Fort Worth daily gazette. (Fort Worth, Tex.) 1882-1891, 1890-08-03

chill Of death that never left him, though
he fingered, conscious of his fate, until
the 2lst of July following.
The old home OF Burns, that Is the
structural habitatIon, in what Is now
known as Burns street, is precisely as IL
was when the poets life ended within It,
and his loyal Jean, thirty-eight years
later breathed her last in the now histroio
dwelling; save that it has been freshened
up biz with paint, and the roof, some
little time since, was given a new sheath
lingo tiles. 1t is the property of u local
school board, and was granted to IL on
condition of slight anuuities to the poets
descendants, and also in consideration of
properly caring for the seputure of the
bard and his wife and children
In the St. Micheal's kirk yard
mausoleum, quite near at hand. 1t is
permanently occupied by the master of
the National board ragged school, Mr..
Mcintosh, who is not only distinguished
by his residence IN the Burns cottage,
but as having, through his discipline
and training the most remarkable hOus-
ing of trlant school lads in ali Scotland.
The cottage itself is almost o prototype
of the celebrated Poe cottage at Ford
ham, New YORK city, where Edgar Poe,
harrassed by poverty aud fighting his
heroic battle against desperation and
drink passed the last few dreadful years
of his life; and more than one start
ling similarity between the later expe-
riences OF these two meteOrs of genius
will occur among the saddening refec-
tions to which n visit here will give rise.
The first story OF the cottage comprises q
''but and ben, - that is, n kitchen and
q sitting room. The second, or attic,
story has q tiny dressing-room over the
front door, a sort of double dOrmitory at
the north end, where the children slept,
and at the south end the chamber to
which, precisely as at the Poe cottage
and rs with Poe, Burns would retreat
when poetic inspiration of surprising in
tensity possessed him. It was from this
room that Burns passed out, the wreck
OF his former self, in the spring of 1886
for the hoped-for help at the waters OF
Brow Well. He knew the hand of death
was upon him, and said TO his Jean, on
departing with that precious and WELL
worn pocket Bible as ''his chief lug
gage:'' "Don't fear, wife. They will
honor my name in hundred years, more
than now!'' And 1t was to this room
they brought him back,
\ TREMBLING SHADOW
that blended into the eternal sunshine on
that balmy July day, little later on.
1t may be altogether weak and unmau-
lv, but can scarcely read these inscrip-
tons, were records of birth and death,
in the stately mausoleum of st. Michael's
kirkyard, for the tears through which
the black lettering is SO blurred and dim.
Oh, the pity and glory of it all !-sobs the
heart, as the vision of his brief years,
his bitter fortunes and his supreme
achievement, rushes overwhelmingly
into the memory. An inspired sculptor
has craven above his tomb the apotheo-
sis of his conservation TO the muse-Posey
from heaven and discovering
the rustic rhymer at his plough. The
sun never sets where there are no mOuu-
ments to his memory. There are few
traducers now. We are growing to re-
member only how generous he was, how
how he bettered human
kind by his matohless pleas for the broth
srhoOd of man; how his pen was ever
blazing scimeter against injustice, false
aristocracy, hypocrisy, sham; how, as
no other failing or Giling nature
ever has done, he was more
mercilless towards his own fol-
lies than TO all others misfortunes
aud weaknesses; how human and hu-
name, not conscious and vulgar, was he
in every sad and glad hour of his life;
and then how, in his short period of ac-
what a stupendous aud
majestic legacy, absolutely untainted by
Eenal diplomacy and reward, he left to
all mauk ind. For one, L come to this
shrine with no hating apologies for his
character or memory. And as this night
falls upon the place where he lies,
would count it an all-sufficient fame had
fhn 70 of frnIr 1nf oil
the lessening interpretations of the past
100 years, and make this his memory and
monument in every human heart.
His known and secret struggles were
his own and his Makers sacredly. In
luItely well was it for the world that he
lived and loved and beQueathed to man
Kind.
AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS,
slow fell the velvet curtains of the dusk
Around st. Michael's kirk-yard weird and
While Nithsdale's aow'ry braes breathed sum
mer's musk
From Lowther Hill to CriEels hoary rim.
The drowsy clatter of old Dumfrles' streets:
The plants OF rocks within the steeple old:
The swallows Groom; the blsck-birds' tuneful
Blent soft in tender murrnurs manifold.
he night was come. fingered still alone,
Impassioned pilgrim by insensate stone.
IF thou art here, departed shadei'' cried,
by pure ambitions holiesrfaiIh and prayer,
.et me come closer to thy kingly side;
Call me one step upon thy regal stair!
fropiEg and footsore in the path of song,
faiu would consecrate my lay
o humbleSt striyers in the countless throng,
That, guideless, falter on the worlds highway.
spirit incarnate Of Poesy,
Speak, speak thy secret to this devoted"
What seer can tell the mysteries of prayerf
Priceless its answer in this vaulted tombi
or faith s reward comes ofttimes unaware.
Swift flashing through the mausoleum' 5 gloom
: radiance lit the epic craven stone.
Trans6gured shone the form OF Poesy;
Ter mantle, closer drawn, held Coila's own
To her fair breast. These sacred words spoke
she:
'If thou wouldst gain his all immortal art
ing sweet and true unto the human hearth
EDGAR l.. WAKEMAN.