The following beautiful poetical tribute, sent to the festival anonymously, we cannot withold from publication. The interest of these lines is enhanced by the fact that they are from the pen of the gifted and accomplished authoress of Pelayo, MRS. E. T. PORTER BEACH.

WOMAN'S TRIBUTE.

Hail, ROBERT BURNS! fair women now,

Beneath Columbia's skies,

Unto thy genius loving bow

To fame that never dies.

Hail, Scotia's Bard! thy memory dear
In woman's heart is shrined:
And why should not her place be here
To honor soul and mind?

For she, the pure, and good, and true,
Was dear to thee on earth,
And changed not to thy spirit view
Her charms-through spirit birth.

Thus, ROBERT BURNS, fair women here,
As laurel leaflets fresh and bright
Encircled-wreathe thy memory dear

With purer radiance-holier light.

Hail, Poet dear! Love's offering now
Enwreathes as halo for thy brow

A fragrant incense, rising high,

To greet thy spirit in the sky!

Brighter than Bay or Laurel leaves,
The Coronal affection weaves

An amaranthine offering pure,

Through endless ages to endure!

Pure woman's love! a glory bright,
Encircling thee in sacred light!

Its hallowed crown they bring to thee-
Thy genius, worth and Poesy.

ELIZABETH T. PORTER BEACH.

New York, Jan. 25th, 1869.

TO COL. DAWSON.

NEW YORK, January 26th, 1869.

DEAR SIR: It was my fortunate privilege to be present at the brilliant Burns' banquet that came off at the Metropolitan hotel, last evening, and to listen to your eloquent speech. Upon returning home I found that you had so literally planted that Scotch daisy you alluded to, in my imagination, that I could not go to sleep until I had made an effort to weave its history into a poetical nosegay, and as I think you are entitled to wear it, I will dedicate it to you, with the hope that you will find it has enough of the fragrance of sentiment in it to often pleasantly remind you of Your friend,

MARY E. TUCKER.

THE SCOTTISH DAISY.

Proud Scotia bows her haughty head
To piercing thistle flower,

Her chiefs would not on daisies tread
For e'en a princely dower.

'Tis said that on Australian shore
Some Scottish exiles stood,
Longing to hear from home once more
Some tidings, ill or good.

"A ship," they cry, "from fatherland,"

And eagerly they seek

Some token from the much loved strand
That of their home will speak.

In reverence was each tastaned knee
Bent to the symbol found,

A daisy rom their Scottish lea,
A message from the ground.

More eloquent than words, it told

Of fancies, hopes, all dead;

They gazed, and memory's scroll enrolled
About the daisy's head.

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It was no thistle clothed in pride,

Its wounding power its glory— "Who touches me will ill betide, I'm famed in song and story."

Upon the daisy's petals gleamed

Kind words from o'er the ocean;
Its pure and snowy bosom beamed
With national devotion.

It spoke of Scotland's lowlands fair
Her crags and mountains high;
It told of all her beauties rare,
Her clouds, her sunset sky.

They placed the flower in stranger earth,
There it has bloomed for years,

And when the spring time gives it birth,
They water it with tears.

The following exquisite poem is from one of the warmest hearts and brightest intellects in America. It was written for the occasion, on two days' notice. The programme, however, was already arranged before it was known to the committee that Mr. Wallace would consent to be present. Had it been known earlier, the united merits of this poem and the fame its author's pen has won, weaving sparkling gems of thought into poetic garlands, would have assigned it, an early and prominent position in the programme:

BURNS' ISLAND VISION,

in the days of old,

Seen by the clear, believing eye.—Bryant.

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

O, well may we bask in the Peasant Bard's fame,
Both the worlds joining hands at the sound of his name;
For no trials, no sorrows could conquer his brow-
The brave BURNS in the cottage or guiding the plough!

Still he lost not his faith in the triumph of Man,
And his Song taking all the World's Heart in its span,
Is prophetic of beautiful, glorious hours.

When the Race shall reclaim all the Paradise flowers.

Yes, he saw a blest Isle down the River of Time,
Not a cloud in its sky, not a chill in its clime;
Not a storm to disturb the sweet songs of its streams
Bright as gems melted down in a goblet of dreams.

Every valley resounds with its lyric of rills,

Gushing strength from the iron-bound harps ‹f its hills;
For the anthem of Labor all daytime is heard,
And "To Do" in that Isle is the holiest word.

Then the soft, saintly lustre at eve on its moon,
And the music that lulls in her starry blue noon,
Like an angel-wing fanning a well-won repose
On the sweet couches wove of the lily and rose.

O, the heart-swoon with MARY! the Eden-delight
With good JEAN so blest by the marital right!
All the men and the women he sees in God's smile,
Show that for children blossoms the opulent Isle.

Every mountain-top glitters a sky cleaving shrine,
And though many the rituals, all are divine,
Curling incense on high from the Soul's pure desires
That are nevermore turned into Bigotry's fires.

What a soft seraph lustre is paradised o'er,

From the innermost vale to the furthermost shore !
Every homestead is full of the true Zion-light
That he sung in the Cotter's dear Saturday Night.

Not a chain's on that Isle; not a hunger for pelf,
From another one snatched for the sake of mere self;
Not a tyrant flamed war-even Fame's trumpet call
Cannot rouse save when speaking of glory for all.

So, yet the heroic is there with its use,

And in soul towers many a WALLACE and BRUCE—
But to marches of Peace, at whose anthems the sod
To One Temple of Brotherhood turns for its God.

What a Wisdom it holds-no austerity's gloom:
To his white massive marbles Mirth marries her bloom:
Wit, Humor and Pathos with sunshine and dew
The youth of the spirit forever renew.

O, the True Livers there! What a joy in their eyes!
Yes, the angels do look through its unclouded skies;
And the truth in each mind, and the heart in each hand,
'Tis that truth and that heart which have made such a Land.

But how large is this Isle with such beauty and worth!
Large enough for all yet to be born on the earth;
And its name? it is breathed by the heavenly Dove
Over all human hearts-BURNS' ISLAND OF LOVE.