I SEND my heart up to thee, all my heart,

In this my singing,

For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;
The very night is clinging

Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space

Above me, whence thy face

May light my joyous heart to thee, its dwelling-place.

"HOW THEY PROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX"

[16-.]

I.

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;

66

Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through ;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,

And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

II.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

III.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

IV.

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,

And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away

The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

V.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,-ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

VI.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris," Stay spur! "Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,

"We'll remember at Aix "—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

VII.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff, Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And" Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

VIII.

"How they'll greet us!”—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and crop over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

IX.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-books, let go belt and all,

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer;

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

X.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from

Ghent.

CHARLES WOLFE was born in Dublin, on the 14th of December, 1791. He received his early education at a school in Winchester: his classical attainments distinguished him when very young; and on entering, in 1809, the University of his native city, he had already given proofs of the genius which, although perceived and appreciated by all who knew him, was unhappily known to the world only when death had removed him alike from censure and praise. In College he soon became remarkable; obtained a scholarship; gained several prizes, and attracted general attention as one of the most promising young men of the time. His mind, however, appears to have been reflective rather than energetic; and when the chief excitements to distinction ceased to influence him, he preferred the easy life of a country curate to the continued struggle for academic fame. It is said, however, that his ambitious hopes were chilled by the unfavourable result of a deep attachment: one of his friends writes, that "it pressed upon both mind and body: until this unfortunate epoch of his 1.fe, he had been in the enjoyment of robust health,-but the sickness at his heart soon communicated itself to his whole frame. Even his general deportment was quite altered." He settled in an obscure corner of Tyrone county, and was afterwards removed to the curacy of Castle Caulfield, in the diocese of Armagh :-his duties were discharged with unremitting zeal; and he succeeded in obtaining the affection as well as the respect of his parishioners. In the spring of 1821, symptoms of consumption made their appearance, and he was at length induced by his friends to remove from his parish, and commence a search after health in more genial climates. For a short time he resided in Devonshire, and afterwards at Bourdeaux. His restoration to health was but temporary. "The fatal disease," writes his amiable and excellent biographer, Mr. Russell, "which had been long apprehended, proved to have taken full hold of his constitution. The bounding step, which expressed a constant buoyancy of mind, became slow and feeble his robust and upright figure began to droop; his marked and prominent features acquired a sharpness of form; and his complexion, naturally fair, assumed the pallid caste of wasting disease." He died at the Cove of Cork, on the 21st of February, 1823.

While at College, Mr. Wolfe wrote the Poem which has, perhaps, obtained as wide a popularity as any single production in the English language. It was not, however, until after his death that the world became conscious of his value, and of the loss it had sustained. The lines on the burial of Sir John Moore were printed in Captain Medwin's "Conversations of Lord Byron," by whom they were highly praised, and to whom the author of the work attributed them. Soon after the publication of the book, however, they were claimed for Mr. Wolfe, by several of his friends, and ample proof was adduced of his right to the celebrity they were calculated to confer. Upon how slight chances does immortality depend! The Poem, small as it is, has been the means of registering the writer's name in the records of fame; and though it cannot be doubted that the circumstances connected with the publicity it obtained, and the sympathy consequently excited by the early death of one who had already manifested so much genius, has greatly increased the admiration produced by it, and will prevent the critic from exercising a sound judgment in considering it, its exceeding beauty will not be denied. Although Mr. Wolfe produced but few other Poems, he afforded sufficient proof that, if circumstances had directed his mind to the cultivation of poetry, he would have greatly surpassed this composition, which he so little imagined would become famous. He appears to have been quite indifferent to the fate of his Lines;" they had been circulated full of errors, from one newspaper to another; and probably the author had himself forgotten their production. Fortunately for his posthumous fame-that fame which many so ardently covet-they had been repeated by him to a few of his acquaintances, one of whom was in his society when part of them was written, or they would now be wandering without an owner; and the name of Charles Wolfe as little known to the world, as that of any of the "gems" which

"The dark, unfathom'd depths of ocean bear."

The Poem has been compared, we think unwisely, with Campbell's "Hohenlinden," to which it is certainly inferior. If Mr. Wolfe had anticipated the sensation his "Lines" created, he would, no doubt, have materially improved his composition, and have refined the structure of his verse, without impairing its vigour.

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.

Wo 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.