ROBERT BURNS.

WHAT bird, in beauty, flight, or song,
Can with the Bard compare,

Who sang as sweet, and soar'd as strong,
As ever child of air?

His plume, his note, his form, could BURNS
For whim or pleasure change;
He was not one, but all by turns,
With transmigration strange.
The Blackbird, oracle of spring,
When flow'd his moral lay;
The Swallow wheeling on the wing,
Capriciously at play :

The Humming-bird, from bloom to bloom,
Inhaling heavenly balm ;

The Raven, in the tempest's gloom;
The Halcyon, in the calm :

In "auld Kirk Alloway," the Owl,
At witching time of night;
By "bonnie Doon," the earliest Fowl
That caroll'd to the light.

He was the Wren amidst the grove,
When in his homely vein;

At Bannockburn the Bird of Jove,
With thunder in his train:

The Woodlark, in his mournful hours;
The Goldfinch, in his mirth;
The Thrush, a spendthrift of his powers,
Enrapturing heaven and earth;

The Swan, in majesty and grace,
Contemplative and still:

1820.

But roused,-no Falcon, in the chase,
Could like his satire kill.

The Linnet in simplicity,

In tenderness the Dove;

But more than all beside was he
The Nightingale in love.

Oh! had he never stoop'd to shame,
Nor lent a charm to vice,
How had Devotion loved to name
That Bird of Paradise!

Peace to the dead!-In Scotia's choir
Of Minstrels great and small,
He sprang from his spontaneous fire,
The Phoenix of them all.

THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND.

"Ye have done it unto me."-Matt. xxv 40.

A POOR wayfaring Man of grief
Hath often cross'd me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,

That I could never answer "Nay:"
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet was there something in his eye
That won my love, I knew not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He enter'd ;—not a word he spake ;-
Just perishing for want of bread;

I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again;
Mine was an Angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mock'd his thirst,

He heard it, saw it hurrying on :
I ran to raise the sufferer up;

Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup, Dipt, and return'd it running o'er;

I drank, and never thirsted more.

'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof;

I heard his voice abroad, and flew

To bid him welcome to my roof;

I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd
In Eden's garden while I dream'd.

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway-side:
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment; he was heal'd;
-I had myself a wound conceal'd;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And Peace bound up my broken heart.

In prison I saw him next, condemn'd

To meet a traitor's doom at morn;

The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd,

And honour'd him midst shame and scorn:

My friendship's utmost zeal to try,

He ask'd if I for him would die ;

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,

But the free spirit cried, "I will."

Then in a moment to my view,

The Stranger darted from disguise;

The tokens in his hands I knew,

My Saviour stood before mine eyes:

He spake ; and my poor name He named ;

"Of me thou hast not been ashamed: These deeds shall thy memorial be; Fear not, thou didst them unto Me." Scarborough, December, 1826.

FRIENDS.

FRIEND after friend departs :
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts,
That finds not here an end:
Were this frail world our only rest,
Living or dying, none were blest.

Beyond the flight of Time,

Beyond this vale of death,

There surely is some blessed clime,
Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward to expire.

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown;
A whole eternity of love,

Form'd for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that happier sphere.

Thus star by star declines,

Till all are pass'd away,

As morning high and higher shines
To pure and perfect day;

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

-They hide themselves in heaven's own light.

A THEME FOR A POET.

1814.

Written in contemplation of a Poem on the Evangelization of one of the most degraded tribes of heathens. This the Author some years afterwards attempted, and partly executed, in "GREENLAND," in five cantos, of which the following were the opening lines, but withdrawn, as inapplicable to the unfinished work when it was published.

Give me a theme to grace an Angel's tongue,
A theme to which a lyre was never strung;
Barbarian hordes, by Satan's craft enthrall'd,
From chains to freedom, guilt to glory call'd;
The deeds of men unfriended and unknown,

Sent forth by Him who loves and saves his own,
With faithful toil a barren land to bless,

And feed his flocks amid the wilderness.

These lines were afterwards adopted as a motto to the second volume of the last edition of Crantz's Greenland, including the history of the Missions of the Moravian Brethren there, which was begun in the year 1733. (See also the notes to "GREENLAND.")

THE arrow that shall lay me low,

Was shot from Death's unerring bow,

The moment of my breath;

And every footstep I proceed,

It tracks me with increasing speed;

I turn,-it meets me,-Death
Has given such impulse to that dart,
It points for ever at my heart.

And soon of me it must be said,
That I have lived, that I am dead;
Of all I leave behind,

A few may weep a little while,

Then bless my memory with a smile:
What monument of mind

Shall I bequeath to deathless Fame,

That after-times may love my name?