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ing both to the spiritual and temporal wants of his poor flock, considerably affected his health. His gradual decay became visible to his parishioners, and some of them made affectionate private representations to his friends, who tried to withdraw him from the laborious duties of his parish for the recovery of his health.

His character as a parish-priest will be contemplated with more delight than his genius as a poet, or eloquence as a preacher. It is thus delineated by a friend :-'As he passed by, all the poor people and children ran to the doors to welcome him with looks and expressions of the most ardent affection, and with all that wild devotion of gratitude so characteristic of the Irish peasantry. Many fell on their knees, invoking blessings on him, and making the most anxious inquiries about his health. He was sensibly moved by this manifestation of feeling, and met it with all that heartiness of expression, and that affectionate simplicity of manner, which made him as much an object of love as his exalted virtues rendered him an object of respect. The intimate knowledge he seemed to have of all their domestic histories, appeared from the short but significant questions he put to each individual as he hurried along, while at the same time he gave a sketch of the particular characters of several who presented themselves, pointing with a sigh to one, and to another with looks of satisfaction and fond congratulations. It was indeed impossible to behold a scene like this, which can scarcely be described without the deepest but most pleasing emotions. It seemed to realize the often-imagined picture of a primitive minister of the gospel of Christ living in the hearts of his flock, willing to spend and to be spent upon them, enjoying the happy interchange of mutual affection, and affording a pleasing proof that a faithful and firm discharge of duty, when accompanied by kindly sympathies and gracious manners, can scarcely fail to gain the hearts of the humble ranks of the people.'

It was with extreme reluctance that Mr Wolfe, on the entreaty of his friends, left this poor and affectionate people to seek the restoration of his health in the south of France. He made a short recovery, but relapsed on his return to Ireland, and died in 1823, in the 32d year of his age, of deep consumption. What better blessing can be desired for Ireland, than that each of its parishes possessed a Charles Wolfe!"

ODE ON THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

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Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory!

VERSES.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 't will smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

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But when I speak-thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

BRYANT's poetry displays a chastened delicacy and simplicity, both in the expression and sentiment, which is equally uncommon and delightful. He possesses a refined fancy and a pure, exquisite taste. His descriptions from nature are executed with a quiet accuracy, and with great freshness and originality. He is soft and sweet in the colouring of his language, graceful in his imagery, and not being profuse of ornament, whatever he uses is select and appropriate, and gives a native richness to his compositions which we would not wish to see diminished or increased.

Thanatopsis is the finest specimen of his genius. Its spirit is like that of Wordsworth, but yet richer; and it may rank with the most elevated productions of the English poet.

Bryant's strains are all of them beautifully pure in their moral influence, inspiring the heart with a true love of nature, and a reverence for religion.

THE WESTERN WORLD.

LATE from this western shore, that morning chased The deep and ancient night, that threw its shroud O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, Nurse of full streams, and lifter up of proud Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud. Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud Amid the forest; and the bounding deer Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yell'd near.

And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay
Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim,
And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay
Young group of grassy islands born of him,
And, crowding nigh, or in the distance dim,
Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring
The commerce of the world;—with tawny limb,
And belt and beads in sunlight glistening,
The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing.

Then, all his youthful paradise around,

And all the broad and boundless mainland lay, Cool'd by the interminable wood, that frown'd O'er mound and vale, where never summer ray Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild; Yet many a shelter'd glade, with blossoms gay, Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild, Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled.

There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake
Spread its blue sheet that flash'd with many an oar,
Where the brown otter plunged him from the brake,
And the deer drank-as the light gale flew o'er,
The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore;
And while that spot, so wild and lone and fair,
A look of glad and innocent beauty wore,
And peace was on the earth and in the air,
The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there:

Not unavenged-the foeman, from the wood,
Beheld the deed, and when the midnight shade
Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood;
All died-the wailing babe-the shrieking maid-
And in the flood of fire that scathed the glade,
The roofs went down; but deep the silence grew,
When on the dewy woods the day-beam play'd;
No more the cabin smokes rose wreath'd and blue,
And ever, by their lake, lay moor'd the light canoe.

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Look now abroad-another race has fill'd
These populous borders-wide the wood recedes,
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd;
The land is full of harvests and green meads;
Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds,
Shine, disembower'd, and give to sun and breeze
Their virgin waters; the full region leads

New colonies forth, that toward the western seas
Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees.

Here the free spirit of mankind at length
Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place
A limit to the giant's unchain'd strength,
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race.
Far, like the comet's way through infinite space,
Stretches the long untravell'd path of light
Into the depths of ages: we may trace,
Afar, the brightening glory of its flight,
Till the receding rays are lost to human sight.

TO A WATERFOWL.

WHITHER, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power, whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
The desert and illimitable air,-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,

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