TO HIS WIFE: If thou wert by my side, my love, If thou, my love, wert by my side, How gayly would our pinnace glide I miss thee at the dawning gray, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn and eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on! then on! where duty leads, On broad Hindostan's sultry meads, That course nor Delhi's kingly gates For sweet the bliss us both awaits Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 1" Marriage is an institution calculated for a constant scene of as much delight as our being is capable of. Two persons who have chosen each other out of all the species, with design to be each other's mutual comfort and entertainment, have in that action bound themselves to be good-humored, affable, discreet, forgiving, patient, and joyful, with respect to each other's frailties and imperfections, to the end of their lives. The wiser of the two (and it always happens one of them is such) will, for her or his own sake, keep things from outrage with the utmost sanctity. When this union is thus preserved (as I have often said), the most indifferent circumstance administers delight. Their condition is an endless source of new gratifications. The married man can say, 'If I am unacceptable to all the world beside, there is one whom I entirely love, that will receive me with joy and transport, and think herself obliged to double her kindness and caresses of me from the gloom with which she sees me overcast. I need not dissemble the sorrow of my heart to be agree‐ able there: that very sorrow quickens her affection.'"-STEELE: Spectator, No. 490. ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER. Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom! Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking, But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on thy waking, Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, EPIPHANY. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining, Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all! Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion, Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gifts would his favor secure; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! The following stanzas were written as an addition to the above hymn, by an English clergy. tan, on hearing of the decease of the author: "Thon art gone to the grave! and whole nations bemoan thee, "Thon art gone to the grave! but thy work shall not perish,- The following are the first lines of other of his beautiful hymns: "Bread of the world, in mercy broken;" ROBERT POLLOK, 1799-1827. IN 1827 the world was startled by the appearance of a new epic,-a religion poem in blank verse, entitled The Course of Time, by Robert Pollok, a your clergyman of the Scottish Secession Church. Few works before ever becam so rapidly and extensively popular. It was read with eagerness by all classe and passed through numerous editions; and by many it was pronounced th finest poem that had appeared in our language since the Paradise Lost. Som even went so far as to claim for the author a genius and a power equal to Mi ton's. This, of course, was ridiculously extravagant. But, after the first excit ment passed away, the literary world settled down in the well-matured co viction that The Course of Time is a poem of extraordinary power, and destine to maintain its place among the best English classics.1 Robert Pollok, the son of a farmer in Renfrewshire,2 Scotland, was born i the year 1799. While a mere boy he was remarkably thoughtful, and from very early age displayed a taste for the beauties of nature and a capacity fo enjoying them by no means common. After going through the ordinary pre paratory studies, he was sent to the University of Glasgow, where for five year he studied theology, under Dr. Dick. He had hardly entered upon his pro fessional duties when his health, enfeebled by excessive application to his studie and in the composition of his great poem, became so much impaired that h friends urged him to try the climate of Southern Europe. He, therefore, short! after the publication of his poem, in 1827, in company with his sister, departe on his journey. But he was enabled to get no farther than to the south of En land. His disease (consumption) increased to such a degree as to preclude a hope of recovery; and his death took place at Shirley Common, Southampto on the 18th of September, 1827.3 Few youthful poets have excited so much interest as Robert Pollok. Lil Henry Kirke White, he died young. Like him, his muse was the handma "The Course of Time is a very extraordinary poem,-vast in its conception, vast in its plan, vast in its materials, and vast, if very far from perfect, in its achievement. The wonderful thing is, indeed, that it is such as we find it, and not that its imperfections are numerous. It has nothing at all savoring of the little or conventional about it; for he passed at once from the merely elegant and graceful. With Young, Blair, and Cowper for his guides, his muse strove with unwearied wing to attain the high, severe, serene region of Milton; and he was at least successful in earnestness of purpose, in solemnity of tone, and in vigor and variety of illustration."-D. M. MOIR. On the western coast of Scotland, due w from Edinburgh. 3" Poor Pollok gave his manuscript to press from a dying hand. Several of the be had been copied over for him by a fem hand, on account of his increasing debil On the 24th of March, 1827, The Course of was given to the world; and on the 18th September of the same year its author removed from it. But not only had he lived in vain the great object of his life been accomplished in the publication of poem; and it is pleasant to know that news of its success shed a sunshine aroun early death-bed."-MOIR. of virtue and religion, to both of which his studies were consecrated. On him, as on White, consumption "laid her hand," and he as constantly "nursed the pinion that impelled the steel." Each fell a martyr to too severe application to study; and each will be remembered and loved as long as genius united to virtue and piety has friends among men. The Course of Time is in ten books, the object of the poet being 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 and vice. It has been said, "The whole story may be given in a sentence. Many ages after the end of our world, a spirit from one of the numerous worlds existing in space, on his flight toward heaven, discovers the abode of lost men in bell. Reaching heaven, he inquires of two spirits, who welcome his arrival there, what is the meaning of the wretchedness he had just witnessed. The two, unable fully to answer, conduct the inquirer to a bard who once lived on earth, and he, in answering their inquiries, relates the history of man, from the creation to the judgment." This plan, simple and limited as to plot, is boundless as to range; and the imagination, unfettered, soars far and wide. Though as a whole the poem is unequal, it abounds with passages that will always rank high and be read with interest; and if many may not agree with some of the author's religious speculations, all will unite in gratitude for what he has done, and in sincere regret that his life was not spared longer to do more to make mankind wiser and better. HAPPINESS. True Happiness had no localities, THE MISER. But there was one in folly further gone; Held wedded intercourse. Ill-guided wretch Ascended up to God,-in wasteful hall, And bone, and wrapp'd in most debasing rags,- None bargain'd on so easy terms with death. Which Hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor FRIENDS. Some I remember, and will ne'er forget; And talk'd the speech, and ate the food, of heaven! And would their names record; but what avails AN AUTUMN EVENING-A MAIDEN'S PRAYER. |