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.

may

The REV. CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823), a native of Dublin, 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, he 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 procured, 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,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had passed
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 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

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!

CHARLES DIBDIN (1745-1814) was celebrated as a writer of naval songs, the solace of sailors in long voyages, in storms, and in battles,' and he was also an actor and dramatist. His sea-songs are said to exceed a thousand in number! His sons, Charles and Thomas, were also dramatists and song-writers, but inferior to the elder Dibdin. THOMAS DIBDIN (1771-1841) published his 'Reminiscences,' containing curious details of theatrical affairs. We subjoin two of the sea-songs of the elder Charles Dibdin :

Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so For, says he, do you mind me, let storms soft,

e'er so soft

Take the top-sails of sailors aback, There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack !

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack! We may add here an English song as truly national as any of Dibdin's, though of a totally different character. It was written by JOHN COLLINS, of whom we can learn nothing except that he was one of the proprietors of the Birmingham Daily Chronicle,' and died in 1808. It seems to have been suggested by Dr. Walter Pope's song of 'The Old Man's Wish.'

In the Downhill of Life.

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
May my lot no less fortunate be

Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;

With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,

And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn,
Look forward with hope for to-morrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;

And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
With a barn for the use of the flail:

A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;

I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,

Nor what honours await him to-morrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured by a neighbouring hill;

And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
By the sound of a murmuring rill:

And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,

With my friends may I share what to-day may afford,
And let them spread the table to-morrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering
Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,

On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;

As this old worn-out stuff which is threadbare to-day,
May become everlasting to-morrow.

HERBERT KNOWLES.

HERBERT KNOWLES, a native of Canterbury (1798-1817), produced, when a youth of eighteen, the following fine religious stanzas, which, being published in an article by Southey in the "Quarterly Review,' soon obtained general circulation and celebrity: they have much of the steady faith and devotional earnestness of Cowper.

Lines Written in the Churchyard of Richmond, Yorkshire. Lord, it is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three taber nacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias.-Matthew xvii. 4.

Methinks it is good to be here.

If thou wilt let us build-but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition?

Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

Ah no!

For see, they would pin him below

In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.