and fifty-six years ago we find him singing powerfully and well in the Scots Magazine, to which he then contributed a poem on the death of Lord Byron.

Hugh Brown was born about the beginning of the century, in the town of Newmilns, which lies on the beautiful banks of the river Irvine, and is situated in the parish of Loudoun, Ayrshire. After a very ordinary education, he was early put to the muslin weaving trade; but while so engaged he read and learned so well during his evening hours, that he became quite qualified to teach a school himself, his first situation being at Drumclog, in the uplands of Avondale. Previous to this, however, a taste for poetry had grown upon him, and as he wandered around the wilds which lie under the shadow of Loudoun hill, and traversed the ground which had been hallowed by the presence and the praises of the heroes of the covenant, he began, and finished that stirring poem, "The Covenanters," which has long since gained for him no mean place among the poets of Scotland. He had, however, removed to another school-a much better situation-in the town of Galston, before the publication of his poem, which appeared in 1838. Here Mr Brown continued for a length of time greatly respected. Ultimately he removed to Lanark, to a school there, but as old age began to creep upon him he gave up teaching, and went to reside in Glasgow (where he still lives), and found occasional employment in connection with the publishing house of Mr Collins. When resident in Galston, though mingling a good deal in society, which he was so well able to charm by his lively and intelligent conversation, he was noted for his solitary walks among the woods, and by the secluded watercourses which lie around that finely-situated place.

Besides "The Covenanters, and other Poems," which volume has passed through several editions, Mr Brown has contributed a good deal to the perio

dicals, and was a valued writer in the Ayrshire Wreath; and everything he has written shows fine taste and culture, besides bearing the unmistakable stamp of genius upon it. On a greater breadth of canvas, and with all the power and much of the beauty of Graham, he sketches the heroic struggles of the Scottish covenanters in lofty and musical verse. It is a pity that one who has so worthily sung of these champions of liberty and right should be left to close the far-dwindled span of his existence in cheerless pinching penury; and surely were the case of the venerable poet but known a small grant would be given to him from the Royal Bounty fund. Such a thing would not only gladden the heart of the aged bard, but the hearts also of his many intelligent admirers all over the land.

Our first extract is taken from "The Covenanters," and describes the murder of "the Christian carrier" of Priesthill.

THE MURDER OF JOHN BROWN.

List to the tale of one who faultless fell,

Whose humble tombstone decks the moorland dell.

Far on the moor his lonely cot was placed,

A rude unpolished gem upon the waste.

The smoke curled lonely, 'mid the air on high,

A moment hung and melted in the sky;

Where the brook murmured, and the mountain frowned

Through the far-stretching wilderness around;

The wild winged denizens of ether sung;

The shepherd on the breeze his music flung;

The sweet-toned melody of nature there,

Thrilled in sweet carols through the summer air.

The peaceful inmates of that humble hearth,

Lived like primeval dwellers of the earth,

Summer had smiles that charmed the lingering hour,

With winds perfume from moss and mountain flow'r;

Cloud, sunshine, stream, the daisy on the sod,
Raised their unbiassed hearts in praise to God.

When Winter swathed the land with unstained snow,
It came the type of holiness below;

When the unfettered tempest high and strong,
Rocked the lone cottage as it swept along,—
Trusting in Him who guides the storm's career,
'Twas God's own music to the listening ear.

Cast on the troubled waters of the time,
When prayer was treason, piety a crime,
When persecution raised her red right hand,
To crush the germ of freedom through the land;
Then oft the cottage-light, though faint and far,
Shone to the wanderer, as a guiding star
Shines to the sailor on the stormy sea,
Beaming with hope of happiness to be.

Summer's first morn had dawned upon the wild,
And Nature's fair and lovely features smiled,
When pious Brown, with day's first beam arose,
And called his slumbering children from repose.
They gathered round the cottage hearth, to raise
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise,-
The holy, untaught melody of heart-

Dearer to Heaven than all the pomp of art;
Unheard by human ear the cadence dies,

Its last faint murmurs mingling with the skies.
He read of Love from Mercy's hallowed Book ;—
Felt in his heart, and glowing in his look,-
Hoping, exulting o'er the promise given,

That brightened weeping hours with hopes of heaven :-
Knelt with his children at the Eternal throne,
And pleaded with a fervour not his own ;-
Breathed from a holy in-born influence given,
The language of a spirit fit for heaven.
His soul entranced with high devotion's glow,
Forgot he was a sufferer here below :-

When, lo! a shriek !-the startled echoes rang
With neighing war-steeds, and the warriors' clang
Woke him to earth, and drew him from the sky,-
To clasp his weeping family and die.

Firm in spirit of his prayer he stood,

Resigned, yet fearless, calm, but unsubdued.
"Prepare!" the dark and fierce avenger cried;
Prepare!" his language in his hour of pride.

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The good man knelt upon the flowery heath,
Soon to be crimsoned with the tide of death;
His farewell pray'r of triumph and repose ;-
Heaven's glories dawning o'er his earthly woes-
In the true martyr's spirit pled with heaven,
His death, his country's wrongs, might be forgiven;
And more than angels' eloquence imparts-
It touched the tearless soldiers' iron hearts;
And pity checked that dark and bloody horde,
Save one-the bosom of their savage lord.
The martyr rose, with calm unruffled breast,
Like one prepared for everlasting rest:
His weeping little ones were clustered near;
He kissed each child, and dropped a parting tear;
Breathed a long farewell to his faithful wife;
And Nature for a moment clung to life!

When, loud and high, the leader's stern command
Rose fierce, but vain, above that bloody band;
Though stained with slaughter's darkest, foulest hue,
No arm was raised, no death-winged bullet flew :-
The ruthless Clavers raised his hand on high,
Rage in his heart, and mockery in his eye;
A moment-and the martyred hero lay
Bedewed in blood, --his soul had passed away
From death and insult, springing to a throne,
The guilt his foe's, the triumph all his own.

!

The Theban mother gloried in her son,
Borne on his shield from battle he had won;
The peasant's wife, far on the Scottish moor,
With none to soothe, did heavier griefs endure ;-
The Christian inatron to her nature true,

Leant o'er her slaughtered lord and triumphed too.

TO THE MEMORY OF LORD BYRON.

The harp of the minstrel is hung in the hall,

And his fleeting existence is o'er ;

And still are its strings, as it sleeps on the wall,
Like the fingers that swept it before.

His eye, once so bright, has been robb'd of its fire,
His bosom, once wild as the wave,

Which the shrill note of liberty's trump could inspire,
Or the heart-thrilling tones of the well-swept lyre,
Is silent and still as the grave.

"He had evil within him".

--we saw the dark shade

When his bosom's dark secrets we scan;

Yet his arm was still lifted the freeman to aid,
And his deeds shed a lustre on man.

If the black cloud of h te o'er his bosom did low'r,
If he wished to the desert to flee,

He was only the foe of the minion of pow'r,

Who, fiend-like, stalks over the earth for an hour,
But was ever the friend of the free.

The soft scenes of nature for him had no charms,
The riv❜let and fast-fading flow'r

Awaked not his soul, like the horrid alarms
When a nation is wreck'd in an hour.

In the dark-sweeping storm, by Omnipotence driven,
In the flash and the long pealing roll;

In the rocking of earth, in the frowning of heaven,
When the pillars of nature seem trembling and riven,
'Twas a beam of delight to his soul.

As he wander'd (O Greece !) o'er thy once hallow'd ground, And stood o'er the warrior's grave,

He heard but the voice of Oppression around,

And saw but the home of the slave

As he gazed through the vista of ages gone by,
In the glory and pride of the world-
As he gazed on the ruins that round him did lie,
It drew from his bosom a sorrowful sigh,

Where Tyranny's flag was unfurl'd.

He tuned his wild harp o'er the ruins of Greece,
His strains were impassion'd and strong;
They solaced his heart, like a seraph of peace,
While her freedom arose like a song.

And when the bright sun of their liberty rose,
His heart full of rapture adored;

The morning had dawn'd on their fatal repose,
Their slumbers were broken, they rushed on their foes,
To shiver the chains they abhorr'd.

Did he fall in the struggle when Greece would be free? 'Twas a star blotted out on their shore,

But his hovering spirit yet triumphs with thee,
Though his brave arm can aid thee no more.
He expired as the torch of thy glory grew bright,
In the glorious noon of his day;

His triumph was short, like the meteor of night
As it flashes o'er heav'n with its long train of light-
For like it he vanished away.

You have seen the bright summer sun sink in the west, And the glories that shrouded him there,

Like the splendours that dwell on the heav'n of the blest, Immortal, unclouded, and fair.

So the halo of glory shall circle his name,

His wreath shall eternally bloom;

And Britain triumphant her Byron shall claim,

As he shines with the great in the temple of Fame,

The triumph of man o'er the tomb !

THE POET'S WISHES.

Give me the silent evening hour,
And leave me alone to stray;
Give me the old grey ruined tow'r,
And the setting beam of day;

Give me the patriot's field of fame,
And the martyr's hallow'd grave;
And oft will I breathe his much-loved name,
Whose deeds did his country save ;

Give me the glowing page of night,
To read with a poet's eye;

With the lovely moonbeam's sombre light,
When the broken clouds are nigh;