My tender wife sweet soother of my care! -
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell-lingering fell, a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

OTHERWELL, WILLIAM, a Scottish poet; born at Glasgow, October 13, 1797; died there, November 1, 1835. His father soon removed from Glasgow to Edinburgh, where the boy was placed in the High School in 1808. The next year he was sent to an uncle, an iron founder of Paisley. Here he studied in the grammar-school until he was fifteen years old, when he entered the office of the Sheriff-clerk. In 1819 he was appointed Sheriffclerk Deputy of the county of Renfrew. He retained the office for ten years, giving his leisure to editorial work and to poetry. He published The Harp of Renfrewshire, a collection of poems, some of which were original, in 1819, and Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern, in 1827. The following year he edited the Paisley Advertiser, and in 1830 was invited to take charge of the Glasgow Courier. He retained the editorship of this paper until his death. In 1832 he published a collection of his poems, with the title, Poems, Narrative and Lyrical.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,

Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule!
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years

Still fling their shadows o'er my path,
And blind my een wi' tears;
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit each other weel,

'Twas then we twa did part,

Sweet time, sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

'Twas then we sat on a laigh bink

To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think.

When baith bent down o'er ae braid page,

Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O, mind ye, how we hung our heads,
How cheeks burnt red wi' shame,

Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said
We cleeked thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes, The broomy braes o' June?

My head runs round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,

As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule time and o' thee.

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lightsome days and lang,

When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like summer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,

To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,

The flowers burst round our feet,

And in the gloamin' o' the wood

The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak!

That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,

When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
As ye have been to me?

O, tell me, gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,

The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

I'VE PLUCKED THE BERRY.

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree,

But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me; I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly

peer

With their wild eyes like glittering beads, to note if

harm were near;

I passed them by and blessed them all; I felt that it was

good

To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home is in the wood.

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth

sing,

He pecks his swelling breast and neck and trims his little

wing,

He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on

that spray,

I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay; Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness,

It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!

What is Glory? What is Fame?
The echo of a long-lost name;
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk;
The shadow of an arrant naught;
A flower that blossoms for a day,
Dying next morrow;

A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow;

The last drop of a bootless shower,
Shed on a sere and leafless bower;
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast,-
This is the World's fame at the best!

OTLEY, JOHN LOTHROP, an American historian; born at Dorchester, Mass., April 15, 1814; died at Dorset, England, May 29, 1877. He entered Harvard College at the age of thirteen, and was graduated four years afterward. He then studied in the German universities of Berlin and