Morning journal and courier., 1890-08-02

where the children slept, and at the south
end the chamber to which, precisely ss st
the Poe cottage and a. with Poe, Burns
would retreat when poetic inspiration of sur
passing intensity possessed him. 1t was
from this room that Burns passed ont, the
wreck of his former self, In the spring of
1896 for the hoped for help ct the waters Of
Brow Well. He knew the hand Of death
was upon him, and said TO his Jean, on de-
parting with that precious and well worn
pocket Bible ss "his chief luggage" "Don't
fear. wife. They win honor my name In q
hundred years more than nowi" And II
was to this room they brought him back,
q trembling shadow that blended into the
eternal sunshine on that bslmy July dsy
little later on.
1t may be altogether weak and unnanly.
but can scarcely read these inscriptions,
were records of birth and death
stately msusoleum of st. Michae
yard, for the tears through which I'll
lettering Is 90 blurred and dim. L
pity and glory of il alli-sobs the hea.
the vision of his brief years, his bitter -
tunes and his supreme achievement, rushes
Overwhelmingly into the memory. An in
spired sculptor has craven above his tomb
the apatheosis of his conservation 10 the
muse-Poesy descending from heaven and
discovering the rustic rhymer at his plough.
The sun never sets where there are no monu-
ments to his memory. There are few tradu-
GERS now. We are growing to remember
only how generous he was, how msgnsni-
nous; how he bettered humankind by his
matchless pleas for the brotherhood of man;
how his pen was ever blazing scimitAr
against injustice, false aristocrscy, hypocri-
81, sham; how, as no other failing or all
ing nature ever has done, he Was more
merciless towards his own follies than to
all others misfortunes and weaknesses;
how human and humane, not conscious and
vulgar, was he In every sad and glad hour
of his life; and then how, in his short Pc
Rod of accomplishment, what stupendous
and majestic legacy, absolutely untainted
by vensl diplomacy and reward, he left to
all mankind. For one, i come to this
shrine with no hsltipg apologies for his char
acter and memory. And as this night falls
upon the plecs where he lies. would count
Il an all sufficient fame had the power TO st
one stroke blot out all the lessening inter-
pretstions of the past one hundred years,
aud make this his memory and monument In
every human heart.
His known and secret struggles were his
| own and his makers sacredly. Infinitely
well was 1t for the world thst he lived and
loved and besuesthed to mankind.
AT THE GRAVE BURNS.
1 Slow fell the velvet curtains Of the dusk
Around St Michael's kirkyard weird and dim:
while Nithsdale's fiowry braes breathed summers
II
From Lowther Hill to Criffel's hosry rim.
The drowsy clafter of old Dumfries' streets;
The plants Of rocks within the steepla old;
The swallows Groom; the blsck-brds' tuneful
sweets;
/ Bleut soft IN tender murmurs manifold
The night was come. fingered still alone.
| Impassioned pilgrim by insensate stone.
| IF thou art here, departed shader' 1 cried.
by pure ambitions hollest faith and prayer.
| Let me come closer TO thy kingly side:
Call me one step upon Thy regal siairi
| Cropping and footsore in t5e path Of sorg,
| fain would consecrate my lay
To humblest .trivers in the countless thr5ng.
That. guideless. falier on the wo-l5's highway.
| o spirit incarnafe Of Poesy.
/ Speak, speak thy secret 10 this dsvotees"
| What seer can tell the mysteries OF prsyers
| Priceless Its answer 10 this vauifed tomb.
4 For faiths reward comes oftfimes unaware.
Swift flashing through the maus0scums gloom
4 A radiance Lit the epic-graven stone
1 Transdgured shown the form OF Poesy:
L Her mantle. closer drawn. held Coa's own
To her fair breast These sacred words spoke
she:
'If thou wouldst gain his allimmortal art,
Sing sweet and true unto the human hesrf."
EDGAR L. WAKEMAN.