zine. From first to last, he contributed three hundred and seventy articles, in prose and verse, to that periodical. On the 22d of June, 1851, in dismounting from his horse at the door of a patient, he accidentally hurt one of his legs, which had before been injured by the upsetting of a carriage. He suffered much pain, inflammation succeeded, and spasms followed; and though every thing was done for his relief, he continued to sink, and expired, in the full possession of his faculties, and in calm, Christian resignation, on the morning of the 6th of July, 1851. His last words were a prayer, uttered in the most distinct and fervent manner:-"And now may the Lord my God not separate between my soul and my body till he has made a final and eternal separation between my soul and sin, for the sake of my Redeemer." Of his character, his biographer, the poet, Thomas Aird, remarks—“Professional reputation is a desirable thing, and literary honor is not to be despised; but all distinctions fade away as comparatively cheap to those who had the privilege of knowing Mr. Moir in the 'mild majesty of private life.' Constituted and composed of so many harmonious excellencies, the Christian gentleman, in the bosom of his beautiful family, was the consummation of them all." Says the beautiful tribute to his memory in Blackwood's Magazine, "We take farewell of the gentlest and kindest being, of the most true and single-hearted man, that we may ever hope to meet with in the course of this earthly pilgrimage." Dr. Moir married, in 1829, Miss Charlotte E. Bell, of Leith, who is still living, (1853.) They had eleven children, of which eight survived the father. Three, who died before reaching their fifth year, namely, Charles Bell, William Blackwood, and David Macbeth, whom he loved so dearly, and whom he lamented in strains of such undying pathos, sleep side by side with their father in the quiet churchyard of Inveresk.' Read "The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir, (A,) edited by Thomas Aird, with a Memoir of the Author," 2 volumes. This was the self-conferred pet name of his litle son David Macbeth, who was snatched away, after a very brief illness, at the age of four and a half. Do what I may, go where I will, There dost thou glide before me still- I feel thy breath upon my cheek- Methinks thou smilest before me now, The hair thrown back from thy full brow I see thine eyes' deep violet light, Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright, The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball; A corner holds thine empty chair; Casa Wappy! Even to the last thy every word- Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird In outward beauty undecay'd, We mourn for thee, when blind blank night We pine for thee, when morn's first light The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, Are changed: we saw the world through thee, And though, perchance, a smile may gleam It doth not own, whate'er may seem, We miss thy small step on the stair; Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, Down to the appointed house below- But now the green leaves of the tree, 'Tis so; but can it be-(while flowers Man's doom, in death that we and ours Oh! can it be, that, o'er the grave, The grass renew'd should yearly wave, Yet God forget our child to save? Casa Wappy! Fare-thee-well, our last and fairest, Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling To our sorrows thou wert balm ;- As we gazed upon thee sleeping, With thy fine fair locks outspread, Thou didst seem a little angel, Who to earth from heaven had stray'd; And, entranced, we watch'd the vision, Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly, Should dissolve in light. Snows o'ermantled hill and valley, Sullen clouds begrimed the sky, When the first, drear doubt oppress'd us, That our child was doom'd to die. "And now for the rarest of all poetic merit-heart-subduing pathos. The Domestic Verses' themselves are a complete Worship of Sorrow. The simple, sobbing, wailing pathos of Casa Wappy' has drawn more tears of mothers than any other dirge of our day. Poem we are loth to call it: such things are not made by the brain-they are the spilth of the human heart, that wonderful fountain, fed from the living veins of Heaven, and welling over."-THOMAS AIRD. ⚫ His son William Blackwood, who died at the age of fifteen months. Through each long night-watch, the taper Oh, the doubts, the fears, the anguish 'Twas even then Destruction's angel On our lintel set his sign; And we turn'd from his quick death-scene, As the beams of Spring's first morning Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms Of our hopes, our hearts, our hearth; Two asleep lie buried under Three for us yet gladden earth. Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones! Why should dreams of doubt and darkness Why, across the cold dim churchyard Flit our visions of despair? Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel Says, "Ye are not there!" Where then are ye? With the Saviour Blest, for ever blest, are ye, Mid the sinless, little children, Who have heard his "Come to me!" 'Yond the shades of death's dark valley, Now ye lean upon his breast, Where the wicked dare not enter, And the weary rest! |