To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore. For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas, they are all laid aside, And here's neither dress nor adornments allowed, But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain ; Who hid, in their turns have been hid; And here in the grave are all metals forbid But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah no! they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above. Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Unto Sorrow ?-the dead cannot grieve; Which Compassion itself could relieve. Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear; Unto Death, to whom monarchs must pow? And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies. ROBERT POLLOK. IN 1827 appeared a religious poem in blank verse, entitled "The Course of Time,' by ROBERT POLLOK, which speedily rose to great popularity, especially among the more serious and dissenting classes in Scotland. The author was a young licentiate of the Scottish Secession Church. Many who scarcely ever looked into modern poetry were tempted to peruse a work which embodied their favourite theological tenets, set off with the graces of poetical fancy and description ; while to the ordinary readers of imaginative literature, the poem had force and originality enough to challenge an attentive perusal. Course of Time' is a long poem, extending to ten books, written in a style that sometimes imitates the lofty march of Milton, and at other "The times resembles that of Blair and Young. The object of the poet is 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 or vice. The sentiments of the author are strongly Calvinistic, and in this respect, as well as in a certain crude ardour of imagination and devotional enthusiasm, the poem reminds us of the style of the old Scottish theologians. It is often harsh, turgid, and vehement, and deformed by a gloomy piety which repels the reader, in spite of many fine passages and images that are scattered throughout the work. With much of the spirit and the opinions of Cowper, Pollok wanted his taste. Time might have mellowed the fruits of his genius; for certainly the design of such an extensive poem, and the possession of a poetical diction copious and energetic, by a young man reared in circumstances by no means favourable for the cultivation of a literary taste, indicate remarkable intellectual power and force of character. 'The Course of Time,' says Professor Wilson, though not a poem, overflows with poetry.' Hard as was the lot of the young poet in early life, he reverts to that period with poetic rapture: Wake, dear remembrances! wake, childhood-days! Loves, friendships, wake! and wake thou, morn and even! And thou, celestial bow, and all ye woods, And hills and vales, first trode in dawning life, Robert Pollok was destined, like Henry Kirke White, to an early grave. He was born in the year 1799, at Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire, and after the usual instruction in country schools, was sent to the university of Glasgow. He studied five years in the divinity hall under Dr. Dick. Some time after leaving college, he wrote a series of Tales of the Covenanters,' in prose, which were published anonymously. His application to his studies brought on symptoms of pulmonary disease, and shortly after he received his license to preach, in the spring of 1827, it was too apparent that his health was in a precarious and dangerous state. This tendency was further confirmed by the composition of his poem. Removal to the south-west of England was pronounced necessary for the poet's pulmonary complaint, and he went to reside at Shirley Common, near Southampton. The milder air of this place effected no improvement, and after lingering on a few weeks, Pollok died on the 17th of September 1827. The same year had witnessed his advent as a preacher and a poet, and his untimely death. The Course of Time,' however, continued to be a popular poem, and has gone through a vast number of editions, both in this country and in America, while the interest of the public in its author has led to a memoir of his life, published in 1843. Pollok was interred in the churchyard at Millbrook, the parish in which Shirley Common is situated, and some of his admirers have erected an obelisk of granite to point out the poet's grave. Love.-From Book V. Hail love, first love, thou word that sums all bliss! She gathered and selected with her hand, All rarest odours, all divinest sounds, All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul: And brought the holy mixture home, and filled The heart with all superlatives of bliss. But who would that expound, which words transcends, Of early love, and thence infer its worth. It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood, Its maker. Now and then the aged leaf On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high, Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as Zephyr's sighs It was a tear of faith and holy fear; On her the moon looked steadfastly; the stars That circle nightly round the eternal throne Oh, had her lover seen her thus alone, To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled, Seemed fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was the thought! But sweeter still the kind remembrance came That she was flesh and blood formed for himself, The plighted partner of his future life. And as they met, embraced, and sat embowered Friendship.-From the Same. Nor unremembered is the hour when friends Yet always sought, so native to the heart, So much desired and coveted by all. Nor wonder thou-thou wonderest not, nor need'st. Was seen beneath the sun; but nought was seen More beautiful, or excellent or fair Than face of faithful friend, fairest when seen And talked the speech, and ate the food of heaven! And would their names record; but what avails And will receive thee glad, my friend and theirs- In the wide desert, where the view was large. By hand of art, where nature sowed herself, And reaped her crops; whose garments were the clouds; Whose minstrels, brooks; whose lamps. the moon and stars; Whose organ-choir, the voice of many waters; Whose banquets, morning dews; whose heroes, storms; Whose warriors, mighty winds; whose lovers, flowers; Whose palaces, the everlasting hills; Whose ceiling, heaven's unfathomable blue; Happiness.-From the same. Whether in crowds or solitudes, in streets And myrtle bowers, and solitary vales, And with the nymph made assignations there, No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. Where Duty went, she went, with Justice went, |