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 eye 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.

And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall,

All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call.

Imagination's world of air,

And our own world, its gloom and glee,

Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,

And death's sublimity.

And Burns-though brief the race he ran,
Though rough and dark the path he trod,
Lived-died-in form and soul a Man,
The image of his God.

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 Mcccas of the mind.

Sages, with wisdom's garland wreathed,

Crowned kings, and mitred 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 sepulchres, 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?

WYOMING."

"Dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St. Preux, mais ne les y cherchez pas."

ROUSSEAU.

I.

HOU com'st, in beauty, on my gaze at last,

"On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming!" Image of many a dream, in hours long past, When life was in its bud and blossoming, And waters, gushing from the fountain-spring Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes, As by the poet borne, on unseen wing,

I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies, The summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies.

II.

I then but dreamed: thou art before me now,

In life, a vision of the brain no more.

I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow,

That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er;

And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore,
Within a bower of sycamores am laid;

And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore

The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade, Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head.