TO THE MEMORY OF SCOTT. THE Minstrel sleeps!-the charm is o'er, The Minstrel sleeps!-and common clay The Minstrel sleeps!-the spell is past, The magic wand is broke at last, Whose touch all things to life could waken! The Minstrel sleeps !-the glory's fled, The soul's returned back to the Giver, And all that e'er could die is dead, Of him whose name shall live forever! ALEXANDER BETHUNE. 1804-1843. ALEXANDER BETHUNE, one of the most remarkable instances of genius struggling with poverty, was born in Letham, Fifeshire. He had but limited opportunities for mental improvement, having been but a few weeks at school, but his mother taught him at home to read, and his father gave him some lessons in writing and arithmetic. His boyish days and early manhood were spent in toiling for a subsistence and struggling with the most abject poverty. While employed in breaking stones on the road in 1835, he addressed himself to the Messrs. Chambers at Edinburgh, the ever-active patrons of youthful genius, in a most characteristic and clever letter, in which he explained his humble circumstances, and his desire to send some of his articles for inspection, with a view to their insertion in the "Edinburgh Journal." These gentlemen sent a kind reply, and the result was, that shortly afterwards several articles from Bethune's pen appeared in the columns of that popular periodical. Thus began his literary career. He wrote a volume of beautiful sketches, illustrative of Scottish life and manners, entitled "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry." His days were spent in manual labor, and his nights in the composition of these stories and other literary efforts. On the death of his brother John, he prepared his memoir and edited his poems, which were published by subscription. His intense application and prolonged efforts no doubt hastened his end. He died in his thirty-ninth year, on the 13th June, 1843. MUSINGS OF CONVALESCENCE AFTER seclusion sad, and sad restraint, To fan my weary limbs and feverish brow, By which the clock sums up the flight of time. For a short time to breathe the breath of heaven, And ruminate abroad with less of pain. Let those who never pressed the thorny pillow, To which disease oft ties its victim down For days and weeks of wakeful suffering— Who never knew to turn or be turned To bear what must be borne and not complain- Drags heavily along when dogged by pain. And her sublimer scenes; her rocks and mountains; Her lakes, her rivers, and her oceans vast, In all the pomp of modern sentiment; But still they cannot feel with half the force, To the green fields and the wide world abroad: Not fancied-as is frequently the case. These feelings lend an impulse now, and Hope When death, short while ago seemed hovering near: Not like the artisan, or humble hind, Or the day-laborer worn out with his toil, Who pass the night, scarce conscious of its passing. Till morning with his balmy breath return. |