many congregations both in this country and in America. It was published under the title Spirit of the Psalms' in 1834. It is a testimony to its worth that large portions of it have been added to various collections of hymns. His love for the Psalms was profound; they seemed to be like a spring of living water to his soul. As early as 1815 he had paraphrased the forty-sixth Psalm in one of his prize poems at Dublin, and so perfectly was it done that the work secured widespread appreciation. The Psalms became a real part of his deepest nature, and in them he found real peace and consolation. In the years of his great weakness, when duties were resigned one by one, and when death seemed threatening, he loved to meditate upon their sacred truths.

The early part of the year 1839 was for him a period of intense suffering. His medical adviser, Dr. Chambers, urged him to take complete rest in order to prolong his life; but his earnest spirit found no rest or pleasure in inactivity, and he was soon at work again producing poetry with remarkable prolificness. He remarked to friends who urged him to take more care, 'that it was better to wear out than to rust out.' A large number of his hymns were composed at Brixham, and soon found their way into various books of hymns for public worship and private devotion. All his hymns impress one with the spiritual depth of his mind and character. His confidence in God was deep and firmly grounded: a Divine calm encircled his life.

The state of his health did not improve, but he toiled on year after year with insufficient rest and change. At last he was induced to take a voyage to Norway. It was thought that Norwegian air would be a splendid tonic for his enfeebled frame.

His description of Norwegian scenery, which he so richly enjoyed in August, 1842, is exceedingly fine. The following quotation gives the reader an illustration of his power :

Christiansand is a beautiful clean town, situated at the bottom of one of the noble fiords of this country, backed on every side by fine rocky hills, sprinkled over with firs. The whole region around is " glorious in desolation "-mountains

of granite, 9,000 feet high, rushing up into the clouds, and extensive island masses of rock lining the whole

coast.'

When speaking of his tour through Sweden, he says: "We passed through beautiful scenery, composed, as the greater part of that in Sweden is, of granite hills of a beautiful purple colour, covered with wood, and between them rich verdant plains, forests, and lakes. The scenery is fine and striking beyond anything that I know of. Trolhalten, however, itself left all that I ever saw far behind. A greater body of water than the Rhine rushes down over rocks twice as high as Schaffhausen, foaming, dashing, roaring all the way, and you can approach the fall so near as almost to "lay your hand upon his mane.”’

On his return he again commenced his labours with zeal, but in the winter of 1843 an attack of bronchitis seized him through exposure to the night air after preaching, and for some months he was obliged to discontinue his public labour. When spring came (1844) the serious condition of his lungs necessitated a change to a warmer climate, but for various reasons his departure was delayed until the autumn.

At this time he was greatly disturbed on account of divisions which had arisen in his Church, but though extremely weak, he prepared and preached to his people a sermon specially designed to secure peace and unity. All through his life he endeavoured, as far as possible, to avoid religious controversy, but now his soul yearned with unspeakable desire for harmony in the Church he loved so well, and for which he had sacrificed so much. There were several reasons for the existing unrest. High Church practices which he introduced caused much trouble, and the advent of 'Brethren ' in the town also disturbed several members of his congregation. The preaching of the sermon referred to above must have been a heavy strain upon his nature. As he faced the people for whom he had given his life, and gazed upon the sacred structure where his voice had for many years been raised to exalt Christ and bless his fellows, there must have been a powerful mingling of gladness and sorrow. Now he must

leave the sacred place in charge of others: the house most dear to him.

Shortly after preaching his farewell sermon he left the town, and hundreds of people gathered with sorrowing hearts to bid him good-bye. A general impression prevailed that he would never return. The ordeal of parting greatly moved Mr. Lyte, but the earnest love of numbers of his people soothed his spirit. He had not laboured in vain. His destination was Naples, but owing to great weakness and severe weather he had to make several halts on the journey.

Writing from Leghorn, November 12, 1844, he says: 'I have been too ill to visit or take any interest in the various attractive objects around me. My week at Avignon, which was to have been given to Roman remains and Papal palaces, was spent in bed. At Lyons the case was no better. I enjoyed the blue mountains, closed by Mont Blanc, that ennobled our voyage down the Rhone, and I gasped and tottered through a palace or two at Genoa; but all the rest has hitherto been sickness and suffering, weakness and exhaustion. I am not worse to-day, though I fear not much better, and am obliged to look at others moving off by the steamers, without the power of accompanying them. I sometimes think that I am near the end of my journey altogether; but I hang on the goodness and mercy of God, and amid the watches of the night enjoy some comfortable meditations on His pardoning love, His restoring grace, His protecting providence.'

At last, after much weariness and delay, he arrived at Naples. His poem 'Longings for Home' was finished at Christmas, 1844, at that place. Love for home was a strong passion in his nature, and the poem is full of the sweet and beautiful thoughts which surged through his soul. In reading it we notice that, notwithstanding the intense sufferings which he was then experiencing, his soul was still full of cheerfulness.

In January, 1845, he wrote: How it will be with me eventually I scarcely dare to anticipate; but I much fear that I shall not see Berry Head again. However, I can

meekly bow, and say, "The Lord's will be done," and can trust in a Saviour's merits to give one of His unworthiest of creatures acceptance with God. This, indeed, is all my hope, and all my desire; and well, perhaps, is it for me that I have no merits of my own to detain me from reposing thus exclusively on the blood of a Redeemer : I have been kept also, I trust, in a patient spirit throughout my illness, and receive it as an earnest of God's love, that He has withheld me, through all my sufferings of so many months, from uttering one word of impatience or repining.'

By this time it was quite certain that the climate of Naples did not suit his constitution; on several occasions his life was in real peril. On January 31 he wrote: In leaving Naples, of which I have seen but little, I cannot help again and again longing that you could see a little of it as well as myself. In spite of its filth, it would still divert you: everything seems so full of life.' On February 5 he wrote from Naples: In a few days we shall start for Rome. How the air of the Eternal City will agree with me remains to be proved. They tell me that the sea is injurious to me. I hope not; for I know of no divorce I should more deprecate than from the lordly ocean. From childhood it has been my friend and playmate, and never have I been weary of gazing on its glorious face. Besides, if I cannot live by the sea, adieu to poor Berry Head-adieu to the common, the rocks, the military ruins—adieu to the wild birds and wild flowers, and all the objects that have made my old residence so attractive.'

His love for the sea was intense. Often would he gaze upon it with great emotion, and when convenient take a trip in his private yacht.

The Berry Head residence commands an uninterrupted view of Torbay. It is a large structure, and was originally erected for military purposes at the time when England was at war with the first Napoleon. The house is in a splendid position, and has the advantage of both land and sea views of such variety that they may be regarded as among the very finest in England. The property is in a splendid state of preservation. Mr. Lyte improved the grounds considerably.

Very early in the mornings he was seen hard at work, and it was thought by some who knew him best that he injured himself with lifting and assisting with the heavy boulders which form the handsome rockeries there.

On one occasion, whilst he was personally engaged in levelling a mound of earth for gardening purposes, he came upon a quantity of human remains (probably of deceased soldiers), which he at once covered up, and upon the spot erected a monument, which bears the following brief and pathetic inscription: To the unknown dead.' His deed was very tender and beautiful. It helps us to enter into the solemn and thoughtful depths of his poem on 'Napoleon's Grave,' which he addressed to the French nation on their proposing to remove Napoleon's remains from St. Helena to France.

At his beloved Berry Head residence Mr. Lyte spent many hallowed hours walking along the terrace and through the paths and amongst the trees, listening to the ceaseless music of the sea as it kissed the rocks a few yards below. At the east end of the house there is a garden round which he used to walk with arms and legs going vigorously, and lips moving as if in conversation. In this way many of his poems were composed, and then he would retire to his study and commit them to writing.

The intended journey from Naples to Rome was eventually accomplished, and he wrote therefrom on February 16, 1845: 'In spite of my sufferings, I greatly enjoyed the journey hither. For the greater part of the way the road wound among the Apennines: immense blocks of rock filled the valleys and hill-sides along which we passed; and these again were clothed with olives and vines, and orange and lemon trees, beautifully blending the wild and the cultivated. Here a noble peak presented itself covered with snow, and there a ruined aqueduct stalked across a valley. In one place we broke upon the glorious sea, dashing against the walls of some picturesque old tower, and in another caught sight of one of these fantastic and castellated piles, standing on the spur of one of the surrounding mountains, or commanding some rugged pass between them; and Frondi, Mola di Gaeta,