n the gifts of a poetic mind--there had been a
congeniality between him and David. The vivacity of Robert's ever
active and lively mind was the chief point of difference. This
vivacity admirably fitted him for public life; it needed only to be
chastened and solemnized, and the event that had now occurred wrought
this effect. A few months before, the happy family circle had been
broken up by the departure of the second brother for India, in the
Bengal Medical Service; but when, in the course of the summer, David
was removed from them forever, there were impressions left such as
could never be effaced, at least from the mind of Robert. Naturally of
an intensely affectionate disposition, this stroke moved his whole
soul. His quiet hours seem to have been often spent in thoughts of him
who was now gone to glory. There are some lines remaining in which his
poetic mind has most touchingly, and with uncommon vigor, painted him
whom he had lost,--lines all the more interesting, because the
delineation of character and form which they contain cannot fail to
call up to those who knew him the image of the author himself. Some
time after his brother's death he had tried to preserve the features
of his well-remembered form, by attempting a portrait from memory; but
throwing aside the pencil in despair, he took up the pen, and poured
out the fulness of his heart.

ON PAINTING THE MINIATURE LIKENESS OF ONE DEPARTED.

ALAS! not perfect yet--another touch,
And still another, and another still,
Till those dull lips breathe life, and yonder eye
Lose its lack lustre hue, and be lit up
With the warm glance of living feeling. No--
It never can be! Ah, poor, powerless art!
Most vaunting, yet most impotent, thou seek'st
To trace the thousand, thousand shades and lights
That glowed conspicuous on the blessed face
Of him thou fain wouldst imitate--to bind
Down to the fragile canvas the wild play
Of thought and mild affection, which were wont
To dwell in the serious eye, and play around
The placid mouth. Thou seek'st to give again
That which the burning soul, inhabiting
Its clay-built tenement, alone can give--
To leave on cold dead matter the impress
Of living mind--to bid a line, a shade,
Speak forth, not words, but the soft intercourse
Which the immortal spirit, while on earth
It tabernacles, breathes from ever