burgh Philosophical Institution on the poeti- | known of his poems, was written by Dr. Moir cal literature of the past half century, which on the death of his favourite child, Charles was afterwards published and met with a very | Bell-familiarly called by him “Casa Wappy," large sale. In June of that year his health a self-conferred pet name-who died at the age became much impaired, and in July he pro- of four years. It is one of the most tender and ceeded to Dumfries for a change of air and touching effusions in the English language. scene, but he died there suddenly, July 6, 1851. His remains were interred in his native place, where a beautiful monument has been erected to his memory. After Dr. Moir's death a collected edition of his best poems was published in Edinburgh, under the editorial superintendence of Thomas Aird, who prefixed to the work an interesting memoir of his friend. Lord Jeffrey in a letter to Moir said of his Domestic Verses, a new edition of which appeared recently, "I cannot resist the impulse of thanking you with all my heart for the deep gratification you have afforded me, and the soothing, and I hope bettering, emotions which you have excited. I am sure that what you have written is more genuine pathos than anything almost I have ever read in verse, and is so tender and true, so sweet and natural, as to make all lower recommendations indifferent." Jeffrey has very correctly set forth the character of Moir's poetry. "Casa Wappy," perhaps the best We cannot conclude this notice of the Christian poet and accomplished gentleman without quoting a few lines from an old volume of Maga: "His, indeed, was a life far more devoted to the service of others than to his own personal aggrandizement a life whose value can only be appreciated now, when he has been called to receive his reward in that better world, the passport to which he sought so diligentlyin youth as in manhood, in happiness as in sorrow-to obtain. Bright as the flowers may be which are twined for the coronal of the poet, they have no glory when placed beside the wreath which belongs to the departed Christian. We have represented Delta as he was-as he must remain ever in the affectionate memory of his friends: and with this brief and unequal tribute to his surpassing worth we take farewell of the gentlest and kindest being, of the most true and single-hearted man, whom we may ever hope to meet with in the course of this earthly pilgrimage." CASA WAPPY. So dear to us thou wert, thou art Thy bright, brief day knew no decline- Sunrise and night alone were thine, This morn beheld thee blithe and gay; Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Humbly we bow to Fate's decree; Yet had we hoped that Time should see Casa Wappy! Do what I may, go where I will, There dost thou glide before me still- I feel thy breath upon my cheek--- Methinks thou smil'st before me now, The hair thrown back from thy full brow I see thine eyes' deep violet light— Thy dimpled cheek carnationed brightThy clasping arms so round and whiteCasa Wappy! The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy bat-thy bow Thy cloak and bonnet-club and ball; But where art thou? A corner holds thine empty chair; Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there, But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy! Even to the last, thy every word- Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird In outward beauty undecayed, We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night We pine for thee, when morn's first light The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, And though, perchance, a smile may gleam It doth not own, whate'er may seem, We miss thy small step on the stair;- Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, Down to the appointed house below- But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo, and "the busy bee," Return--but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy! 'Tis so; but can it be-while flowers Man's doom, in death that we and ours Oh! can it be, that, o'er the grave, It cannot be; for were it so Life were a mockery-thought were woe- Heaven were a coinage of the brain- Then be to us, O dear, lost child! A star, death's uncongenial wild Soon, soon thy little feet have trod Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, That heaven is God's, and thou art there, There past are death and all its woes, Farewell then--for a while, farewell-- It cannot be that long we dwell, Time's shadows like the shuttle flee: THE WINTER WILD. How sudden hath the snow come down! Last night the new moon show'd her horn, And, o'er December's moorland brown, Rain on the breeze's wing was borne; But, when I ope my shutters, lo! Old earth hath changed her garb again, |