He has the little one well in his arm;
He holds him safe, and he folds him warm.

My son, why hidest thy face so shy?
Seest thou not, father, the Erl-king nigh?
The Erlen king with train and crown?
It is a wreath of mist, my son.

"Come, lovely boy, come, go with me;
Such merry plays I will play with thee;
Many a bright flower grows on the strand,
And my mother has many a gay garment at hand."

My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
What the Erl-king whispers in my ear?—
Be quiet, my darling, be quiet, my child;
Through withered leaves the wind howls wild.

"Come, lovely boy, wilt thou go with me?
My daughters fair shall wait on thee;
My daughters their nightly revels keep;

They'll sing, and they 'll dance, and they'll rock thee to sleep."

My father, my father, and seest thou not

The Erl-king's daughters in yon dim spot?—

My son, my son, I see and I know,

'Tis the old gray willow that shimmers so.

"I love thee; thy beauty has ravished my sense,
And, willing or not, I will carry thee hence."
O father, the Erl-king now puts forth his arm!
O father, the Erl-king has done me harm!

The father shudders; he hurries on;
And faster he holds his moaning son;
He reaches his home with fear and dread,
And lo! in his arms, the child was dead!

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF SEVENTY-SEVEN.

When I was nothing but a child,

My pleasant little face would shine;
The painters surely would have smiled
To paint that little face of mine,-
What then? the pretty children, mind,
To me, were from the heart inclined.

Now, like an old master, I sit in state,

And they call me out in street and square;
And I'm to be had, like old Fritz the Great,
On pipe-heads, and on china ware;

But the pretty children, they keep afar :-
O dream of youth-time! O golden star!

A PARABLE..

Poems are colored window glasses!
Look into the church from the market square:
Nothing but gloom and darkness there!

Shrewd Sir Philistine sees things so:
Well may he narrow and captious grow,
Who all his life on the outside passes.

But come now, and inside we 'll go!
Now round the holy chapel gaze;
'Tis all one many-colored blaze:
Story and emblem, a pictured maze,
Flash by you:-'t is a noble show.
Here feel as sons of God baptized,
With hearts exalted and surprised.

L

ROBERT BURNS.

ROBERT BURNS,* eldest son of William Burness and Agnes Brown, his wife, was born 25th of January, 1759, in a clay-built cottage, raised by his father's own hands, on the banks of the Doon, in the district of Kyle and county of Ayr, and about two miles from the town of that name. The season in which this humble structure was reared, was severe and rough: the walls were weak and new; and some days after Robert's birth, a wind arose, which crushed the frail tenement, and the unconscious poet was carried unharmed to the shelter of a neighboring house.

He loved, when he grew up, to allude to this circumstance; and ironically claimed some commiseration for the stormy passions of one ushered into the world in a tempest. The rude edifice which we have mentioned is now an alehouse, and belongs to the shoemakers of Ayr; the recess in the wall, where the bed stood in which Burns was born, is pointed out to inquiring guests.

The mother of Burns was a native of the county of Ayr. Her birth was humble, and her personal attractions moderate; yet, in all other respects, she was a

*When Burns was about twenty-six years old, and had acquired some notoriety as a poet, he first began to write his name Burns, instead of Burness. It is one of the instances of that singularity by which he sought to distinguish himself.

remarkable woman. She was blessed with singular equanimity of temper; her religious feeling was deep and constant; she loved a well-regulated household; and it was frequently her pleasure to give wings to the weary hours of a chequered life by chanting old songs and ballads, of which she had a large store. In her looks she resembled her eldest son; her eyes were bright and intelligent; her perception of character, quick and keen. She lived to a great age, rejoiced in the fame of the poet, and partook of the fruits of his genius.

His father was from another district. He was the son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, and born on the lands of the noble family of Keith Marischall. The retainer, like his chief, fell into misfortunes; his household was scattered, and William Burness, with a small knowledge of farming, and a large stock of speculative theology, was obliged to leave his native place, at the age of nineteen, in search of better

fortunes.

The elder Burns seems to have been but an indif ferent judge of land; in a district where much fine ground is under cultivation, he sat down in a sterile and hungry spot, which no labor could render fruitful. He had commenced too on borrowed money: the seasons, as well as the soil, proved churlish; and "a stern factor," says Robert, "whose threatening letters set us all in tears," interposed, and he was compelled, after a six years' struggle, to relinquish the lease.

The life of William Burness was one continued struggle, which he carried on with the honorable pride common among his countrymen, hoping to bet