WILLIAM BEATTIE, M.D., the friend and taining memoir, published in 1855, of William biographer of Thomas Campbell, was born in Henry Bartlett, whom he had assisted in the the parish of Dalton, Dumfriesshire, Feb. 24, preparation of several of his illustrated works. 1793. After receiving the rudiments of his Dr. Beattie was well known as the genial education at the Clarencefield Academy, he entertainer of men of letters, as a contributor entered the University of Edinburgh in 1813, to the magazines, as rendering professional where in 1820 he took the degree of M. D. He services gratuitously to authors and clergymen, then continued his studies in London and on and as a hearty lover of his native land. At the Continent for ten years, when he com- upwards of fourscore years of age he continued menced practice in London, where he ever to mingle in the literary society of London, afterward continued to reside. While actively and to indulge in occasional poetic composipursuing his profession, Dr. Beattie, like the tion. He was much esteemed for his amiable late Sir Henry Holland, found leisure for character and ability in his profession. He literary pursuits and foreign travel. His first died at his residence in Portman Square, Lonwork, giving an account of a four years' resi- don, March 17, 1875, aged eighty-two years, dence in Germany, appeared in 1827, followed and was buried at Brighton by the side of his by "John Huss, a Poem." Dr. Beattie's next wife, to whom he was married in the summer poetical publication, Polynesia, a Poem," of 1822. During the last few years of his celebrated the labours of the missionaries in life Dr. Beattie amused his leisure hours in the South Seas. He is also the author of pro- the preparation of an autobiography, which fessional writings, including a Latin treatise it is to be hoped that his literary executors, on pulmonary consumption. His most popu- one of whom is Dr. Robert Carruthers of Inlar work, and the one most likely to keep his verness, will ere long give to the world. From name before the public, is his admirable mehis residence of half a century in the great moir of the poet Campbell, whose personal metropolis, and his wide acquaintance with friendship he enjoyed for many years. It was many literary and distinguished people, such through Dr. Beattie's persevering efforts that as Samuel Rogers, Lady Byron, and the Couna statue of Campbell was placed in Westminster tess of Blessington, it can hardly fail to be an Abbey. His latest literary work was an enter-attractive book.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS CAMPBELL.1

Hark! Tis the death-knell, from Bononia's | Retired to pause from intellectual toil;

shore,2

Startles the ear, and thrills in every core!
Pealed from these cliffs, the echoes of our own
Catch, and prolong the melancholy tone,
As fast and far the mournful tidings spread-
"The light is quench'd--the 'Bard of Hope' is
dead!"

Campbell is dead! and Freedom on her wall
Shrieks as she shrieked at Kosciusko's fall!
And warrior-exiles, as the dirge they hear,
Heave the deep sigh, and drop the bitter tear.

Friends of the poet!-ye to whom belong
The prophet's fire-the mystic powers of song-
On you devolves the sad and sacred trust
To chant the requiem o'er a brother's dust!
His kindred shade demands the kindred tear-
The poets' homage o'er a poet's bier!
While I who saw the vital flame expire,
And heard the last tones of that broken lyre-
Closed the dim eye, and propp'd the drooping
head-

And caught the spirit's farewell as it fled-
With your high notes my lowly tribute blend,
And mourn at once the poet and the friend!

Twice twenty summers of unclouded fame
Had shed their lustre on our poet's name;
And found him ever arm'd, and in the van,
To guard the rights and dignity of man.
On Freedom's altar sacrificing wealth,
To Science consecrating life and health;
In age retaining all the fire of youth-
The love of liberty, the thirst for truth-
He spent his days-improved them as they pass'd,
And still reserved the brightest for the last!

'Twas here where Godfrey's sullen rampart frowns3

O'er wave-worn cliffs and cultivated downs;

Where the cool breeze a bracing freshness throws,
Where shade and solitude invite repose;
And whispering elms, in soothing cadence, wave
O'er Churchill's death-bed and Le Sage's grave
"Twas here our poet-on the stranger's soil,

Resign'd the well-fought field, with honours rife,
To trim with frugal hand the lamp of life;
To solve the mystic writing on the wall-
Adjust his mantle ere he let it fall;
Weigh life's great question-commune with his
heart,

Then, hail the welcome signal and depart.

And here-tho' health decay'd-his taste still

warm

Conferr'd on all it touch'd a classic charm;
Dispell'd the gloom, and peopled every shade
With forms and visions brilliantly portray'd.
Thoughts well directed-reason well applied-
Philosophy with cheering faith allied—
Inspired a fresh and healthful tone of mind
That braced the spirit as the body pined;
While freedom strew'd her laurels at his feet,
And song and science dignified retreat.

But soon life's current darken'd as it flow'd;
Gladness forsook the poet's new abode;
His hearth grew sad, and swiftly pass'd away
The cheerful evening of his well-spent day!
The books, the lyre, the lov'd Achaian strain,
That charm'd the fancy, could not lull the pain,
That now, in fatal ambush, hour by hour
Bore witness to the fever's wasting power.—
Yet pain, depression, anguish never wrung
Complaint, regret, or murmur from his tongue:
Or if amidst his pain, a tear, a sigh
Rose on his lip, or trembled in his eye,-
"Twas when sweet memories o'er his spirit came,
And his lips mov'd to some beloved name,
Which, while the soul was yearning to depart,
Still kept its mansion sacred in his heart!-
But else, unmov'd, he watch'd the close of life-
Brac'd on his armour for the final strife;
Resolv'd in death, to fall beneath his shield,
Conqueror-not captive-to resign the field.

The hour arriv'd: the star of Hope arose
To light her poet to his last repose!
Life ebbed apace: the seraph, stooping down,
Illumed his couch, and showed the future crown.
"Welcome!" she whispered-"welcome be the
hour

That clothes my votary with celestial power! 1 Written at Boulogne shortly after the poet's decease, Enough hast thou achieved of earthly fame, and now published for the first time.-ED.

2 Bononia Gallia-the Gessoriacum of antiquity, or Boulogne-sur-Mer of the present day, "Gessoriacum quod nunc Bononia."

3 Godfrey (of Bouillon), whom history represents as having been born in the citadel of Boulogne, not Bouillon in Lorraine.

4 Churchill the English Juvenal-died at Boulogne

To gild the patriot's and the poet's name;
Thou hast not pandered to a vicious age,
Nor left thy sins recorded in thy page;

in 1764; and Le Sage, the author of Gil Blas, in 1747: "Ici est mort l'Auteur de Gil Blas, 1747," is engraved on a stone over the door of his house.

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And thus bereaved-in this her two-fold griefWhere shall the mourning spirit find relief? 1 The headlands alluded to are the English cliffs, as She turns instinctive to his page, and hears fir as Beachy Head: the sunset over which, as seen The voice of Hope, triumphant in her tears! "who leaves and was strikingly so at the time mentioned. from the ramparts of Boulogne, is often very beautiful,Weep not for him," she cries,

Fifty years ago Professor Wilson wrote: | of somewhat gentle blood, and having all the "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

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