SONG OF THE FORGE.

CLANG, clang! the massive anvils ring;
Clang, clang! a hundred hammers swing;
Like the thunder rattle of a tropic sky,
The mighty blows still multiply;
Clang, clang!

Say, brothers of the dusky brow,
What are your strong arms forging now?
Clang, clang! We forge the colter now,-
The colter of the kindly plough;
Prosper it, Heaven, and bless our toil!
May its broad furrow still unbind
To genial rains, to sun and wind,
The most benignant soil!

Clang, clang! Our colter's course shall be
On many a sweet and sunny lea,

By many a streamlet's silver tide,
Amid the song of morning birds,
Amid the low of sauntering herds,
Amid soft breezes which do stray
Through woodbine hedges and sweet may,
Along the green hill's side.

When regal Autumn's bounteous hand
With widespread glory clothes the land,
When to the valleys, from the brow
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled
A ruddy sea of living gold, -
We bless-we bless the Plough.

Clang, clang! Again, my mates, what glows
Beneath the hammer's potent blows?

Clink, clank! We forge the giant chain
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain,
'Mid stormy winds and adverse tides ;
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.

Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive dark before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;

Calmly he rests, though far away
In boisterous climes his vessel lay,
Reliant on our skill.

Say on what sands these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep;
By Afric's pestilential shore,

By many an iceberg, lone and hoar,
By many a palmy Western isle,
Basking in Spring's perpetual smile, -
By stormy Labrador.

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When to the battery's deadly peal

The crashing broadside makes reply?
Or else, as at the glorious Nile,

Hold grappling ships, that strive the while For death or victory?

Hurrah! Cling, clang! Once more, what glows,
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows,

The furnace's red breath?

Clang, clang! A burning torrent, clear
And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured
Around and up in the dusky air,

As, our hammers forge the sword.

The sword! - a name of dread; yet when
Upon the freeman's thigh 't is bound,
While for his altar and his hearth,
While for the land that gave him birth,
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound,
How sacred is it then!

Whenever, for the truth and right,
It flashes in the van of fight,-
Whether in some wild mountain pass,
As that where fell Leonidas,

Or on some sterile plain, and stern,
A Marston or a Bannockburn,

Or 'mid fierce crags and bursting rills,
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills, -
Or, as when sank the Armada's pride,
It gleams above the stormy tide,
Still, still, whene'er the battle-word
Is Liberty, when men do stand
For justice and their native land,
Then Heaven bless the Sword!

ROBERT BURNS.

ROBERT BURNS was born near the town of Ayr, Scotland, on the 25th day of January, 1759. William Burns, "the brave father, a silent hero and poet," was a humble farmer, but he had a thirst for knowledge, and longed to give his family an education. He often 5 spent his noon hour

in pointing out the wonders of nature and

imparting to his children what little knowledge he had gained. Robert was sent to school at Mt. Oliphant in his sixth year; but his father's poverty gave him little opportunity for education, and at the age of thirteen he was assisting in threshing the corn,

and at sixteen was the principal laborer on the farm. There was an old woman named Betty Davidson who lived in the family. She had a store of tales and songs of fairies, ghosts, witches, dragons, and enchanted towers. Robert used to listen to these weird stories, 25 which had a strong effect upon his imagination. They fostered his love of poetry, so that when his hands

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were busy with the farm work, his mind was galloping off on deeds of chivalry or indulging in flights of fancy.

The Sabbath was the only time for rest in this busy 5 household, and upon that day Robert Burns would be found wandering alone beside the river Ayr and listening to the songs of the birds:

"The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush."

A storm always filled his heart with reverence.

wrote:

He

"There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more 15 I do not know if I should call it pleasure, but something that exalts me-than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood or high plantation in a cloudy winter day and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees and raving over the plain. . . . I listened to 20 the birds, and frequently turned out of my path lest I should disturb their little songs or frighten them to another station."

In spite of his long hours of hard work, Burns became a great reader. He carried some volume, usually a 25 book of poems, in his pocket to study during his spare

moments, and wrote: "I pored over them driving my cart, or walking to labor, song by song, verse by verse, carefully noting the true, tender, sublime, or fustian."