Where the glance of summer sunbeam Scarcely finds my lowly bed. But this cold blast all too keenly Wakes me from my wintry sleep; Come then, gentle Spring, and shield me With thy mantle rich and deep. Come, with all thy wealth of beauty, Let me find a home in them. There I'll watch thee hang thy garlands O'er the garden's pleasant ways; There I'll kiss thy feet, and bless thee For the joy of sunny days. Gentle Spring, I tire with gazing For thy footsteps on the lawn; Come, and chase the clouds away; Scent of Violets! sweeter, purer, Wealth has never purchased yet: Take then, take this grateful tribute From thy child-thy Violet. The Garden. IN that day when drooped the Snowdrop, Held within a dying hand, Passed a mild and saintly spirit— Passed into the better land. Faithful wife, and tender mother, Scarce the father's love can soothe her, Through the garden, cold and drear. Soon those soft blue eyes are telling, With the bright tears gushing o'er, Tales of love, as well as sorrow, Never half so sweet before. Well it suits her mood of sadness Till at length they pause, and wonder There the Violet smiles, and sings. Soon a flower is plucked, and folded Where the faded Violet sleeps; O'er her withered flower, and weeps. The Home Library. Memoir of George Wilson, M.D., F.R.S.E., Regius Professor of Technology in the University of Edinburgh. By his Sister. A new and condensed Edition. London and Cambridge: Macmillan and Co. This is in every sense a model memoir. The biographer has effectually guarded herself from the temptations to partial-and therefore untruthful-representation, to which relatives are exposed in attempting to portray the character of the objects of their love. The lights and shades of a genuine Christian life are so commingled, that we obtain a perfectly natural as well as most attractive picture. Dr. Wilson was a burning and a shining light, distinguished alike for eminent gifts and eminent grace. His words on the death of his friend John Reid are indeed most applicable to himself : "Thou wert a daily lesson Of courage, hope, and faith; We wondered at thee living, We envy thee thy death. Thou wert so meek and reverent, So bold to bear the uttermost, Well may we cease to sorrow; Not for thy fate, but for our own, Space forbids our lengthening our present notice, but we hope to return to the memoir again. What we have said will, we trust, induce many of our readers to purchase it. It is a book for all classes; but it ought to be in every medical man's library. In the chamber of sickness, also, it would be difficult to find a more profitable work. The records of Dr. Wilson's daily life of patient and even cheerful endurance, exhibit a practical comment on his "Counsels of an Invalid," which we so strongly recommended in the November part of “OUR OWN FIRESIDE." Animal Sagacity. Edited by Mrs. S. C. HALL, London: S. W. Partridge. Pre-eminently a book for the young. The illustrations, after designs by Harrison Weir and others, are unusually attractive, and are executed in the first style of art. The letter "Born at Kelso, in June, 1793, and having all the early advantage of a much-beloved mother's gentle influence and holy lessons, Mr. Lyte was soon made to feel the misery of narrow resources, and had to struggle hard for the benefit of a liberal education. His superior and versatile talent, in happy association with firm integrity and amiable temper, opened his way to academical honour, and at last to a 'dreary' Irish curacy. While tenderly and faithfully watching a brother clergyman in his last moments, his own heart was made free by the truth which sustained the dying Christian. But watchings by the sick, and subsequent labours on behalf of the bereaved widow and her children, overtaxed his system, and he sank into that consumptive tendency which brought frequent clouds over him all through his remaining life. He travelled on the Continent; and on his return, after trying the climate of Bristol, and 'after being jostled about from one curacy to another,' he settled for a time as lecturer in the quiet little town of Marazion, on the shore of the beautiful bay of Mount St. Michael, in Cornwall. Here he married. Then he is found at Lymington, writing poems and tales which charmed Professor Wilson. Then on the banks of the Dart, in South Devon, in the lovely village of Dittisham. There the wandering curate nestled in a cottage, going out now and then to officiate at Lower Brixham. Brixham was at last his parish; and there for twenty years he toiled in his pastorate under many a cloud-clouds of personal suffering, clouds of pastoral difficulty and discouragement. To his tender, sensitive nature, the peculiar condition of his flock must frequently have been a source of trial. His charge was the busy, shrewd, somewhat rough, but warm-hearted population of a fishing coast and seafaring district, which had been subject to all the corrupting influences peculiar to the neighbourhood of naval and military forces during the French war. But he never shrank from work; his heart never quailed in suffering; but he solaced himself, and frequently softened and subdued the hard natures around him, with hymns from under the cloud. He made hymns for his little ones, and hymns for his hardy fishermen, and hymns for sufferers like himself. How many a cloudy day was cheered by a song like this! "My spirit on Thy care, Blest Saviour, I recline; Thou wilt not leave me to despair, For Thou art love Divine. In Thee I place my trust, On thee I calmly rest; I know Thec good, I know Thee just, Whate'er events betide, Thy will they all perform; Let good or ill befall, It must be good for me; Of having all in Thee.' pointed upwards in passing, and murmured softly, 'peace,' 'joy!' while his face brightened into smiles as the shadow of his last cloud melted before the 'Light of Life.'" Mr. Christopher's interesting volume will, we trust, teach many a reader the secret of a happy, cheerful, and tuneful life-"a life of inward hymn and song." Triumphs of Ancient Architecture: Greece and A thoroughly interesting book, admirably adapted for instructional purposes. It is well illustrated, and we have given an extract in our present number, with a sketch of the Arch of Titus. The Garden Oracle. London: Groombridge and Mr. Shirley Hibberd's annual report in the "The Brixham hymnist's days were numbered. His strength gradually failed. The climate of Italy was several times tried, and his life was spun out a little while. But the end must come. 1847 was approaching, and he must needs take his last journey to the genial south. It was always hard to leave his dear Berry Head. 'They tell me,' said he, that the sea is injurious to me. I hope not; for I know of no divorce I should more deprecate than from the lordly ocean. From childhood it has been my friend and playmate; and never have I been weary of gazing on its glorious face. Besides, if I cannot live by the sea, adieu to poor Berry Head-adieu to the wild birds, and wild flowers, and all the objects that have made my old residence so attractive.' But by-and-by he adds, 'I am meditating flight again to the south. The little faithful robin is every morning at my window, sweetly warning me that autumnal hours are at hand. The swallows are preparing for flight, and inviting me to accompany them; and yet, alas! while I talk of flying, I am just able to crawl, and often ask myself whether I shall be able to leave England at all.' He did go, never to return. Before he went, he wished once more to preach to his people. His family was alarmed at the thought; but he gently replied, 'It is better to wear out than to rust out.' He felt equal to this last effort, and had no fear. He preached. It was on the Holy Communion,' and it was solemnly significant to hear him say, 'Oh, brethren, I can speak feelingly, experimentally on this point; and I stand here among you seasonably to-day, as alive from the dead, if I may hope to impress it upon you, and induce you to prepare for that solemn hour which must come to all, by a timely acquaintance with, appreciation of, dependence on, the death of Christ.' This was his last appeal. And for the last time he dispensed the sacred elements to his sorrowing flock; and then, exhausted with his effort, he retired with a soul in sweet repose on that Christ whom he had preached with his dying breath. And as the evening drew on he handed to a near and dear relative those undying verses, and his own adapted music for the hymn "Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide! "This was his last hymn upon earth. He reached Nice, and there his spirit entered into rest. He Nellie's Mission: Stories Illustrative of the These stories have a "purpose," and they are likely to secure it. Simple and touching sketches of home-life are made to enforce the teaching of the Model Prayer-the first prayer that childhood lisps, and the most comprehensive summary of the believer's desires to which expression can be given, at any and every stage of his experience. We have been particularly pleased with the story of "The Crossing Sweeper." It should be read by the fireside in winter time. Aunt Judy's Christmas Volume for Young Handsomely bound and gilded, the exterior The Band of Hope Review, 1866. London: We consider the "Band of Hope Review" unapproachable as a cheap serial for the young. |