ROBERT BURNS WILSON.

What intuition named thee?— Through what thrill

Of the awed soul came the command divine

Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine

Should palpitate with his whose raptures will

Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill

Their undulating ways up through the fine

Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line

Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still

The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised

His voice therein, and, quit of every stress

Of earthly ache and longing and despair,

Knew certainly each simple thing he praised

Was no less worthy, for its lowliness,

Than any joy of all the glory There.