SIMPLICITY.

ONE man there was, and many such you might
Have met, who never had a dozen thoughts
In all his life, and never changed their course;
But told them o'er, each in its customed place,
From morn till night, from youth to hoary age.
Little above the ox that grazed the field,
His reason rose.

The word philosophy he never heard
Or science; never heard of liberty,
Necessity, or laws of gravitation;

And never had an unbelieving doubt.

Beyond his native vale he never looked;

But thought the visual line, that girt him round,

The world's extreme; and thought the silver Moon,
That nightly o'er him led her virgin host,

No broader than his father's shield. He lived,-
Lived where his father lived, died where he died,
Lived happy, and died happy, and was saved.
Be not surprised. He loved and served his God.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

1797-1835.

MOTHERWELL was born in Glasgow, but, after his eleventh year, was brought up under the care of an uncle in Paisley. At the age of twenty-one he was appointed deputy to the sheriff-clerk of that town. He early evinced a love of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany entitled the "Harp of Renfrewshire." A taste for antiquarian research divided with the muse the empire of Motherwell's genius, and he attained an unusually familiar acquaintance with the early history of our native literature, particularly in the department of traditional poetry. The result of this erudition appeared in Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern (1827), a collection of Scottish ballads, prefaced by a historical introduction. The following year he became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley. The talent and spirit which he evinced in his editorial duties were the means of advancing him to the more important office of conducting the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his death. The taste, enthusiasm, and social qualities of Motherwell, rendered him very popular among his townsmen and friends. As a poet, he was happiest in pathetic or sentimental lyrics.

An eloquent writer (Mr. Turnbull) says of him:-"Motherwell was of small stature, but thick set and muscular. His head was large and finely formed; his eyes were bright and penetrating. In mixed society he was rather reserved, 'but appeared internally to enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul.' Somewhat pensive in his mood, he lived much in the solitude of his own thoughts, and at times gave way to a profound melancholy. This spirit pervades his poetry. The wailings of a wounded heart mingle with his fine descriptions of nature, and his lofty aspirations after the beautiful and true.

When the great winds, through leafless forests rushing, Like full hearts break,

When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,
Sad music make;

Will there be one whose heart despair is crushing
Mourn for my sake?

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining
With purest ray,

And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining,
Burst through that clay,-

Will there be one still on that spot repining
Lost hopes all day?

When the night shadows, with the ample sweeping
Of her dark pall,

The world and all its manifold creation sleeping,

The great and small,

Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping For me, for all?

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory,
On that low mound;

And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary
Its loneness crowned;

Will there be then one versed in misery's story

Pacing it round?