Weep not the dead! The spring bloom faded The weary are gone, Nor for thyself sorrow, Praise ye, praise ye gladly, DEEP SEA GRAVES. A little splash in the ocean, A child's form sunk in the wave, A little hope-flower wither'd, But ne'er is such bloom regather'd MONTAGUE STANLEY, A.R.S.A. THIS sweet poet, rising painter, and talented son of Thespis, was born at Dundee, in 1809, and crossed the Atlantic with his father, who was connected with the navy, when only fourteen months old. At the age of three he lost his father, and in the sole care of his mother, resided in New York until his seventh year, when they removed to Halifax in Nova Scotia. Here he early contracted a love for the stage, and before he had completed his eighth. year he had performed a part in one of the public theatres. His beautiful countenance and fine figure attracted the attention of the magnates of the place, and he was invited to take part in some private theatricals at the Government House, and was rewarded with a purse filled with gold. The purse he kept, the gold he gave to his mother. In 1819 he came with his mother to England, and soon after he connected himself with the stage. For a length of time he acted at York, and in 1828 he was engaged for the Edinburgh Theatre, where he displayed great talent in his profession, while at the same time he began to take lessons in drawing, and soon after to paint for the annnal Exhibition in Edinburgh. In 1830 he went to Dublin, where his fame rose high with the theatrical public. In 1832 and 1833 he performed with equal success in London; and in 1838, when in the height of his popularity, he, on account of religious convictions, closed his theatrical career in Edinburgh. Throughout life, however, he retained the highest respect for many members of his former profession. For a short time after retiring from the stage, Mr Stanley gave lessons in drawing, but he soon devoted himself almost entirely to painting, and in 1839 he went to Hamilton to paint from Nature in the Duke's forest of Cadzow. In the summer of 1842 he wandered through Wales with a friend, to refresh and store his mind, and to fill his portfolio with sketches. That he sketched and painted with skill is proved by the fact that while his paintings always sold well, his sketches were much sought after. Having visited the islands of Bute and Arran, and being charmed with the unrivalled scenery of the Clyde, with its isles, its bays and innumerable estuaries, he took a house at Ascog, on the north-east end of Bute, a short distance from Rothesay, overlooking the glorious Firth of Clyde. Here he painted much from Nature, and occasionally cultivated the Muse. But insiduous consumption had already begun to undermine his constitution and waste his frame. Early in 1844, weakness, lassitude, and a strange but strong dread of approaching calamity, and of some dark and unseen dispensation impending over his beloved family began to oppress and disturb his mind. Still he went on, labouring beyond his strength to finish paintings for the Edinburgh Exhibition. It was his last visit there, and he returned, greatly weakened, to lay himself down to die. In a little while, and in his thirty-fifth year, he breathed out his spirit as calmly as the dews of summer fall upon the sleeping flowers. During his lifetime several of Mr Stanley's poems had appeared in a work published by Mr Oliphant, Edinburgh, and in the Christian Treasury. In 1848 these, with others which he had left behind him in manuscript, were collected and published by Mr P. W. Kennedy, Edinburgh, with a memoir of the author by the Rev. T. K. Drummond, and illustrated with numerous exceedingly beautiful woodcuts, taken from Mr Stanley's own pencillings. RELICS OF THE PAST-THE CASTLE. Stern e'en in ruin, noble in decay; They seem as breathing forth defiance still, Where her close mesh the lonely spider weaves. Sounds sadly from the ruin'd turrets grey. That trace the proud descent of mouldering bones. THE HOUR OF PRAYER. Go! 'tis the hour of prayer ; One star she leaves to herald in the sun Then in the shadowy twilight dun, Go! 'tis the hour of prayer. Lose not the hour of prayer, Through all the heated, quivering air, The sun pours living light, The noontide blazeth bright; Shake off the chains that indolence would wreathe, Thy fervent, heartfelt, aspirations breathe Pour forth thy soul to God; Now, 'tis the hour of prayer. The hour of prayer is come, Soon will thy wearied eyelids close; Hold off its soft oblivion for a while Till thou hast sought thy Heavenly Father's smile, F WILLIAM STEWART ROSS, FROM environments the most uncongenial, and by earnest and well-directed energy and perseverance, has made a mark not only in the walks of literature, but in publishing, which is the commerce of literature. Mr Ross was born in 1844, at Kirkbean, in Galloway. It was not till his ninth year that he first went to school, when he had to walk all alone, and with bare feet, three rough miles over crag and heather, and the same journey back again at night. The young poet, however, had a quick mind and retentive memory, and before he knew his letters he could repeat lengthy extracts from the Psalms of David and the poems of Burns. He next attended the parish school of New Abbey, Kirkcudbrightshire, where the historic legends connected with the district, and the massive remains of Sweetheart Abbey, gave a stimulus to romantic musing. The worthy dominie was wont to call his promising pupil a "dungeon of a boy." He borrowed books of every description from the farmers and cottars around, and long considered it one of the most eventful days of his life when he came into possession of a dog-eared copy of the " Lay of the Last Minstrel." He recited the poem to the crags and the brackens anent the tomb of Michael Scot and the knights of the bold Buccleuch till he could repeat it by rote from beginning to end. In a rural district a lad could not pursue a course like this without incurring more ridicule as an oddity than admiration for precocity at the hands of his schoolfellows, who perhaps never read a line except when they could not help it; but being endowed with more than ordinary muscular vigour and activity, and a determined will, he was regarded as one not lightly to be joked at. William was the eldest, and before he had reached his twelfth year, he was sent out to help to earn his own livelihood at whatever rough work lay within his strength and skill. He could not afford to get either candle or lamp, and late into the night he would lie down flat with his book upon the hard clay hearth, and read by the dim light of the peat fire— frequently singeing his hair, and more than once actually setting fire to it. Yet it was under circumstances like these that the lad gained an acquaintance with English literature, remarkable alike for its extent and exactness of detail. After labouring and studying in this way for two or three years we find him in Hutton Hall Academy, Caerlavrock-his mother, a woman of intelligence and force of character, resolving that as "Willie was not like the rest of her bairns, and that if he could only get a chance, |