he found a Sister of Charity assisting her in attending on the dying poet. When Beattie was introduced into his chamber, he complained of chilliness-morbid chilliness. He held out his hand, and thanked Beattie, and the other friends who had come to assist him. This was June the 4th. On the 6th he was able to converse more freely; but his strength had become more reduced, and on being assisted to change his posture, he fell the poem of Hohenlinden, and pretending to but in a calm and distinct tone, "No; it was one Tom Campbell." The poet had-as far as a poet can--become for years indifferent to posthumous fame. In 1838, five years before this time, he had been speaking to some friends in Edinburgh on the subject. "When I think of the existence which shall commence when the stone is laid above my head, how can literary fame appear to me--to any one—but as nothing? I believe, when I am gone, justice will be done to me in this way -that Iwas a pure writer. It is an inexpressible comfort, at my time of life, to be able to re No! it shall live again, and shine And took the sting from death." "To his niece he said, 'Come let us sing praises to Christ," then, pointing to the bedShall I pray for you?' she said. Oh yes,' he replied; let us pray for each other."" 6 side, he added, 'Sit here.' The liturgy of the Church of England was read; he expressed himself "soothed-comforted." "The next day, at a moment when he appeared to be sleeping heavily, his lips suddenly moved, and he said, We shall see *to-morrow'-naming a long-departed friend." On the next day he expired without a struggle. This was the fifteenth of June; on Thurs day, the 27th, he was interred in Westminster Abbey, in a new grave, in the centre of Poet's corner. Among the mourners in the and other representatives of the house of funeral procession were the Duke of Argyle, Campbell; Sir Robert Peel and Lord Strangford. Lord Brougham was there, and Lockhart and Macaulay. A monument is projected to his memory, and on the committee are Lord John Russell and Sir Robert Peel. poet's conversations a year or two before, he Among Dr. Beattie's recollections of the tells of the emphasis with which he repeated Tickell's lines on the burial of Addison. "Lest look back and feel that I have not written one I should forget them," Dr. Beattie adds, "he line against religion or virtue." The next day swelling of the feet appeared. In answer sent me a copy of them next day in his own to an inquiry, he replied, with a remarkable handwriting." With these lines from one of the to an inquiry, he replied, with a remarkable most affecting poems in the language we close expression of energy, "Yes, I have entire our notice of a book in many respects honorcontrol over my mind. I am quite"--Beattie able to its author; in none more than in his lost the last word, but thinks it was signed." anxious wish to conceal the faults and to "Then with shut eyes and a placid expression of countenance, he remained vindicate the memory of his distinguished silent but thoughtful. When I took leave at night, his eye followed me anxiously to the door, as if to say, 'Shall we meet to-morrow?'" Dr. Beattie's journal records a few days passed like the last. Religious feeling was, as the closing scene approached, more distinctly expressed. Beattie was thinking of the lines in THE LAST MAN, when he heard with delight the dying man express his belief❝in life and immortality brought to light by the Saviour." "This spirit shall return to Him Who gave the heavenly spark: Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! friend. "Can I forget the dismal night that gave What awe did the slow, solemn knell inspire- From the Literary Gazette. ELIZA COOK'S NEW POEMS. Poems by Eliza Cook. 3 vols. Simpkin, Marshall & Co. A TRINE of volumes to a poet is, like one of those in the prophetic almanacs, an important sign, and predictive of influence and fame. To this honor has our fair friend duly and honestly reached, by a number of compositions which have justly become popular within the boundaries of the English language. They are the offspring of nature and feeling; some homely, and imparting pleasure to the homes of the refined as well as the lowly; some more ambitious in subject and treatment, and all dictated by that love of kind which makes genius earnest in every effort to promote the welfare of our fellow creatures. We have often been seduced to bestow our meed of praise on the productions of the author, and it is with pleasure we observe that the novelties in this edition fully bear out the reputation she has so fairly achieved. Here is one of her simple melodies, like the best of former days: They see the fancied hours to come, He sees the real days gone by; He thinks it well that man should die. A prayer, closing an address rather doggerelly to the Pope, though fervently put up, has not been fulfilled "All honor to the Pope!' Long life and fame to Pius ! The world's heart still may hope, While such as he stand by us." It is dangerous now-a-days to speculate The upon any thrones or political events. poor Pope could not stand by himself; far less "by Us," except in the representative person and precepts of Dr. M'Hale! Some very affecting stanzas to William Thom, the Inverary poet, are, we trust, only imaginative in expressing kindred woes "O'er thy draught of sorrow, Willie, I have hung with smileless lip; The cup is sad to borrow, Willie, Yet a kindred one will sip." We are glad to seek refuge in a lighter fancy, in "Lines among the Leaves," though with a teaching and touching moral close: "Have ye heard the west wind singing, Where the summer trees are springing? Have ye counted o'er the many tunes it knows? For the wide-winged spirit rangeth, And its ballad metre changeth As it goes. "A plaintive wail it maketh, "Another tale 'tis telling, "The rude, bold savage, pouring forth his homage to the sun, Asking for other 'hunting-fields' when life's long chase is run The poet boy who sitteth down upon the upland grass, Whose eagle thoughts are nestled by the zephyr wings that pass; "The weak old man that creepeth out once more before be dies, With longing wish to see and feel the sunlight in his eyes Oh! these are the unerring types that Nature setteth up, To tell that an elixir drop yet sanctifies our cup. "Love, beautiful and boundless Love, thou dwellest here below, Teaching the human lip to smile-the violet to blow: Thine is the breath ethereal that yet exhales and burns In sinful breasts as incense steals from dim unsightly urns." The playfulness in an address to "Winter," offers a different strain : "Oh, Winter, old Winter! for many a year You and I have been friends, but I sadly fear That your blustering nights and stormy days Will have no more of my love or my praise. "There was a time when I used to look You full in the face on the frost-bound brook; When I laughed to see you lock up the ale, And fetter the mop to the housemaid's pail. "It was fun to see you redden a nose, Benumb little fingers, and pinch great toes; "I've greeted you, come what there might in your train, The hurricane wind or the deluging rain; I've even been kind to your sleet and your fog, When folks said 'twasn't weather to turn out a dog.' "I've welcomed you ever, and tuned each string "But you treat me so very unfairly now, That, indeed, old fellow, we must have 'a row,' Though your tyrannous conduct's so fiercely uncouth, That I hardly dare venture 'to open my mouth.' "I tremble to hear you come whistling along, For my breathing gets weak as yours grows strong; And I crouch like my hound in the fire's warm blaze, And eagerly long for the solstice rays. "You may spit your snow, but you need not make My cheek as white as the icicle flake; You may darken the sky, but I cannot tell why You should spitefully seek to bedim my eye. "You sent old Christmas parading the land, With his wassail cup and minstrel band; But you griped me hard when the sports began, Crying, 'Drink if you dare, and dance if you can.' "It is true I had proffers of meat and of wine, Which, with honest politeness, I begged to decline; For with drams antimonial I cannot agree, "Others may go to the revel and rout, They may feast within and ramble without; |