parish not far from the city of Durham, which he thankfully accepted. In this place he commenced his labours on May-day, 1811; and here for a few months, struggling against very bad health, he discharged the duties of the pastoral office. Brighter worldly prospects were now dawning upon him, had health been granted. At Sedgefield he found both friends and patrons, who had ability to perceive his worth, and power and inclination to reward it. He preached before the Bishop, who expressed warm approbation of his powers, and what, from so good a man, must to Grahame have been higher praise, of their application, saying, "His discourse could not fail to be useful to all ranks," and assuring him of his patronage and friendship. These prospects were soon to be for ever closed. Grahame had suffered severely during all this year. He had long been liable to excruciating headaches, asthmatic attacks, and oppressive sickness; and every symptom became so much aggravated, that, for change of air and medical advice, he was induced to come to Edinburgh. He arrived in August, at the house of his only surviving sister, Mrs Archibald Grahame, accompanied by his nephew; and his wife soon afterwards joined him. Neither the best medical advice, nor the tender sympathy of his relatives, could now afford him any hope of relief. His constitution sunk rapidly under the severity of disease; but he "possessed his spirit in patience," and appeared, though without any ostentation, re

signed to whatever might be "the will of God concerning him."

The natural desire of breathing the last sigh where the first breath was drawn, made him feel anxious once more to visit his native city; or, not unlikely, he might have some vague hope that the days of his pilgrimage might yet for a little be lengthened out were he once there. He even appeared to think that he might be able to preach in Glasgow; for he carried two sermons along with him on his last earthly journey, which was commenced on the 9th of September. Mrs Grahame went with him. Two days were spent on the road; and he became so alarmingly worse, that, when on the 11th, he reached Whitehill, his brother's house, in the vicinity of Glasgow, it was evident that his dissolution was fast approaching. He died on the 14th of September, 1811, in his 47th year, and was laid in the same grave with his father and mother.

Grahame left two sons and a daughter, who are growing up amiable and promising young persons, endeared to all who admired the genius and the worth of their departed father. Since his death, they have also lost their mother; but their relatives in Annan have kindly discharged the paternal duties to these orphans. One of the sons is now studying law in Edinburgh.

It has already been said, that the writings of Grahame afford the best index to his character. Mild, affectionate, and pious from his youth up,

there is no one action of his life over which charity needs to throw the veil. This is much to say at the close of any man's life. We scarcely need the assurance of his friends, that "in domestic life he was truly endearing." He was averse to the bustle of society, both from choice and from that contemplative sensibility, and gentle though subdued enthusiasm, which appear to have been the prevailing characters of his mind. Formed for "fireside endearments," "intimate delights," the varied face of simple nature, and his own household hearth, were the chosen scenes of his enjoyments. He was fond of music, particularly of the melodies of Scotland, which he sung himself with the true feeling of what music is. His appearances at the bar never were much distinguished; but in Edinburgh, while a candidate for St George's chapel, he appeared to great advantage in the pulpit, an earnest, unaffected, and impressive preacher of the gospel.

Grahame's patriotism, or, more properly, his nationality, breathes through all his works. The scanty remains he has left give every little scrap of his private writing value; and the following extract of a letter from England is doubly valuable, as the unaffected expression of this very natural feeling:

"October,

"You will now be beginning to cower round the fire at night; and, though looking back with regret on the long summer days, still you have before you the joys of a bleezing ingle in Auld Reekie, wi' Scotch cracks and Scotch sangs. What would I

give to be able to draw in my chair among you! believe I am too old to transplant; and I doubt if I ever shall be able to take root here."

Many tributary verses were written to the memory of the author of THE SABBATH; and it would be a fraud to his fame, to pass over, in any edition of his works, those beautiful verses, which were composed in his own spirit, by the most gifted of his admirers.

LINES

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

THE REV. JAMES GRAHAME,

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

"WITH tearless eyes and undisturbed heart,
O Bard! of sinless life and holiest song,
I muse upon thy death-bed and thy grave;
Though round that grave the trodden grass still lies
Besmeared with clay; for many feet were there,
Fast-rooted to the spot, when slowly sank
Thy coffin, GRAHAME! into the quiet cell.
Yet well I loved thee, even as one might love
An elder brother, imaged in the soul
With solemn features, half-creating awe,
But smiling still with gentleness and peace.
Tears have I shed when thy most mournful voice
Did tremblingly breathe forth that touching air
By Scottish shepherd haply framed of old,
Amid the silence of his pastoral hills,
Weeping the flowers on Flodden-field that died.
Wept too have I, when thou didst simply read
From thine own lays, so simply beautiful,
Some short pathetic tale of human grief,
Or orison or hymn of deeper love,

That might have won the sceptic's sullen heart
To gradual adoration, and belief

Of Him who died for us upon the Cross.

Yea! oft when thou wert well, and in the calm
Of thy most Christian spirit blessing all
Who look'd upon thee, with those gentlest smiles
That never lay on human face but thine;
Even when thy serious eyes were lighted up
With kindling mirth, and from thy lips distill'd
Words soft as dew, and cheerful as the dawn,
Then too I could have wept, for on thy face,
Eye, voice, and smile, nor less thy bending frame
By other cause impair'd than length of years,
Lay something that still turn'd the thoughtful heart
To melancholy dreams, dreams of decay,
Of death and burial, and the silent tomb.
And of the tomb thou art an inmate now!
Methinks I see thy name upon the stone
Placed at thy head, and yet my cheeks are dry.
Tears could I give thee, when thou wert alive,
The mournful tears of deep foreboding love
That might not be restrain'd; but now they seem
Most idle all thy worldly course is o'er,
And leaves such sweet remembrance in my soul
As some delightful music heard in youth,
Sad, but not painful, even more spirit-like
Than when it murmur'd through the shades of earth.
Short time wert thou allow'd to guide thy flock
Through the green pastures, where in quiet glides
The Siloah of the soul! Scarce was thy voice
Familiar to their hearts, who felt that heaven
Did therein speak, when suddenly it fell
Mute, and for ever!"—

"If e'er

Faith, fearless faith in the eternal bliss
Of a departed brother, may be held

By beings blind as we, that faith should dry
All eyes that weep for GRAHAME; or through
their tears

Shew where he sits august and beautiful
On the right hand of Jesus, 'mid the saints
Whose glory he on earth so sweetly sang
No fears have we when some delightful child