ication. "The
Retrospect," accordingly, appeared with a numerous list of subscribers,
and was well received by the press. The poet now removed to Cambuslang,
near Glasgow, where he continued to prosecute his occupation of weaving.
He entered into the married state by espousing Margaret Chalmers, a
young woman of respectable connexions and considerable literary tastes.
The desire of obtaining funds to afford change of climate to his wife,
who was suffering from impaired health, induced him to propose a second
edition of his poems, to be published by subscription. During the course
of his canvass, he unfortunately contracted those habits of intemperance
which have proved the bane of so many of the sons of genius. Returning
to the loom at Cambuslang, he began to exchange the pleasures of the
family hearth for the boisterous excitement of the tavern. He separated
from his wife and children, and became the victim of dissipation. In
1853, some of his literary friends published the whole of his poetical
works in a duodecimo volume, in the hope of procuring the means of
extricating him from his painful condition. The attempt did not succeed.
He died in an hospital in Glasgow, of fever, contracted by intemperance.
As a poet, he was possessed of a rich fancy, with strong descriptive
powers. His "Retrospect" abounds with beautiful passages; and some of
his shorter poems and songs are destined to survive.

AN AUTUMNAL CLOUD.

Oh! would I were throned on yon glossy golden cloud,
Soaring to heaven with the eagle so proud,
Floating o'er the sky
Like a spirit, to descry
Each bright realm,--and, when I die,
May it be my shroud!

I would skim afar o'er ocean, and drink of bliss my fill,
O'er the thunders of Ni'gara and cataracts of Nile,--
With rising rainbows wreathed,
In mist and darkness sheathed,
Where nought but spirits breathed
Around me the while.

Above the mighty Alps (o'er the tempest's angry god
Careering on the avalanche) should be my bless'd abode.
There, where Nature lowers more wild
Than her most uncultured child,
Revels beauty--as one smiled
O'er life's darkest mood.

Our aerial flight should be where eye hath never been,
O'er the stormy Polar deep, where the icy Alps are seen,
Where Death sits, crested high