The false one looked for a daintier lot,

The constant one wearied me out and out,
The best was not easily got.

I set my heart upon travels grand,

Hurrah!

And spurned our plain old father-land;
But ah!

Nought seemed to be just the thing it should,
Most comfortless beds and indifferent food,
My tastes misunderstood.

I set my heart upon sounding fame;

Hurrah!

And lo! I'm eclipsed by some upstart's name
And ah!

When in public life I loomed quite high,
The folks that passed me would look awry;
Their very worst friend was I!

And then I set my heart upon war,
Hurrah!

We gained some battles with eclat,

Hurrah!

We troubled the foe with sword and flame, (And some of our friends fared quite the same,) I lost a leg for fame.

Now I've set my heart upon nothing, you see; Hurrah!

And the whole wide world belongs to me,

Hurrah!

The feast begins to run low, no doubt,

But at the old cask we'll have one good bout; Come drink the lees all out!

THE ERL-KING.

Who rideth so late through the night-wind wild? It is the father with his child;

He has the little one well in his arm;
He holds him safe, and he folds him warm.

My son, why hidest thy face so shy?
Seest thou not, father, the Erl-king nigh?
The Erlen king with train and crown?
It is a wreath of mist, my son.

"Come, lovely boy, come, go with me;

Such merry plays I will play with thee;
Many a bright flower grows on the strand,

And my mother has many a gay garment at hand.”

My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
What the Erl-king whispers in my ear?—
Be quiet, my darling, be quiet, my child;
Through withered leaves the wind howls wild.

"Come, lovely boy, wilt thou go with me? My daughters fair shall wait on thee;

My daughters their nightly revels keep;

They'll sing, and they 'll dance, and they'll rock thee to sleep."

My father, my father, and seest thou not

The Erl-king's daughters in yon dim spot?—

My son, my son, I see and I know,

'Tis the old gray willow that shimmers so.

"I love thee; thy beauty has ravished my sense,
And, willing or not, I will carry thee hence."
O father, the Erl-king now puts forth his arm!
O father, the Erl-king has done me harm!

The father shudders; he hurries on;
And faster he holds his moaning son;
He reaches his home with fear and dread,
And lo! in his arms, the child was dead!

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF SEVENTY-SEVEN.

When I was nothing but a child,
My pleasant little face would shine;
The painters surely would have smiled
To paint that little face of mine,—
What then? the pretty children, mind,
To me, were from the heart inclined.

Now, like an old master, I sit in state,

And they call me out in street and square;
And I'm to be had, like old Fritz the Great,
On pipe-heads, and on china ware;

But the pretty children, they keep afar :-
O dream of youth-time! O golden star!

A PARABLE..

Poems are colored window glasses!
Look into the church from the market square:
Nothing but gloom and darkness there!

Shrewd Sir Philistine sees things so:

Well may he narrow and captious grow,
Who all his life on the outside passes.

But come now, and inside we 'll go!
Now round the holy chapel gaze;
'Tis all one many-colored blaze:
Story and emblem, a pictured maze,
Flash by you:-'t is a noble show.
Here feel as sons of God baptized,
With hearts exalted and surprised.

L

ROBERT BURNS.

ROBERT BURNS,* eldest son of William Burness and Agnes Brown, his wife, was born 25th of January, 1759, in a clay-built cottage, raised by his father's own hands, on the banks of the Doon, in the district of Kyle and county of Ayr, and about two miles from the town of that name. The season in which this humble structure was reared, was severe and rough: the walls were weak and new; and some days after Robert's birth, a wind arose, which crushed the frail tenement, and the unconscious poet was carried unharmed to the shelter of a neighboring house.

He loved, when he grew up, to allude to this circumstance; and ironically claimed some commiseration for the stormy passions of one ushered into the world in a tempest. The rude edifice which we have mentioned is now an alehouse, and belongs to the shoemakers of Ayr; the recess in the wall, where the bed stood in which Burns was born, is pointed out to inquiring guests.

The mother of Burns was a native of the county of Ayr. Her birth was humble, and her personal attractions moderate; yet, in all other respects, she was a

* When Burns was about twenty-six years old, and had acquired some notoriety as a poet, he first began to write his name Burns, instead of Burness. It is one of the instances of that singularity by which he sought to distinguish himself.