GEORGE ALLAN. BORN 1806- DIED 1835. Walter Scott, which enjoyed for years a wide popularity; and he assisted Mr. Peter Macleod in preparing the Original National Melodies of Scotland, to which he furnished several contributions. GEORGE ALLAN was the youngest son of a farmer at Paradykes, near Edinburgh, where he was born February 2, 1806. In his thirteenth year he lost both his parents. He became an apprentice to a writer to the signet, and in course of time a member of the profession, but soon abandoned legal pursuits and proceeded to London to begin the career of an author. Here he formed the acquaintance of Allan Cunningham and Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, who recognized his talents and encour aged his literary aspirations. But his health did not correspond with his literary enthusiasm, and in 1829 he accepted an appointment in Jamaica. The climate of the West Indies not suiting him, he resigned his appointment and returned home in 1830. Soon after he obtained the editorship of the Dumfries Journal, a Conservative newspaper, and this situation he held for three years with great popularity and success. His next connection was as literary assistant to the Messrs. Chambers of Edinburgh. Whilst here he contributed many excellent articles to the Edinburgh Journal and wrote extensively for the Scotsman newspaper. He was also the author of a Life of Srsion of his family. In 1831 Mr. Allan married Mrs. Mary Hill, a widow, the eldest daughter of Mr. Wm. Pagan of Curriestanes and niece of Allan Cunningham. In 1834 he obtained a situation in the stamp office, which insured him a moderate competence without depriving him of opportunity to prosecute his literary occupations. But soon after this promising point was reached his career was suddenly terminated. His intellectual and poetical ardour had been too much for the frame it tenanted; the delicate nervous organization, which had both animated and enfeebled him, sank under the too close application of his mind, and he died suddenly at Janefield, near Leith, August 15, 1835, in the thirtieth year of his age, leaving behind him a name both as a prose writer and a poet which few so young are fortunate to establish. A large amount of unpublished manuscript, left behind by Mr. Allan, is now in the posses IS YOUR WAR-PIPE ASLEEP? CLANSMAN. Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman? To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have Like the course of the fire-flaught their clansmen passed on, Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen, M'CRIMMAN. Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom, Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer, With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe And be clasped to the hearts of thy best beloved they have bound them, there; And have taken to the field with their vassals But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, around them. Then raise your wild slogan-cry-o never Never! Never! Never! CLANSMAN. Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman? Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not? If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe Bared his blade in the land he had won not! Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind, And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind, There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing, 'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing, Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray! Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen; Shout for M'Pherson, M Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again! When o'er the heart come thoughts o' wae, Young Donald frae his love's away. The winter snaw nac mair does fa', Are glintin' in the summer shower. Young Donald frae his love's away. For Scotland's crown, and Charlie's right, The fire-cross o'er our hills did flee, And loyal swords were glancin' bright, And Scotia's bluid was warm and free. And though nae gleam of hope I see, My prayer is for a brighter day: JOHN STERLING. BORN 1806- DIED 1844. JOHN STERLING, the second son of Edward | and Hester Sterling, was born at Kames Castle, in the island of Bute, July 20, 1806. His parents were born in Ireland, but were both of good Scotch families. When John was three years old the family removed to Llanblethian in Glamorganshire, and here his childhood was nurtured amid scenes of wild and romantic beauty. At first he attended a school in the little town of Cowbridge, and when the family removed to London in 1814 he was sent to schools at Greenwich and Black heath, and finally to Christ's Hospital. When at school he was known as a novel - reader, | devouring everything that came in his way. At sixteen he was sent to Glasgow University, and at twenty he proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he had for his tutor Julius Hare, the future archdeacon, one of his two biographers, Thomas Carlyle being the other. Though not an exact scholar, Sterling became extensively and well read. His studies were irregular and discursive, but extended over a wide range. Among his companions at college were Richard Trench, Frederick Maurice, Lord Houghton (then Monckton Milnes), and others, who were afterwards his fast friends through life. The law had been originally intended as Sterling's profession, but after hesitating for some time he at last decided upon literature, and, joining his friend Maurice, purchased the Athenæum, in which appeared his first literary effusions. In 1830 he married Miss Susannah Barton, daughter of Lieut.-General Barton. Soon after his marriage he became seriously ill -so ill that his life was long despaired of. His lungs were affected, and the doctors recommended a warmer climate. He accordingly went to the West Indies, and spent upwards of a year in the beautiful island of St. Vincent, where some valuable property had been left to the Sterling family by a maternal uncle. In 1832 he returned to England greatly improved in health. From thence he proceeded to Ger many, where he met his friend and former tutor, with whom he had much serious conversation on religious topics, which resulted in his entering the Church. He returned to England, was ordained deacon in 1834, and became Mr. Hare's curate at Hertsmonceux immediately after. He entered earnestly on the duties of his new calling, but after a few months he resigned on the plea of delicate health, and returned to London. For the sake of a more genial climate he went to France, and afterwards to Madeira, occupying his leisure hours in writing prose and poetry for Blackwood. In addition to his numerous contributions to this magazine and the quarterlies, he was the author of Arthur Coningsby, a novel published in 1830. Professor Wilson early recognized his merit as a poet and essayist, and bestowed very lavish praise upon him. He was a swift genius, Carlyle likening him to "sheet lightning." For several years Sterling led a kind of nomadic life, fleeing from place to place in search of health. He visited London for the last time in 1843, when Carlyle dined with him. "I remember it," he says, "as one of the saddest dinners; though Sterling talked copiously, and our friends-Theodore Parker one of them were pleasant and distinguished men. All was so haggard in one's memory, and half-consciously in one's anticipations: sad, as if one had been dining in a ruin, in the crypt of a mausoleum." Carlyle saw Sterling afterwards, and the following is the conclusion of his last interview with him:-"We parted before long; bed-time for invalids being come, he escorted me down certain carpeted back-stairs, and would not be forbidden. We took leave under the dim skies; and, alas! little as I then dreamt of it, this, so far as I can calculate, must have been the last time I ever saw him in the world. Softly as a common evening the last of the evenings had passed away, and no other would come for me for evermore." Sterling died at his residence at Ventnor in the Isle of Wight, Sept. 19, 1944, cut down, like Shelley and Keats and Michael Bruce, when on the road to fame. His remains were interred in the beautiful little burial ground of Bonchurch. In 1839 a volume of Sterling's poems was issued in London, and reprinted in the United States. They are full of tenderness, fancy, and truth. "The Sexton's Daughter," a striking lyrical ballad written in early youth, is among the most popular of his poetical productions. In 1841 his poem in seven books, entitled "The Election," was published, followed in 1943 by the spirited tragedy of "Strafford." "Essays and Tales by John Sterling, collected and edited, with a Memoir of his Life, by Julius Charles Hare, M. A., Rector of Hertsmonceux," in two volumes, was published in London in 1848. On reading that life, interesting and beautiful though it is, one could not help feeling that there was a great deal remaining untold, and that the tone in speaking of his religious opinion was unnecessarily apologetic. To this circumstance we owe the "Life by Carlyle," in which a correspondent says: "Archdeacon Hare takes up Sterling as a clergyman merely. Sterling I find was a curate for exactly eight months; during eight months and no more had he any special relation to the Church. But he was a man, and had relation to the Universe for eight-andthirty years; and it is in this latter character, to which all the others were but features and transitory hues, that we wish to know him. His battle with hereditary church formulas was severe; but it was by no means his one battle with things inherited, nor indeed his chief battle; neither, according to my observation of what it was, is it successfully delineated or summed up in this book." And so his countryman and friend gave to the world another and a better portraiture of John Sterling-one of those lovely and noble spirits that charm and captivate all beholders. TO A CHILD. Dear child! whom sleep can hardly tame, With bright round cheek, amid whose glow In spite of all foreboding fear, As is a rushy fountain's tone, And yet, dear child! within thee lives Thus what thou art foreshows to me THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET. Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl,— The fair white bird of flaming crest, "Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and plea sure, Joys beyond thy fancy's measure; "Take, thou fairest! this full-blown rose, The maiden exclaim'd, "Thou seest, Sir Knight, And, like the rose thou hast torn and scatter'd, She trembled and blush'd, and her glances fell; But she turned from the Knight, and said, "Farewell!" "Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize; He lifted her up in his grasp of steel, Swift from the valley the warrior fled, And the weight that pressed on the flect-foot horse Was the living man, and the woman's corso. That morning the rose was bright of hue; THE SPICE-TREE. The spice-tree lives in the garden green; And a fair bird sits the boughs between, No greener garden e'er was known That coil-bound stem has branches three; In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire The fount that builds a silvery dome; And flakes of purple and ruby fire Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam. And azure wings bedropt with gold, But sings the lament that he framed of old. "O! Princess bright! how long the night "The waters play, and the flowers are gay, I would that all could fade and fall, "O! many a year, so wakeful and drear, I have sorrow'd and watched, beloved, for thee! But there comes no breath from the chambers of death, While the lifeless fount gushes under the tree." The skies grow dark, and they glare with red, The tree shakes off its spicy bloom; The waves of the fount in a black pool spread, Down springs the bird with long shrill cry, And the face of the pool, as he falls from high, But sudden again upswells the fount; In a glittering diamond arch they mount, Finer and finer the watery mound And bear to the stars the fountain's tale. |