days of old, when he trod the land of poetry and song, where the ancient masters of the world had their far-famed city,-where Virgil and Horace sang,-where Cicero astonished senates by his eloquence,—where Hannibal fought,-where Julius Cæsar fell. Himself a bard, not of the vulgar throng, but of those who, "though now dead, yet speak," the shades of the illustrious dead would appear in his mind to hover around him, and to hail him as worthy to receive the applause of posterity. Preparations were accordingly made for his departure, and in the month of August he left Scotland, accompanied by his sister. He proceeded by sea to England, and first went to Plymouth. But the state of his health rendered it impossible for him to go forward, and only the hope remained, that, if spared to the next summer, he would perhaps be enabled to complete his journey. He therefore took up his residence near Southampton.--But every hope proved vain. He was destined to fall in the flower of his youth.

He lingered till the 15th of September 1827, when he breathed his last, in the 28th year of his age, with all the calmness of a believer in the holy religion which he had preached; and expressing his hope in that redemption which he had so divinely sung. No sooner had the mournful tidings reached his friends in Scotland, than his brother hastened to England, to pay the last sad duties to a brother whom he loved. He was buried in the church-yard of the parish in which he died; and the simple, affecting, and beautiful service of the church for the burial of the dead was read over his ashes, when about to be laid in an untimely grave. Never could the officiating clergyman adopt with greater certainty the words of inspiration, which form part of that impressive service, than on this sorrowful occasion: "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth; yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors, and their works do follow them." And truly might he affirm, "We commit this our brother to the

earth, in the sure and certain hope of a blessed resurrection."

We will not attempt to delineate the character of Mr. Pollok. His friends, public and private, can bear testimony to his many virtues; his excellence lay not in ostentation, but in the quiet and unobtrusive feelings of the heart. His friendship was sincere, his disposition generous, his heart feeling and benevolent; and he loved his friends with that affection which is cherished only by a noble mind. His religion was that of the heart,-a firm and deeply-rooted conviction of the truths of our holy faith: he was pious, devout, and humble, free from the conceits of a fancied perfection, and the impulses of a heated enthusiasm; in short, he gave a practical demonstration to the truth, that genuine religion is quiet and unobtrusive, delighting not in the corners of the streets, nor in the vain parade of what is called evangelism, but in humble, and sincere, and ardent aspirations to the throne of heaven,-in doing good as there is op

portunity, in forgetting not to communicate, knowing that with such sacrifices God is well pleased. Nor was he actuated by that spurious liberality which has unfortunately gained an ephemeral popularity with the zealots of the present day. While he was conscientiously attached to the communion of which he was a member, and the church of which he was a licentiate, his attachment was the result of an honest conviction; and well could he assign a reason for the hope that was in him. But it was not a blind admiration of presbyterian or secession principles; it was not because it was the church of his fathers; nor was he slow to admit the excellencies of other communions, nor behind in his homage to the talent which they contained. His mind, in a word, was cast in too noble a mould to be impressed by the petty distinctions and animosities of sectarian prejudice; and his splendid poem can bear testimony to the principles which actuated him in public and private life. As a scholar, a metaphysician,

a philosopher, and a poet, he looked around him with the eye of an attentive observer, and his integrity rose superior to the hollow and superficial affectation of a spurious liberality.

On Mr. Pollok's great work, "The Course of Time," it would be out of place here to comment; in truth, it requires no comment of ours. It was the ardent labor of years; and it is impossible to doubt for a moment, that he fell a victim to intense study. The reception it has met with from the public, four successive editions having been called for in little more than twelve months, is a sufficient testimony to the talents and reputation of its lamented author. And his name is now recorded among the list of those illustrious Scotsmen, who have done honor to their country; who, from obscurity, have secured for themselves an unfading reputation; and who will be remembered by distant generations with enthusiasm and admiration.