d given him but a scanty welcome, and a
life of foiled endeavour, of disappointed hope. Even now there was a
disappointment. His poems did not find a publisher: what publisher can
take the risk of adding another volume of poetry to the enormous stock of
verse brought out at the author's expense? This did not sour or sadden
him: he took Montaigne's advice, 'not to make too much marvel of our own
fortunes.' His biographer, hearing in the winter of 1893 that Murray's
illness was now considered hopeless, though its rapid close was not
expected, began, with Professor Meiklejohn, to make arrangements for the
publication of the poems. But the poet did not live to have this poor
gratification. He died in the early hours of 1894.

Of the merits of his more serious poetry others must speak. To the
Editor it seems that he is always at his best when he is inspired by the
Northern Sea, and the long sands and grey sea grasses. Then he is most
himself. He was improving in his art with every year: his development,
indeed, was somewhat late.

It is less of the writer than the man that we prefer to think. His
letters display, in passages which he would not have desired to see
quoted, the depth and tenderness and thoughtfulness of his affections. He
must have been a delightful friend: illness could not make him peevish,
and his correspondence with old college companions could never be taken
for that of a consciously dying man. He had perfect courage, and
resolution even in his seeming irresoluteness. He was resolved to be,
and continued to be, himself. 'He had kept the bird in his bosom.' We,
who regret him, may wish that he had been granted a longer life, and a
secure success. Happier fortunes might have mellowed him, no fortunes
could have altered for the worse his admirable nature. He lives in the
hearts of his friends, and in the pride and sympathy of those who, after
him, have worn and shall wear the scarlet gown.

The following examples of his poetry were selected by Murray's biographer
from a considerable mass, and have been seen through the press by
Professor Meiklejohn, who possesses the original manuscript, beautifully
written.

MOONLIGHT NORTH AND SOUTH

Love, we have heard together
The North Sea sing his tune,
And felt the wind's wild feather
Brush past our cheeks at noon,
And seen the cloudy weather
Made wondrous with the moon.

Where loveliness is rarest,
'Tis also prized the mo