The fruits and flowers of an immortal mind. His songs, that haunt us in our grief and joy, Sweet Bard of Hope!-Shrined with the glorious dead, A nation's love shall guard thy hallow'd bed; While patriots, as their poet's name they scan, Shall pause, and proudly say "Here lies the man Whose upright purpose, force nor fraud could bend; Who, serving Freedom, served her to the end; Gave to her sacred cause all man could give, Nor ceased to love her, till he ceased to live!" My task is done; nor care I now to weigh Deep, but not loud-as warriors mourn their chief My heart had grieved, but not confessed its grief. LINES ON A PORTRAIT.2 Well hath the master's hand depicted here The worth we love, the veteran we revere! Having watched at the poet's bedside-during the last ten days of his life- the writer has described several circumstances attending the closing scene, with as much fidelity as he could; and the poem-if it deserves the name-was written partly in the deathchamber, and altogether in the house, of the lamented poet. This fact may account for various allusions in the text, which to the general reader would otherwise appear obscure or overwrought. But it is to the biographer that this affecting period-the last few Apollo answered: and, with smile benign, Watson! when closed a long and bright career: When missed and mourned by friends and colleagues here: Be thine, no sacred duty left undone, EVENING HYMN OF THE ALPINE SHEPHERDS. Brothers, the day declines, Above, the glacier brightens; Through hills of waving pines The "vesper-halo" lightens! Now wake the welcome chorus To Him our sires adored; To Him who watcheth o'er us;Ye shepherds, praise the Lord.1 From each tower's embattled crest The vesper-bell has toll'd; 'Tis the hour that bringeth rest To the shepherd and his fold: months of the poet's life-will present a series of particulars which, if recorded, can hardly fail to awaken a deep and lasting interest in a reflecting mind. 2 In a letter to the Editor, dated March, 1873, Dr. Beattie remarks, "I inclose unpublished lines on a celebrated portrait of our President of the Royal College of Physicians (Sir Thomas Watson, Bart.), which my colleagues have received with gratifying indulgence. -ED. 3 Nemo vir magnus sine offlatu aliquo divino unquam fuit. 4 Every evening at sunset "Ye shepherds, praise the Lord" was sung, and repeated from cliff to cliff, until every voice joined in the chorus. Fifty years ago Professor Wilson wrote: "Have you seen a little volume, entitled Tales in Verse, by the Rev. H. F. Lyte,' which seems to have reached a second edition? Now that is the right kind of religious poetry. Mr. Lyte shows how the sins and sorrows of men flow from irreligion, in simple yet strong domestic narrations, told in a style and spirit reminding one sometimes of Goldsmith and sometimes of Crabbe. A volume so humble in its appearance and pretensions runs the risk of being jostled off the highway into by-paths; and indeed no harm if it should, for in such retired places it will be pleasant reading— pensive in the shade, and cheerful in the sunshine. Mr. Lyte has reaped "The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on its own heart;' and his Christian tales will be read with interest and instruction by many a fireside. The Brothers' is exceedingly beautiful. ought to give us another volume." He The gentle poet, who did "give us another volume," stands next to James Thomson on the roll of sacred Border poets. They were both natives of Ednam, a village beautifully situated on the Eden, a tributary of the Tweed. He was the second son of Captain Thomas Lyte, and was born June 1, 1793. Though of somewhat gentle blood, and having all the early advantage of a loving mother's influence and holy lessons, he was soon made to feel the misery of narrow resources. He, however, finally entered Trinity College, Dublin, matriculating there, and carrying off on three occasions the English prize poem. He took holy orders in Ireland, and was called to a desolate and dreary Irish curacy. After several changes he settled in the quiet little town of Marazion, Cornwall, on the shores of the beautiful Bay of Mount St. Michael. Here he married Miss Anne Maxwell, and finally removed to the parish of Brixham, Devonshire, where he laboured acceptably and successfully for twenty years. It was here that he composed most of his hymns, so remarkable for their pure Christian sentiment and simplicity of diction, and which are held in high estimation by all sections of the Christian Church. Some of them were written "from under the cloud"--clouds of personal suffering, clouds of pastoral difficulty and discouragement. Failing health induced Lyte to seek for a time a milder climate in the south of Europe. Before his departure he preached on the "Holy Communion," and it was solemnly significant to hear their dying pastor say, "O brethren! I can speak feelingly, experimentally, on this This aching heart could tell, But words shall ne'er record. The heart should make us veil From the heart's elected few, Our sorrows when we ail Would we have them suffer too? No, the parting hour is past; There's a brighter land ahead. There are wailings on the wind, There are murmurs on the sea, But the fates ne'er proved unkind Till they parted home and me. THE INGLE SIDE. It's rare to see the morning bleeze, The lip o' the flowery lea; Is the ingle side to me. Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare, the cantie hearth where cronies meet, IAMEWARD SANG. whirl o' the wheel, trees on that green; Ke some kindly auld frien'. the brutes they look social as gif they would crack; An' the sang o' the bird Seems to welcome me back. O! dear to the heart Is the hand that first fed us; An' dear is the land, An' the cottage that bred us. An' dear are the comrades, Wi' whom we once sported; But dearer the maiden, Whose love we first courted. Joy's image may perish, E'en grief die away; SIGHINGS FOR THE SEASIDE. At the stent o' my string, When a fourth o' the earth Lay 'tween me and Scotland-Dear land o' my birth,— Wi' the richest o' valleys, And waters as bright As the sun in midsummer Illumes wi' his light. And surrounded wi' a' That the heart or the head, The body or the mou' O' mortal could need. — I hae paused in sic plenty, Look back to auld hills In their red heather bloom, To some loop in our lock, Whar the wave gaes to sleep, Wi' the sea lashing in Wi' the wind and the tide-Aye, 'twas then that I sicken'd, 'Twas then that I cried O! gie me a sough o' the auld saut sea, A scent o' his brine again, To stiffen the wilt that this wilderness Has brought on this breast and brain. Let me hear his roar on the rocky shore, His thud on the shelly sand; For my spirit's bow'd and my heart is dow'd Your sweeping floods an' your waving woods, But the breath o' the swamp brews a sickly damp, And there's death in the dark lagoon. Aye, gie me the jaup o' the dear auld saut, A scent o' his brine again! To stiffen the wilt that this wilderness THOMAS LYLE. BORN 1792-DIED 1859. DR. THOMAS LYLE, like his friend John Wilson, a native of Paisley, was born in that town, September 10, 1792. He received a liberal education, and afterwards studied at the University of Glasgow, where in 1816 he obtained his diploma as a surgeon, and entered upon the practice of his profession. Cherishing as he did a love for the old minstrelsy of his native land, he was zealous in collecting such ancient airs as he met with, and to one of these he composed his exceedingly popular song of success in his new field of labour; for, as in Glasgow, he was regarded as a man more devoted to the muse and to the gathering of rare plants than to the practice of his profession. In the following year he appeared as the author of a volume entitled "Ancient Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." This entertaining work, the result of long investigation into the popular poetry of Scotland, contained numerous compositions of Lyle's; but much the most valuable portion of it to antiquarians consists of the miscellaneous poems of Sir William Mure, Knight of Rowallan. After a residence at Airth for above a quarter of a century, he returned in 1853 to Glasgow, and resumed his profession. Two years later the Editor found him living there in obscurity, with little practice, and apparently as much forgotten as the spot celebrated in his most 1826 to Airth, a few miles from Falkirk. But it popular song. Lyle died in Glasgow, April does not appear that he met with any greater | 19, 1859. "Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O." It was written in the year 1819, when he was in the habit of resorting, in his botanical excursions, to the then wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin, about two miles from Glasgow. Since that date the huge city has swallowed up Lyle's rural retreat of Kelvin Grove. Not meeting with the success in his profession that he anticipated, he removed in | KELVIN GROVE.1 Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, 0, Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O. Thro' the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O. 1 It is worthy of mention that this song, on which Lyle's poetical reputation chiefly rests, was originally attributed to another writer. Macdonald, in his Rambles round Glasgow, says-"The song was first published VOL. II.-I in 1820 in the Harp of Renfrewshire, a collection of poetical pieces to which an introductory essay on the poets of the district was contributed by Williani Motherwell. In the index to that work the name of John Sim point; and I stand here among you seasonably | which has taken its place in nearly all the to-day as alive from the dead, if I may hope sacred collections of the Protestant Englishto impress it upon you, and induce you to speaking world. It was written in September, prepare for that solemn hour which must come 1847, and it was his last hymn upon earth. to all, by a timely acquaintance with, appre- A few days later he reached Nice, and there, ciation of, dependence on, the death of Christ." on November 20, the spirit of the sweet singer This was his last appeal, and for the last time entered into rest. After his death a volume he dispensed the sacred elements to his sor- was published containing a memoir of the rowing flock; and then, exhausted with his faithful pastor and preacher, together with a effort, he retired with a soul in sweet repose selection of his poems and hymns. Another on that Saviour whom he had preached with beautiful hymn, beginning "Jesus, I my cross his dying breath; and as the evening drew have taken," the authorship of which has been on he handed to a near relative his undying erroneously attributed to James Montgomery hymnand others, was written by Lyte in the year 1833. "Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide," EVENING. Sweet evening hour! sweet evening hour! Sweet hour! that bids the labourer cease, That leads them home, and crowns them there O season of soft sounds and hues, The weeping eye, that loathes the day, Yes, lovely hour! thou art the time Then trembling through the dewy skies, Then, as the earth recedes from sight, When Abram's offering God did own; Who has not felt that Evening's hour The very birds cry shame on men, Let others hail the rising day: I praise it when it fades away; ON A NAVAL OFFICER BURIED IN There is, in the wide lone sea, Down, down, within the deep, That oft to triumph bore him, He sleeps serene, and safe From tempest or from billow, Where the storms, that high above him chafe, The sea and him in death They did not dare to sever: |