What need has Robert Burns to return to earth and sing his songs through the lips of media? He does so rarely; and why? His spirit of love, of faith in God, of hope for human progress is so broad, so free and untrammeled, that it breathes itself out in a benediction of good over all humanity. It is manifested wherever a soul prays to be of use to itself and others; it inspires the weak with strength, and blesses the erring with a determination to redeem past errors; it is felt on earth and in spirit life, purifying, elevating, and regenerating. Is not this the loftiest poem, the sweetest song, the grandest tale that bard or prophet ever could have dreamed? Is it not the outworking, in lines of living glory, of the most sublime yet soulful pæan of praise to God that spirit can conceive? Is it not the breathing, soul-quickening, revivifying poem of life that is outwrought from the inspirations and aspirations of a gifted, struggling soul once in mortal, and which is the perfect culmination of all that has been dreamed of by that soul, manifesting itself in the fruition of a work of beauty, glory, and grandeur,—not of mechanical art, but of natural, quickened, sentient life? Could the mortal denouncers of Robert Burns witness his noble triumph of spirit over matter, his defeat of all sensual life, his wonderful efforts for the good of others, and his glorious soul, radiant with the light of truth, they would bow before him in abject poverty of spirit. One of a band of noble workers, his spirit flows out in love and forgiveness to all his foes, and in blessing to all humanity. Even in spirit life this soul remembers and loves his native home and haunts on earth. The rugged rocks and darkling streams, the gowan-gemmed sod, and heather-crowned hills of Scotland, are dear to him still. We were seated upon a mossy bank, enjoying the loveliness of the scene,—the gleaming valley, dotted with its blooming gardens and snowy-white habitations; the crystal stream murmuring at our feet; the birds chirping in the branches; the lofty mountains uprearing their crests but a little way before us; with the glorious sun, throwing a flood of golden splendor over all. Environed with these conditions, I could perceive the thoughts of my companion reverting to earthly scenes, and presently, with bosom heaving, and his great dark eyes glowing with the intensity of his emotions, he broke forth:— Fair are thy smiling fields of green, oh, vale, And sweet the flowers that gem thy emerald sod; Thy zephyrs bring a spice in every gale, And man and nature here commune with God. Thy crystal waters flow in melody, Thy birds make music through the waving trees; Thy mountains, rising in their majesty, Survey in grandeur all thy harmonies.