And few have won a greener wreath

Than that which binds his hair.

His is that language of the heart

In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek;

And his that music, to whose tone

The common pulse of man keeps time,

In cot or castle's mirth or moan,

In cold or sunny clime.

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt
Before its spell with willing knee,
And listened, and believed, and felt
The poet's mastery.

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm,
O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers,
O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm,
O'er Reason's dark, cold hours;

On fields where brave men "die or do,"
In halls where rings the banquet's mirth,
Where mourners weep, where lovers woo,
From throne to cottage hearth?

What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
What wild vows falter on the tongue,
When "Scots wha' hae wi' Wallace bled,"
Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung?

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above,

Come with his cotter's hymn of praise, And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, With Logan's banks and braes.

Through care, and pain, and want, and woe,

With wounds that only death could heal, Tortures the poor alone can know,

The proud alone can feel;

He kept his honesty and truth,

His independent tongue and pen,

And moved, in manhood as in youth,
Pride of his fellow-men.

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong,

A hate of tyrant and of knave,

A love of right, a scorn of wrong,
Of coward and of slave;

A kind, true heart, a spirit high,

That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye

And on his manly brow.

Praise to the bard! his words are driven,
Like flower seeds by the far winds sown,
Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven,
The birds of fame have flown.

Praise to the man! a nation stood
Beside his coffin with wet eyes,
Her brave, her beautiful, her good,
As when a loved one dies.

And still, as on his funeral day,

Men stand his cold earth couch around,

With the mute homage that we pay
To consecrated ground.

And consecrated ground it is,

The last, the hallowed home of one

Who lives upon all memories,

Though with the buried gone.

Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.

Sages, with wisdom's garland wreathed,

Crowned kings, and mitered priests of power, And warriors with their bright swords sheathed, The mightiest of the hour;

And lowlier names, whose humble home

Is lit by fortune's dimmer star,

Are there - o'er wave and mountain come,
From countries near and far;

Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed

The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand,

Or trod the piled leaves of the West,
My own green forest land.

All ask the cottage of his birth,
Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,
And gather feelings not of earth
His fields and streams among.

They linger by the Doon's low trees,
And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr,
And round thy sepulchers, Dumfries!
The poet's tomb is there.

But what to them the sculptor's art,

His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns?
Wear they not graven on the heart
The name of Robert Burns?

ELLEN AT THE FARM.

BY SUSAN WARNER.

(From "The Wide, Wide World.")

[SUSAN WARNER: A popular American novelist; born in New York city, July 11, 1819. Under the pen name of "Elizabeth Wetherell" she published "The Wide, Wide World" (1850), which had a sale of 250,000 copies in the United States, and was widely read in England. Among her later works are: "Queechy," "The Hills of the Shatemuc," "The Old Helmet," "Melbourne House," 99.66 Wych Hazel," and "My Desire." She died at Highland Falls, N. Y., 1885.]

CLOUDS and rain and cold winds kept Ellen within doors for several days. This did not better the state of matters between herself and her aunt. Shut up with her in the kitchen from morning till night, with the only variety of the old lady's company part of the time, Ellen thought neither of them improved upon acquaintance. Perhaps they thought the same of her; she was certainly not in her best mood. With nothing to do, the time hanging very heavy on her hands, disappointed, unhappy, frequently irritated, Ellen became at length very ready to take offense, and nowise disposed to pass it over or smooth it away. She seldom showed this in words, it is true, but it rankled in her mind. Listless and brooding, she sat day after day, comparing the present with the past, wishing vain wishes, indulging bootless regrets, and looking upon her aunt and grandmother with an eye of more settled

aversion. The only other person she saw was Mr. Van Brunt, who came in regularly to meals; but he never said anything unless in answer to Miss Fortune's questions and remarks about the farm concerns. These did not interest her; and she was greatly wearied with the sameness of her life. She longed to go out again; but Thursday, and Friday, and Saturday, and Sunday passed, and the weather still kept her close prisoner. Monday brought a change, but though a cool, drying wind blew all day, the ground was too wet to venture out.

On the evening of that day, as Miss Fortune was setting the table for tea, and Ellen sitting before the fire, feeling weary of everything, the kitchen door opened, and a girl somewhat larger and older than herself came in. She had a pitcher in her hand, and marching straight up to the tea table, she said:

"Will you let granny have a little milk to-night, Miss Fortune? I can't find the cow. I'll bring it back to-morrow." "You hain't lost her, Nancy?"

"Have, though," said the other; "she's been away these two days."

66

Why didn't you go somewhere nearer for milk?"

"Oh! I don't know -I guess your'n is the sweetest," said the girl, with a look Ellen did not understand.

Miss Fortune took the pitcher and went into the pantry. While she was gone, the two children improved the time in looking very hard at each other. Ellen's gaze was modest enough, though it showed a great deal of interest in the new object; but the broad, searching stare of the other seemed intended to take in all there was of Ellen from her head to her feet, and keep it, and find out what sort of a creature she was at once. Ellen almost shrank from the bold black eyes, but they never wavered, till Miss Fortune's voice broke the spell.

"How's your grandmother, Nancy?"

"She's tolerable, ma'am, thank you."

"Now, if you don't bring it back to-morrow, you won't get any more in a hurry," said Miss Fortune, as she handed the pitcher back to the girl.

"I'll mind it," said the latter, with a little nod of her head, which seemed to say there was no danger of her forgetting. "Who is that, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen, when she was

gone.

"She is a girl that lives up on the mountain yonder."