mize Christian or apostolic

a devoted to the proAT DET. Mr. Doran, of the 2) he arrived at TriCzerwoning. He went the In 2 D. to see the native

He then returned to separatory to his dressTo be remsined too long,

casi si the bottom of the - a ter esion prored inef2. The loss of so valuToasted. was mourned by

s memory. At the time TS-a period too short to

To as one of his admirers 5. Bom the moment that ce the day of his death,

i in and of India. The This Life, with selections

of is Journey through the 23 2 Bombay.

But when of morn or eve the star

Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far,

Thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on! then on! where duty leads,

My course be onward still;
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,

O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That.course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,

Nor wild Malwah detain;
For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they

Bay,
Across the dark-blue sea;
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay

As then shall meet in thee!

CHARLES WOLFE. The Rev. CHARLES WOLFE (1791–1823), a native of Dublin, may be said to have earned a literary immortality by, one short poem. Reading in the 'Edinburgh Annual Register' a description of the death and interment of Sir John Moore on the battle-field of Corunna, this amiable young poet turned it into verse with such taste, pathos, and even sublimity, that his poem has obtained an imperishable place in our literature. The subject was attractive--the death of a brave and popular general on the field of battle, and his burial by his companions-in-arms—and the poet himself dying when young, beloved and lamented by his friends, gave additional interest to the production. The ode was published anonymously in an Irish newspaper in 1817, and was ascribed to various authors; Shelly considering it not unlike a first draught by Campbell. In 1841 it was claimed by a Scottish student and teacher, who ungenerously and dishonestly sought to pluck the laurel from the grave of its owner. The friends of Wolfe came forward, and established his right beyond any further question or controversy; and the new claimant was forced to confess his imposture, at the same time expressing his contrition for his misconduct. Wolfe was a curate in the established church, and died of consumption. His literary remains have been published, with a memoir of his life by Archdeacon Russell.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse 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 moonbeams' misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor 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.

1

could have entered on his mission with a more Christian or apostolic spirit. His whole energies appear to have been devoted to the projourney to Travancore, accompanied by the Rev. Mr. Doran, of the Church Missionary Society. On the 1st of April he arrived at Trichinopoly, and had twice service on the day following. He went the next day, Monday, at six o'clock in the morning, to see the native Chistians in the fort, and attend divine service. He then returned to the house of a friend, and went into the bath preparatory to his dressing for breakfast. His servant, conceiving he remained too long, entered the room, and found the bishop dead at the bottom of the bath. Medical assistance was applied, but every effort proved ineffectual; death had been caused by apoplexy. The loss of so valuable a public man, equally beloved and venerated, was mourned by all classes, and every honour was paid to his memory. At the time of his death he was only in his forty-third year-a period too short to have developed those talents and virtues which, as one of his admirers in India remarked, rendered his course in life, from the moment that he was crowned with academical honours till the day of his death, one track of light, the admiration of Britain and of India. The widow of Dr. Heber published a Memoir of his Life, with selections from his letters; and also a Narrative of his Journey through the Upper Provinces of India from Calcutta to Bombay.

Missionary Hymn. From Greenland's icy mountains,

In vain, with lavish kindness, From India's coral strand,

The gifts of God are strewn, Where Afric's suriny fountains

The heathen, in his blindness,
Roll down their golden sand;

Bows down to wood and stone.
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,

Shall we whose souls are lighted
They call us to deliver

With wisdom from on high; Their land from error's chain.

Shall we to man benighted

The lamp of life deny ? What though the spicy breezes

Salvation ! oh salvation ! Blow soft on Ceylon's isle,

The joyful sound proclaim, Though every prospect pleases,

Till each remotest nation And only man is vile;

Has learned Messiah's name.

From Bishop Heber's Journal. I thou wert by my side, my love,

In carelese ease my limbs I lay,
How fast would evening fail,

And woo the cooler wind.
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale !

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream

My twilight steps I guide,
If thou, my love, wert by my side, But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
My babies at my knee,

I miss thee from my side.
How gaily would our pinnace glide,
O'er Gunga's mimic sea !

! I spread my books, my pencil try

The lingering noon to cheer, I miss thee at the dawning gray,

But miss thy kind approving eys, When on our deck reclined,

Thy meek attentive ear.

That.course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,

Nor wild Malwah detain ;
For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder western main.

But when of morn or eve the star

Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far,

Thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on! then on! where duty leads,

My course be onward still;
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,

O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they

say, Across the dark-blue sea ; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay

As then shall meet in thee!

CHARLES WOLFE. The Rev. CHARLES WOLFE (1791–1823), a native of Dublin, may be said to have earned a literary immortality by one short poem. Reading in the 'Edinburgh Annual Register' a description of the death and interment of Sir John Moore on the battle-field of Corunna, this amiable young poet turned it into verse with such taste, pathos, and even sublimity, that his poem has obtained an imperishable place in our literature. The subject was attractive--the death of a brave and popular general on the field of battle, and his burial by his companions-in-arms—and the poet himself dying when young, beloved and lamented by his friends, gave additional interest to the production. The ode was published anonymously in an Irish newspaper in 1817, and was ascribed to various authors; Shelly considering it not unlike a first draught by Campbell. In 1841 it was claimed by a Scottish student and teacher, who ungenerously and dishonestly sought to pluck the laurel from the grave of its owner. The friends of Wolfe came forward, and established his right beyond any further question or controversy; and the new claimant was forced to confess his imposture, at the same time expressing his contrition for his misconduct. Wolfe was a curate in the established church, and died of consumption. His literary remains have been published, with a memoir of his life by Archdeacon Russell.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse 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 moonbeams' misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor 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 !
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! The passage in the Edinburgh Annual Register' (1808) on which Wolfe founded his ode was written by Southey, and is as follows: Sir John Moore had often said that if he was killed in battle, ne wished to be buried where he fell. The body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the rampart there by a body of the 9th regiment, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin could be pro ired, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened; for about eight in the morning some firing was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered away, and not suffered to pay him their last duty: The officers of his family bore him to the grave; the funeral-service was read by the chaplain; and the corpse was covered with earth.' In 1817 Wolfe took orders, and was first curate of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards of Donoughmore. His incessant attention to his duties, in a wild and scattered parish, not only quenched his poetical enthusiasm, but hurried him to an untimely grave.

Song. The following pathetic lyric is adapted to the Irish air Grammachree.' Wolfe said he on one occasion sung the air over and over till he burst into a flood of tears, in which mood he composed the song. If I had thought thou couldst have died, But when I speak—thou dost not say I might not weep for thee;

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; But I forgot when by thy side,

And now I feel, as well I may,
That thou couldst mortal be:

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
It never through my mind had passed
The time would e'er be o'er,

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, And I on thee should look my last

All cold and all serene-
And thou shouldst smile no more! I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been !
And still upon that face I look,

While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have, And think 'twill smile again;

Thou seemest still mine own; And still the thought I will not brook, But there I lay thee in thy grave That I must look in vain !

And I am now alone!