My tender wife sweet soother of my care! - 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 O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Still fling their shadows o'er my path, 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 O, mind ye, how we hung our heads, Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said (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, As ane by ane the thochts rush back O mornin' life! O mornin' luve! When hinnied hopes around our hearts O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left To wander by the green burnside, 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, And on the knowe abune the burn, In the silentness o' joy, till baith 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, I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, O, tell me, gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 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, But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 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? A stream that hurries on its way, The last drop of a bootless shower, 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 |