TO THE MEMORY OF SCOTT.

THE Minstrel sleeps!-the charm is o'er,
The bowl beside the fount is broken,
And we shall hear that Harp no more,
Whose tone to every land hath spoken!

The Minstrel sleeps!-and common clay
Claims what is only common now;
His eye hath lost its kindling ray,
And darkness sits upon his brow!

The Minstrel sleeps!-the spell is past,
His spirit its last flight hath taken ;

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,
Again the welcome breeze comes wafted far
Across the cooling bosom of the lake,

To fan my weary limbs and feverish brow,
Where yet the pulse beats audible and quick—
And I could number every passing throb,
Without the pressure which physicians use,
As easily as I could count the chimes.

By which the clock sums up the flight of time.
Yet it is pleasing, from the bed of sickness,
And from the dingy cottage, to escape

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
From side to side, and seek, and seek, in vain
For ease and a short season of repose--
Who never tried to circumvent a moan,
And tame the spirit with a tyrant's sway,

To bear what must be borne and not complain-
Who never strove to wring from the writhed lip
And rigid brow, the semblance of a smile,
To cheer a friend in sorrow sitting by,
Nor felt that time, in happy days so fleet,

Drags heavily along when dogged by pain.
Let those talk well of Nature's beauteous face,

And her sublimer scenes; her rocks and mountains;
Her clustered hills and winding valleys deep;

Her lakes, her rivers, and her oceans vast,

In all the pomp of modern sentiment;

But still they cannot feel with half the force,
Which the pale invalid, imprisoned long,
Experiences upon his first escape

To the green fields and the wide world abroad:
Beauty is beauty-freshness, freshness, then;
And feeling is a something to be felt-

Not fancied-as is frequently the case.

These feelings lend an impulse now, and Hope
Again would soar upon the wings of health:
Yet is it early to indulge his flight,

When death, short while ago seemed hovering near:
And the next hour perhaps may bring him back,
And bring me to that 'bourne' where I shall sleep-
Not like the traveller, though he sleep well,

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.