Grant furnished a series of tales and sketches for _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_. In 1834, he published a second small volume of "Poems and Songs;" and subsequently, in the same year, committed to the press a prose work, entitled "Tales of the Glens," which he did not, however, survive to publish. After an illness of fifteen weeks, of a pulmonary complaint, he died on the 14th April 1835, in his thirtieth year. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Strachan, Kincardineshire, where a tombstone, inscribed with some elegiac verses, has been erected to his memory. The "Tales of the Glens" were published shortly after his decease, under the editorial care of the late Mr James M'Cosh, of Dundee, editor of the _Northern Warder_ newspaper; and, in 1836, an edition of his collected works was published at Edinburgh, with a biographical preface by the poet Nicol.
Of a fine genius, a gentle and amiable nature, and pure Christian sentiments, Grant afforded eminent promise, with a prolonged career, of becoming an ornament to literature. Cut down in the bloom of youth, his elegy has been recorded by the Brechin poet, Alexander Laing--
"A kinder, warmer heart than his Was ne'er to minstrel given; And kinder, holier sympathies Ne'er sought their native heaven."
The blackbird's hymn is sweet At fall of gloaming, When slow, o'er grove and hill, Night's shades are coming; But there is a sound that far More deeply moves us-- The low sweet voice of her Who truly loves us.
Fair is the evening star Rising in glory, O'er the dark hill's brow, Where mists are hoary; But the star whose rays The heart falls nearest, Is the love-speaking eye Of our heart's dearest.
Oh, lonely, lonely is The human bosom, That ne'er has nursed the sweets Of young Love's blossom! The loveliest breast is like A starless morning, When clouds frown dark and cold, And storms are forming.
The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza, Blinks over the dark green sea, An' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap, Richt dim and drowsilie. An' the music o' the mornin' Is murmurin' alang the air; Yet still my dowie heart lingers To catch one sweet throb mair.
We've been as blest, Eliza, As children o' earth can be, Though my fondest wish has been knit by The bonds of povertie; An' through life's misty sojourn, That still may be our fa', But hearts that are link'd for ever Ha'e strength to bear it a'.