his humble friends and his loom in Scotland. I died in deep poverty at Dundee, Feb. 29, 1848, From this time a change came over him. He walked about, as his brother-poet Gow said, "with his death upon him." The last paper he wrote was entitled "Weeds," for which Douglas Jerrold sent him five pounds. He and his remains were honoured with a public funeral. He had married a second time, and left a widow and three children, for whom a handsome sum was afterwards raised by subscription. He launched a leaf o' jessamine, On whilk he daured to swim, An' pillowed his head on a wee rosebud, Syne laithfu', lanely, Love 'gan send Down Ury's waefu' stream. The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near, But dowie when he gaed by; Till lulled wi' the sough o' mony a sang, He sleepit fu' soun' an' sailed alang Neath heav'n's gowden sky! 'Twas just whaur creepin' Ury greets Its mountain-cousin Don, There wandered forth a weel-faur'd dame, Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream, As it flirted an' played wi' a sunny beam That flickered its bosom upon. Love happit his head, I trow, that time, "O gin I but had yon wearie wee flower Love glower'd when he saw her bonnie dark e'e, He ne'er had seen, nor thought to see, Sae lovely a dwallin' place. Syne, first of a', in her blythesome breast, An' what did the waefu', devilick neist? An' then beneath ilk high e'e-bree His bow? what but her shinin' brow? Frae out her silken hair. Guid be our guard! sic deeds waur deen, An' mony a hangin' lug was seen DREAMINGS OF THE BEREAVED. The morning breaks bonnie o'er mountain an' stream, An' troubles the hallowed breath o' my dream! The gowd light of morning is sweet to the e'e, But, ghost-gathering midnight, thou'rt dearer to me. The dull common world then sinks from my sight, O! come, spirit mother, discourse of the hours, 'Twas kind-for the lowe that your e'e kindled there O! bless Will burn-ay, an' burn, till that breast beat nae THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. The mitherless bairn gangs till his lane bed, Though dark be our dwallin'—our happin' though His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, bare, An' night closes round us in cauldness an' care; For, oh! I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before! I heard my true love sing, and she taught me many a strain, But a voice so sweet, oh! never shall my cold ear hear again. In all our friendless wanderings, in homeless penury, Her gentle song and jetty eye were all unchanged to me. I saw my true love fade-I heard her latest sigh I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye; Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams tremble O'hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair! Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd bed, Her spirit, that pass'd in yon hour o❜ his birth, Still watches his wearisome wand'rings on earth, Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn! When night in holy silence brings The God-willed hour of sleep, When morning waves its golden hair, The rocket's flary moment sped, Sinks black'ning back to earth; to have been a man of ability. After Hervey's death, February 17, 1859, a collection of his poems was made by his widow, which, together with a memoir from her practised pen, was published in the United States in 1867. Dr. D. M. Moir says:-"The genius of T. K. Hervey (for he has genius at once pathetic and refined) is not unallied to that of Pringle and Watts, but with a dash of Tom Moore. He writes uniformly with taste and elaboration, polishing the careless and THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY was born February | years afterwards he was sole editor, proves him 4, 1799, at Paisley, the birthplace of so many poets and men of eminence. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, and devoted some years to the study of law, but abandoned it and adopted the more congenial pursuit of literature. In 1824 Hervey published his poem "Australia," which contains many exquisite descriptive passages, showing that he possessed the "inspiration and the faculty divine." Five years later he issued The Poetical Sketch-book, including a third edition of "Australia." His next volumes, pub-rejecting the crude; and had he addressed lished in the order named, were Illustrations of Modern Scripture, The English Helicon, and The Book of Christmas, every page of which affords a literary feast worthy of the happy season. Mr. Hervey was also the author of a satirical poem entitled "The Devil's Progress," and many popular pieces contributed to the pages of various annuals edited by him. His connection with the London Athenæum, of which at its commencement and for several himself more earnestly and more unreservedly to the task of composition, I have little doubt, from several specimens he has occasionally exhibited, that he might have occupied a higher and more distinguished place in our poetical literature than he can be said to have attained. His 'Australia' and several of his lyrics were juvenile pledges of future excellence which maturity can scarcely be said to have fully redeemed." THE CONVICT SHIP. Morn on the waters! and, purple and bright, And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale. The winds come around her in murmur and song, And the surges rejoice as they bear her along. See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds, Night on the waves! and the moon is on high, Who-as she smiles in the silvery light, Who, as he watches her silently gliding, "Tis thus with our life while it passes along, As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts that the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er. THE DEAD TRUMPETER. Wake, soldier! wake! thy war-horse waits Sleep, soldier! sleep! thy warfare o'er,Not thine own bugle's loudest strain Shall ever break thy slumbers more, With summons to the battle-plain; A trumpet note more loud and deep Must rouse thee from that leaden sleep. Thou need'st nor helm nor cuirass now, Thy mother is not in thy dreams, She kissed thee at the cottage door, Sleep, soldier! let thy mother wait Than did thy clarion, on the gale, When last-and far away-she heard its lingering echoes fail! THE GONDOLA GLIDES. The gondola glides, Like a spirit of night, O'er the slumbering tides, In the calm moonlight. The star of the north Shows her golden eye, But a brighter looks forth From yon lattice on high! Her taper is out, And the silver beam Floats the maiden about Like a beautiful dream! And the beat of her heart Makes her tremble all o'er; And she lists with a start To the dash of the oar. But the moments are past, Holds her clasped to his breast; JAMES LAWSON was born in Glasgow, November 9, 1799. He completed his education at the university of his native city, and in 1815 emigrated to the United States, and entered the counting-house of a relative resid- | ing in New York. A few years later the failure of the firm of which Lawson was a partner induced him to turn his attention to literature. In company with James G. Brooks and John B. Skilman he established the Morning Courier, the first number of which appeared in 1827. In 1829 Lawson retired from this concern, and joined Amos Butler in the Mercantile Advertiser, with which he was associated till 1833. In 1830 he published a volume entitled Tales and Sketches by a Cosmopolite. His next work was Giordano: a Tragedy, an Italian state story of love and conspiracy, which was first performed at the Park Theatre, New York. The prologue was written by William Leggett, and the epilogue by P. M. Wetmore. Mr. Lawson has several times appeared before the public in connection with the stage. He was associated with the American poets Fitz - Greene Halleck and William Cullen Bryant on the committee which secured for Edwin Forrest the prize play of "Metamora" by John A. Stone, and he was also one of a similar committee which selected the prize play of "Nimrod Wildfire, or the Kentuckian in New York," by James K. Paulding. Since his retirement from the press in 1833 Mr. Lawson has engaged in the business of marine insurance, and is well known among the mercantile men of New York. He has been during the past fifty years a frequent contributor of criticisms, essays, tales, and verse to the periodicals of the day; and in 1857 printed for private circulation an octavo volume entitled Poems: Gleanings from Spare Hours of a Business Life, with the following dedication:-"To my Children and their Mother, these poems, at their solicitation thus gathered together but not published, are affectionately inscribed by the father and husband, James Lawson." This handsome volume was followed in 1859 by Liddesdale, or the Border Chief: a Tragedy, which was also printed for private circulation. Mr. Lawson has for many years resided at Yonkers, on the Hudson, where he is well known as a public-spirited citizen and the genial entertainer of men of letters. |