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conceived that he was better； he said nothing about his health。 It
is not easy to quote from his letters to his friend； Mr。 Wallace；
still written in his beautiful firm hand。 They are too full of
affectionate banter： they also contain criticisms on living poets：
he shows an admiration； discriminating and not wholesale； of Mr。
Kipling's verse： he censures Mr。 Swinburne； whose Jacobite song （as
he wrote to myself） did not precisely strike him as the kind of
thing that Jacobites used to sing。
They certainly celebrated
‘The faith our fathers fought for；
The kings our fathers knew；'
in a different tone in the North。
The perfect health of mind； in these letters of a dying man； is
admirable。 Reading old letters over； he writes to Miss …； ‘I have
known a wonderful number of wonderfully kind…hearted people。' That
is his criticism of a world which had given him but a scanty
welcome； and a life of foiled endeavour； of disappointed hope。 Even
now there was a disappointment。 His poems did not find a publisher：
what publisher can take the risk of adding another volume of poetry
to the enormous stock of verse brought out at the author's expense？
This did not sour or sadden him： he took Montaigne's advice； ‘not
to make too much marvel of our own fortunes。' His biographer；
hearing in the winter of 1893 that Murray's illness was now
considered hopeless； though its rapid close was not expected； began；
with Professor Meiklejohn； to make arrangements for the publication
of the poems。 But the poet did not live to have this poor
gratification。 He died in the early hours of 1894。
Of the merits of his more serious poetry others must speak。 To the
Editor it seems that he is always at his best when he is inspired by
the Northern Sea； and the long sands and grey sea grasses。 Then he
is most himself。 He was improving in his art with every year： his
development； indeed； was somewhat late。
It is less of the writer than the man that we prefer to think。 His
letters display； in passages which he would not have desired to see
quoted； the depth and tenderness and thoughtfulness of his
affections。 He must have been a delightful friend： illness could
not make him peevish； and his correspondence with old college
companions could never be taken for that of a consciously dying man。
He had perfect courage； and resolution even in his seeming
irresoluteness。 He was resolved to be； and continued to be；
himself。 ‘He had kept the bird in his bosom。' We； who regret him；
may wish that he had been granted a longer life； and a secure
success。 Happier fortunes might have mellowed him； no fortunes
could have altered for the worse his admirable nature。 He lives in
the hearts of his friends； and in the pride and sympathy of those
who； after him； have worn and shall wear the scarlet gown。
The following examples of his poetry were selected by Murray's
biographer from a considerable mass； and have been seen through the
press by Professor Meiklejohn； who possesses the original
manuscript； beautifully written。
MOONLIGHT NORTH AND SOUTH
Love； we have heard together
The North Sea sing his tune；
And felt the wind's wild feather
Brush past our cheeks at noon；
And seen the cloudy weather
Made wondrous with the moon。
Where loveliness is rarest；
‘Tis also prized the most：
The moonlight shone her fairest
Along that level coast
Where sands and dunes the barest；
Of beauty seldom boast；
Far from that bleak and rude land
An exile I remain
Fixed in a fair and good land；
A valley and a plain
Rich in fat fields and woodland；
And watered well with rain。
Last night the full moon's splendour
Shone down on Taunton Dene；
And pasture fresh and tender；
And coppice dusky green；
The heavenly light did render
In one enchanted scene；
One fair unearthly vision。
Yet soon mine eyes were cloyed；
And found those fields Elysian
Too rich to be enjoyed。
Or was it our division
Made all my pleasure void？
Across the window glasses
The curtain then I drew；
And； as a sea…bird passes；
In sleep my spirit flew
To grey and windswept grasses
And moonlit sandsand you。
WINTER AT ST。 ANDREWS
The city once again doth wear
Her wonted dress of winter's bride；
Her mantle woven of misty air；
With saffron sunlight faintly dyed。
She sits above the seething tide；
Of all her summer robes forlorn …
And dead is all her summer pride …
The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn。
All round； the landscape stretches bare；
The bleak fields lying far and wide；
Monotonous； with here and there
A lone tree on a lone hillside。
No more the land is glorified
With golden gleams of ripening corn；
Scarce is a cheerful hue descried …
The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn。
For me； I do not greatly care
Though leaves be dead； and mists abide。
To me the place is thrice as fair
In winter as in summer…tide：
With kindlier memories allied
Of pleasure past and pain o'erworn。
What care I； though the earth may hide
The leaves from off Queen Mary's Thorn？
Thus I unto my friend replied；
When； on a chill late autumn morn；
He pointed to the tree； and cried；
‘The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn！'
PATRIOTISM
There was a time when it was counted high
To be a patriotwhether by the zeal
Of peaceful labour for the country's weal；
Or by the courage in her cause to die：
FOR KING AND COUNTRY was a rallying cry
That turned men's hearts to fire； their nerves to steel；
Not to unheeding ears did it appeal；
A pulpit formula； a platform lie。
Only a fool will wantonly desire
That war should come； outpouring blood and fire；
And bringing grief and hunger in her train。
And yet； if there be found no other way；
God send us war； and with it send the day
When love of country shall be real again！
SLEEP FLIES ME
Sleep flies me like a lover
Too eagerly pursued；
Or like a bird to cover
Within some distant wood；
Where thickest boughs roof over
Her secret solitude。
The nets I spread to snare her；
Although with cunning wrought；
Have only served to scare her；
And now she'll not be caught。
To those who best could spare her；
She ever comes unsought。
She lights upon their pillows；
She gives them pleasant dreams；
Grey…green with leaves of willows；
And cool with sound of streams；
Or big with tranquil billows；
On which the starlight gleams。
No vision fair entrances
My weary open eye；
No marvellous romances
Make night go swiftly by；
But only feverish fancies
Beset me where I lie。
The black midnight is steeping
The hillside and the lawn；
But still I lie unsleeping；
With curtains backward drawn；
To catch the earliest peeping
Of the desired dawn。
Perhaps； when day is breaking；
When birds their song begin；
And； worn with all night waking；
I call their music din；
Sweet sleep； some pity taking；
At last may enter in。
LOVE'S PHANTOM
Whene'er I try to read a book；
Across the page your face will look；
And then I neither know nor care
What sense the printed words may bear。
At night when I would go to sleep；
Thinking of you； awake I keep；
And still repeat the words you said；
Like sick men murmuring prayers in bed。
And when； with weariness oppressed；
I sink in spite of you to rest；
Your image； like a lovely sprite；
Haunts me in dreams through half the night。
I wake upon the autumn morn
To find the sunrise hardly born；
And in the sky a soft pale blue；
And in my heart your image true。
When out I walk to take the air；
Your image is for ever there；
Among the woods that lose their leaves；
Or where the North Sea sadly heaves。
By what enchantment shall be laid
This ghost； which does not make afraid；
But vexes with dim loveliness
And many a shadowy caress？
There is no other way I know
But unto you forthwith to go；
That I may look upon the maid
Whereof that other is the shade。
As the strong sun puts out the moon；
Whose borrowed rays are all his own；
So； in your living presence； dies
The phantom kindled at your eyes。
By this most blessed spell； each day
The vexing ghost awhile I lay。
Yet am I glad to know that when
I leave you it will rise again。
COME BACK TO ST。 ANDREWS
Come back to St。 Andrews！ Before you went away
You said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay；
The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the sea
Come back to St。 AndrewsSt。 Andrews and me。
Oh； it's dreary along South Street when the rain is coming down；
And the east wind makes the student draw more close his warm red
gown；
As I often saw you do； when I watched you going by
On the stormy days to College； from my window up on high