To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets

The charms which she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which but yesterday fools could adore.

For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride,

The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas, they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornments allowed,

But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain ;

Who hid, in their turns have been hid;
The treasures are squandered again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid

But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah no! they have withered and died,

Or fled with the spirit above.

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow ?-the dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine car,

Which Compassion itself could relieve.

Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;
Peace! peace is the watchward, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must pow?
Ah no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,

Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies.

ROBERT POLLOK.

IN 1827 appeared a religious poem in blank verse, entitled "The Course of Time,' by ROBERT POLLOK, which speedily rose to great popularity, especially among the more serious and dissenting classes in Scotland. The author was a young licentiate of the Scottish Secession Church. Many who scarcely ever looked into modern poetry were tempted to peruse a work which embodied their favourite theological tenets, set off with the graces of poetical fancy and description ; while to the ordinary readers of imaginative literature, the poem had force and originality enough to challenge an attentive perusal. Course of Time' is a long poem, extending to ten books, written in a style that sometimes imitates the lofty march of Milton, and at other

"The

times resembles that of Blair and Young. The object of the poet is to describe the spiritual life and destiny of man; and he varies his religious speculations with episodical pictures and narratives, to illustrate the effects of virtue or vice. The sentiments of the author are strongly Calvinistic, and in this respect, as well as in a certain crude ardour of imagination and devotional enthusiasm, the poem reminds us of the style of the old Scottish theologians. It is often harsh, turgid, and vehement, and deformed by a gloomy piety which repels the reader, in spite of many fine passages and images that are scattered throughout the work. With much of the spirit and the opinions of Cowper, Pollok wanted his taste. Time might have mellowed the fruits of his genius; for certainly the design of such an extensive poem, and the possession of a poetical diction copious and energetic, by a young man reared in circumstances by no means favourable for the cultivation of a literary taste, indicate remarkable intellectual power and force of character. 'The Course of Time,' says Professor Wilson, though not a poem, overflows with poetry.' Hard as was

the lot of the young poet in early life, he reverts to that period with poetic rapture:

Wake, dear remembrances! wake, childhood-days!

Loves, friendships, wake! and wake thou, morn and even!
Sun, with thy orient locks, night, moon, and stars!

And thou, celestial bow, and all ye woods,

And hills and vales, first trode in dawning life,
And hours of holy musing, wake!

Robert Pollok was destined, like Henry Kirke White, to an early grave. He was born in the year 1799, at Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire, and after the usual instruction in country schools, was sent to the university of Glasgow. He studied five years in the divinity hall under Dr. Dick. Some time after leaving college, he wrote a series of Tales of the Covenanters,' in prose, which were published anonymously. His application to his studies brought on symptoms of pulmonary disease, and shortly after he received his license to preach, in the spring of 1827, it was too apparent that his health was in a precarious and dangerous state. This tendency was further confirmed by the composition of his poem. Removal to the south-west of England was pronounced necessary for the poet's pulmonary complaint, and he went to reside at Shirley Common, near Southampton. The milder air of this place effected no improvement, and after lingering on a few weeks, Pollok died on the 17th of September 1827. The same year had witnessed his advent as a preacher and a poet, and his untimely death. The Course of Time,' however, continued to be a popular poem, and has gone through a vast number of editions, both in this country and in America, while the interest of the public in its author has led to a memoir of his life, published in 1843. Pollok was interred in the churchyard at Millbrook, the parish in which Shirley Common is situated, and some

of his admirers have erected an obelisk of granite to point out the

poet's grave.

Love.-From Book V.

Hail love, first love, thou word that sums all bliss!
The sparkling cream of all Time's blessedness,
The silken down of happiness complete!
Discerner of the ripest grapes of joy

She gathered and selected with her hand,
All finest relishes, all fairest sights,

All rarest odours, all divinest sounds,

All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul:

And brought the holy mixture home, and filled

The heart with all superlatives of bliss.

But who would that expound, which words transcends,
Must talk in vain. Behold a meeting scene

Of early love, and thence infer its worth.

It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood,
The corn-fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand;
And all the winds slept soundly. Nature seemed
In silent contemplation to adore

Its maker. Now and then the aged leaf
Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground;
And, as it fell, bade man think on his end.

On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high,
With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thought,
Conversing with itself. Vesper looked forth
From out her western hermitage, and smiled:
And up the east, unclouded, rode the moon
With all her stars, gazing on earth intense
As if she saw some wonder working there.
Such was the night, so lovely, still, serene,
When, by a hermit thorn that on the hill
Had seen a hundred flowery ages pass,
A damsel kneeled to offer up her prayer-
Her prayer nightly offered, nightly heard.
This ancient thorn had been the meeting-place
Of love, before his country's voice had called
The ardent youth to fields of honour far
Beyond the wave: and hither now repaired,
Nightly, the maid, by God's all-seeing eye
Seen only, while she sought this boon alone-
'Her lover's safety, and his quick return.'
In holy, humble attitude she kneeled,
And to her bosom, fair as moonbeam, pressed
One hand, the other lifted up to heaven.
Her eye, upturned, bright as the star of morn,
As violet meek, excessive ardour streamed,
Wafting away her earnest heart to God.

Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as Zephyr's sighs
On morning's lily cheek, though soft and low,
Yet heard in heaven, heard at the mercy-seat.
A tear-drop wandered on her lovely face;

It was a tear of faith and holy fear;
Pure as the drops that hang at dawning-time
On yonder willows by the stream of life.

On her the moon looked steadfastly; the stars

That circle nightly round the eternal throne
Glanced down, well pleased; and everlasting Love
Gave gracious audience to her prayer sincere.

Oh, had her lover seen her thus alone,
Thus holy, wrestling thus, and all for him!
Nor did he not; for ofttimes Providence
With unexpected joy the fervent prayer
Of faith surprised. Returned from long delay,
With glory crowned of righteous actions won,
The sacred thorn, to memory dear, first sought
The youth, and found it at the happy hour
Just when the damsel kneeled herself to pray.
Wrapped in devotion, pleading with her God,
She saw him not, heard not his foot approach.
All holy images seemed too impure

To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled,
Beseeching for his ward before the throne,

Seemed fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was the thought!

But sweeter still the kind remembrance came

That she was flesh and blood formed for himself,

The plighted partner of his future life.

And as they met, embraced, and sat embowered
In woody chambers of the starry night,
Spirits of love about them ministered,
And God approving, blessed the holy joy!

Friendship.-From the Same.

Nor unremembered is the hour when friends
Met. Friends, but few on earth, and therefore dear;
Sought oft, and sought almost as oft in vain ;

Yet always sought, so native to the heart,

So much desired and coveted by all.

Nor wonder thou-thou wonderest not, nor need'st.
Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair

Was seen beneath the sun; but nought was seen

More beautiful, or excellent or fair

Than face of faithful friend, fairest when seen
In darkest day; and many sounds were sweet,
Most ravishing and pleasant to the ear;
But sweeter none than voice of faithful friend:
Sweet always, sweetest heard in loudest storm.
Some I remember, and will ne'er forget;
My early friends, friends of my evil day;
Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery too:
Friends given by God in mercy and in love;
My counsellors, and comforters, and guides;
My joy in bliss, my second bliss in joy;
Companions of my young desires; in doubt,
My oracles, my wings in high pursuit.
Oh, I remember, and will ne'er forget
Our meeting spots, our chosen sacred hours,
Our burning words that uttered all the soul,
Our faces beaming with unearthly love;
Sorrow with sorrow sighing, hope with hope
Exulting, heart embracing heart entire!
As birds of social feather helping each
His fellow's flight, we soared into the skies,
And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and earth,
With all her tardy leaden-footed cares,

And talked the speech, and ate the food of heaven!
These I remember, these selectest men,

And would their names record; but what avails
My mention of their name? Before the throne
They stand illustrious 'mong the loudest harps,

And will receive thee glad, my friend and theirs-
For all are friends in heaven, all faithful friends;
And many friendships in the days of time
Begun, are lasting here, and growing still;"
So grows ours evermore, both theirs and mine.
Nor is the hour of lonely walk forgot

In the wide desert, where the view was large.
Pleasant were many scenes, but most to me
The solitude of vast extent, untouched

By hand of art, where nature sowed herself,

And reaped her crops; whose garments were the clouds; Whose minstrels, brooks; whose lamps. the moon and stars; Whose organ-choir, the voice of many waters;

Whose banquets, morning dews; whose heroes, storms;

Whose warriors, mighty winds; whose lovers, flowers;
Whose orators, the thunderbolts of God;

Whose palaces, the everlasting hills;

Whose ceiling, heaven's unfathomable blue;
And from whose rocky turrets, battled high,
Prospect immense spread out on all sides round,
Lost now beneath the welkin and the main,
Now walled with hills that slept above the storm.
Most fit was such a place for musing men,
Happiest sometimes when musing without aim.

Happiness.-From the same.

Whether in crowds or solitudes, in streets
Or shady groves, dwelt Happiness, it seems
In vain to ask; her nature makes it vain;
Though poets much, and hermits, talked and sung
Of brooks and crystal founts, and weeping dews,

And myrtle bowers, and solitary vales,

And with the nymph made assignations there,
And wooed her with a love-sick oaten reed;
And sages too, although less positive,
Advised their sons to court her in the shade.
Delirious babble all ! Was happiness.
Was self-approving, God-approving joy,
In drops of dew, however pure? in gales,
However sweet? in wells, however clear?
Or groves, however thick with verdant shade?
True, these were of themselves exceeding fair;
How fair at morn and even! worthy the walk
Of loftiest mind, and gave, when all within
Was right, a feast of overflowing bliss;
But were the occasion, not the cause of joy.
They waked the native fountains of the soul
Which slept before, and stirred the holy tides
Of feeling up, giving the heart to drink
From its own treasures draughts of perfect sweet.
The Christian faith, which better knew the heart
Of man, him thither sent for peace, and thus J
Declared: Who finds it, let him find it there;
Who finds it not, for ever let him seek
In vain; 'tis God's most holy, changeless will,
True Happiness had no localities,

No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.

Where Duty went, she went, with Justice went,
And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love,
Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart
Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew