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

THE BU.RNS FESTIVAL.

CRYSTAL PALACE-(THIS DAY).

The centenary of the birth of Robert Burns was
celebrated this day at the Crystal Palace with the
greatest eclat. At an early hour this morning
trains of extraordinary length continued to arrive
at the Palace terminus, crowded 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 safety permitted ; 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 occurred.

The great point of 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 pro-
vided, some hundreds of visitors were forced to
be content to promenade the other parts of the
building, and 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 grand and moving
spectacle, but when the concourse is assembled and
arranged in such a building as the Crystal Palace,
motionless and almost breathless, listening with
intense interest to the old 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 some colossal bouquet
from out the garden of colours which spreads
around it, and to look down upon the great par-
terre where at least 5,000 forms were in continual
motion, gave to the whole 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 o,'
" 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,
He 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 thorn all ;)
The dumb eyes meeting his by hearth and
Gifted to understand !
Knew it and sought his hand;
And the most timorous creature had no), 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 ho came. Her chambers of the east
She drap'd with crimson and with gold,
And peur'd her pare joy-wines
For him the poet-soul'd.
For him her anthem roll'd,