The Sun.
London, England, 1859-01-25 00:00:00

THE Buiexs PRSTIVAL.

CRYSTAL PALACE—(TiiIS DAY).
The centenary of the birth of. Robert Burns was
celebrated this day at the Cr:istal Palace with the
greatest eclat. At an early • hour this morning
trains of extraordinary leng' ch continued to arrive
at the Palace terminus, ,:rowded with persons
anxious, as our friends on the other side of the
Channel say, to assist at the, ceremony. The London
and Brighton Company on the occasion ran specials
as rapidly as safeAy pernlitted ; but the thousands
who arrived by them were outnumbered by those
who availed themselves, of the Pimlico terminus.
The arrangements at the Crystal Palace for the
reception of the vast company were of the most
complete description, and during the great rush
in the early part of the day nothing that could
be called confusion o ceurred.
The great point ok attraction appeared to be that
part of the building called for the occasion the
" Court of Poets," and situate immediately in front
of the great orchestra erected for the Handel Fes-
tival. The decorations of the " Court" were of the
most chaste and appropriate description, and re-
flected the highest credit upon the artistes engaged
in the work, and also upon the directors of the
Palace, who appeared to have entered con amore
into the task of celebrating the birth of Scotland's
minstrel on a scale of unparalleled magnificence.
The scene within the Palace was superb, and those
only who have been fortunate enough to be present
on some of the great festivals which have taken
place within the crystal structure can form any
idea of the beauty of the sight. Every seat from
which one could hear or see, and many from which
it was difficult to do either, had its occupants, and.,
notwithstanding the immense accommodation.
vided, some hundreds of visitors were &wed to
be content to promenade the other part', of the
building, apd survey from a distance the mas-
sive thousands which, rank on rank,• filled every
portion of the central space.

A vast multitude is always a rand and moving
spectacle, but when the concour.,e is assembled and
arranged in such a building ss the Crystal Palace,
motionless and almost breathless, listening with
intense interest to the 01,1 familiar songs poured
forth by thousands of voices, the effect is too great
for description.

Such was the case this morning, and at the
commencement of the festival, the uncovering of
the colossal bust of the immortal bard by Calder
Marshall, R.A., we should say those present
amounted to upwards of ten thousand. The
audience seated in front of the orchestra
seemed to rise like sov.ne colossal bouquet
from out the garden of, colours which spreads
around it, and to look 40W11 upon the great par-

terre where at least 5,000 forms were in continual
motion, gave to the 7vhole concourse an 'aspect which
was grand in the extreme.
As soon as the veil was withdrawn from the
bust, a cheer arose that has never yet been equalled
at any of the• many festivals that have been cele-
brated here. It was perfectly electrifying, and in
an instant was renewed, and kept up the increasing
enthusiasm for several minutes.
The concert commenced at two o'clock. The
pieces in the programme consisted chiefly of the
well-known songs of Burns; such, for instance, as
" Duncan Gray," " Green grows the rushes 0,"
" A man's a man for a' that," and " Scot's wha' hae
wi' Wallace bled." Miss Dolby, Miss Lizzy Stuart,
and several other vocalists, executed the solos, while
the choruses were given, as we have before re-
marked, by the audience, aided by the band of the
Scots Fusilier Guards, 2,000 musical amateurs, and
deputations from several provincial choral societies.
At the conclusion of the first part of the concert,
the following Prize Poem was beautifully declaimed
by Mr. Phelps :

We hail this morn,
A century's noblest birth;
A Poet peasant-born,
Who more of Fame's immortal dower
Unto his country brings.
Than all her Kings!

As lamps high set
Upon some earthly eminence,—
And to the gazer brighter thence
Than the sphere-lights they flout,—
Dwindle in distance and die out,
While no star waneth yet ;
So through the past's far-reaching night,
Only the star-souls keep their light.

A gentle boy,—
With moods of sadness and of mirth,

Quick tears and sudden joy,—
Grew up beside the peasant's hearth.

His father's toil he shares ;
But half his mother's cares
From his dark searching eyes,
Too swift to sympathise,
Hid in her heart she bears.

At early morn,
His father calls him to the field ;
Through the stiff soil that clogs his feet,
Chill rain, and harvest heat,
Ho plods all day ; returns at eve outworn,
To the rude fare a peasant's lot doth yield ;.
To what else was he born ?

The God-made King
Of every living thing ;
(For his great heart in love could hold them all ;)
The dumb eyes meeting his by hearth and stall,—
Gifted to understand !
Knew it and sought his hand ;
And the most timorous creature had not fled,
Could she his heart have read,
Which fain all feeble things had bless'd and sheltered.

To Nature's feast,
Who knew her noblest guest
And entertain'd him best,—

Kingly he came. Her chambers of the east
She drap'd with crimson and with gold,
And peur'd her pure joy-wines
For him the poet-soul'd.
For him her anthem roll'd,

From the storm-wind among the winter pines,
Down to the slenderest note
Of a love-warble, from the linnet's throat.

But when begins
The army for battle, and the trumpet blows,
A King must leave the feast, and lead the fight.
And with its mortal foes,—
Grim gathering hosts of sorrows and of sins,—
Each human soul must close.

And Fame her trumpet blew
Before him ; wrapp'd him in her purple state ;
And made him mark for all the shafts of fate,
That henceforth round him flew.

Though ho may yield
Hard-pressed, and wounded fall
Forsaken on the field
His regal vestments ;
His crown of half its jewels spoil' d ;
He is a King for all.
Had ho but stood aloof 1
Had he array'd himself in armour proof
Against temptation's darts !
So yearn the good ;—so those the world calls wise,
With vain presumptuous hearts,
Triumphant moralise.

Of martyr-woe
A sacred shadow on his memory rests ;
Te.ars have not ceas'd to flow ;
Indignant grief yet stirs impetuous breasts,
To think—above that noble soul brought low,
That wise and soaring spirit fool' d, enslav'd,—
Thus, thus he had been saved !

Regretful love
His country fain would prove,
By grateful honours lavish'd on his grave ;
Would fain redeem her blame
That He so little at her hands can claim,

It might not be I
That heart of harmony
Had been too rudely rent;
Its silver chords, which any hand could wound,
By no hand could be tun'd,
Save by the Maker of the instrument,
Its every string who knew,
And from profaning touch His heavenly gift withdrew.