y patron of
John Low, the ingenious, but unfortunate author of "Mary's Dream."
Receiving the rudiments of education at the parish school, William
proceeded, in 1792, to the University of Edinburgh, to prosecute his
studies for the Church. Obtaining licence as a probationer, he was, in
1801, ordained assistant and successor to his father, on whose death, in
1806, he succeeded to the full benefits of the charge. Inheriting from
his father an elegant turn of mind and a devotedness to literary
composition, he was induced to publish, in his twenty-ninth year, an
allegorical poem, entitled "The Progress of Refinement." A higher effort
from his pen appeared in 1815, under the title of "Consolation, and
other Poems." This volume, which abounds in vigorous sentiment and rich
poetical description, evincing on the part of the author a high
appreciation of the beauties of nature, considerably extended his
reputation. He formed habits of intimacy with many of his poetical
contemporaries, by whom he was beloved for the amenity of his
disposition. He largely contributed to various periodicals, especially
the agricultural journals; and was a zealous member of the Highland
Society of Scotland.

In July 1825, Mr Gillespie espoused Miss Charlotte Hoggan. Soon after
this event, he was attacked with erysipelas,--a complaint which,
resulting in general inflammation, terminated his promising career on
the 15th of October, in his fiftieth year. The following lyrics evince
fancy and deep pathos, causing a regret that the author did not more
amply devote himself to the composition of songs.

THE HIGHLANDER.[104]

From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary,
The Highlander sped to his youthful abode;
Fair visions of home cheer'd the desert so dreary,
Though fierce was the noon-beam, and steep was the road.

Till spent with the march that still lengthen'd before him,
He stopp'd by the way in a sylvan retreat;
The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him,
The stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet.

He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended,
On dreams of his childhood his fancy past o'er;
But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended,
The sound of the bagpipes shall wake him no more.

No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him,
Though war launch'd her thunder in fury to kill;
Now the Angel of Death in the desert