Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-08-02

more than nowr' And it was to this room
they brought him back, trembling shadow
that blended into the eternal sunshine or
that balmy July day, little later on.
1t may be altogether weak and unmanly,
but can scarcely read these inscriptions.
mere records of birth and death, in the state.
| ly mausoleum Of st. Michael's kird-yard for
the tears through which the black lettering
is so blurred and dim. Oh, the pity and
glory Of 1t all i-sobs the heart, ss the vision
OF his brief years, his bitter fortunes and his
supreme achievement, rushes overwhelm-
ingly into the memory. An inspired sculptor
has craven above his tomb the apotheosis Of
his conservation to the Muse-Poesy de-
scending from heaven and discovering the
rustic rhymer at his plow. The sun never
sets where there are no monuments to his
memory. There are few traducers now.
We are growing to remember only how gem
erous be was, how magnanimousj how be
bettered humankind by his matchless pleas
for the brotherhood Of man; how his pen
was ever blazing Scimetar against injustice,
false aristocracy, hypocrisy, sham; how, as
no other failing or ailing nature ever has
done, he was more merciless toward 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 period of accomplishment, what o
stupendous and majestic legacy, absolutely
untainted by venal diplomacy and reward,
he left to all mankind. For one, 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-suficient fame had 1 the
power to at one stroke blot out all the lessen.
ing Interpretations of the past 100 years and
make this his memory and monument in
every human heart.
POETS TRIBUTE TO A POET.
His known and secret struggles were his
own and his Makers sacredly. Infinitely
we'll was 1t tor the world that he lived and
loved and bequeathed TO mankind.
AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS.
Slow fell the velvet curtains of the dusk
Around st. Michaers kirk-yard weird and
dim;
While Nithsdale's aow'ry braes breathed sum-
mer's musk
From Lowther Hill to Criffeps hoary rim.
The drowsy claster Of old Dumfries' streets;,
The plants of rocks within the steeple old;
The swallows Groom; the blackbirds' tuneful
sweets;
Blent soft in tender murmurs manifold
The night has come. fingered still alone.
1mpassioned pilgrim by insensate stone.
IF thou art here. departed shader' 1 cried,
by pure ambition's holiest faith and prayer,
Let me come closer to thy kingly side;
Call me one step upon thy regal stairi
Cropping and footsore In the path of song,
fain would consecrate my lay
To hum mblest strivers in the countless throng
That, guideless. falter on the worlds highway.
o spirit incarnate of Poesy
Speak, speak thy secret to this devoteer
What seer can tell the mysteries Of prayer:
Priceless its answer in this vaulted tomb;
For faiths reward comes ofttimes unaware.
Swift flashing through the mausolsum's
gloom
A radiance lit the epic-graven stone.
Transhgured shone the form of Poesy;
Her mantle, closer drawn, held Coila's own
To her fair breast. These sacred words
spoke she:
W thou toouldst gain his dlLimmortdl art
Sing sweet una true unto the human hedrtH
EDGARL WAKEMAN,