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I do not think, where'er thou art,

Yet there was round thee such a dawn Thou hast forgotten me;

Of light ne'er seen before,
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, As fancy never could have drawn,
In thinking too of thee:

And never can restore ! THE DIBDINS-JOHN COLLINS. 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,' con. taining curious details of theatrical affairs. We subjoin two of the sea-songs of the elder Charles Dibdin :

Tom Bowling. Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bow- And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly; ling,

Ah, many's the time and oft! The darling of our crew;

But mirth is turned to melancholy, No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For Tom is

gone aloft. For Death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, His heart was kind and soft;

When He, who all commands, Faithful below he did his duty,

Shall give, to call life's crew together, But now he's gone aloft.

The word to pipe all hands.

Thus Death, who kings and tars des Tom never from his word departed,

patches, His virtues were so rare;

In vain Tom's life has doffed ;
His friends were many and true-hearted, For though his body's under hatches,
His Poll was kind and fair:

His soul is gone aloft.

Poor Jack. Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do you I heard our good chaplain palaver one see,

day 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like; About souls, heaven, mercy and such ; A tight-water boat and good sea-room And, my timbers ! what lingo he'd coil give me,

and belay ; And it a'nt to a little I'll strike.

Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch; Though the tempest top-gallant mast For he said how a sparrow can't foundsmack smooth should smite

er, d'ye see, And shiver each splinter of wood, Without orders that come down below Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse And a many fine things that proved clearly

everything tight And under reef foresail we'll scud:

That Providence takes us in tow : Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so For, says he, do you mind me, let storms soft,

e'er so soft To be taken for trifles aback;

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

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.'

to me

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 scrrow,
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 tabernacles; 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 ? Ah no!
Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

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.

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;

The treasures are squandered again ;
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,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ?

Ah! here is a plentiful board !
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here,

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,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow?-the dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which Compassion itself could relieve.
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;
Peace! peace is the watchward, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must pow?
Ah no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!
Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disowe.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise !

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.


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. The 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 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 !
Sun, with thy orient locks, night, moon, and stars !
And thou, celestial bow, and all ye woods,
And hills and vales, first trode in dawning life,

And hours of holy musing, wake! 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 !
The sparkling cream of all Time's blessedness,
The silken down of happiness completel
Discerner of the ripest

grapes of joy
She gathered and selected with her hand,
All finest relishes, all fairest sights,
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,
Must talk in vain. Behold a meeting scene
Of early love, and thence infer its worth.

It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood,
The corn-fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand;
And all the winds slept soundly. Nature seemed
In silent contemplation to adore
Its maker. Now and then the aged leaf
Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground;
And, as it fell, bade man think on his end.
On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high,
With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thought,
Conversing with itself. Vesper looked forth
From out her western hermitage, and smiled :
And up the east, unclouded, rode the moon
With all her stars, gazing on earth intense
As if she saw some wonder working there.
Such was the night, so lovely, still

, serene,
When, by a hermit thorn that on the hill
Had seen a hundred flowery ages pass,
A damsel kneeled to offer up her prayer-
Her prayer nightly offered, nightly heard.
This ancient thorn had been the meeting-place
Of love, before his country's voice had called
The ardent youth to fields of honour far
Beyond the wave: and hither now repaired,
Nightly, the maid, by God's all-seeing eye
Seen only, while she sought this boon alone

Her lover's safety, and his quick return.'
In holy, humble attitude she kneeled,
And to her bosom, fair as moonbeam, pressed
One hand, the other lifted up to heaven.
Her eye, upturned, bright as the star of morn,
As violet meek, excessive ardour streamed,
Wafting away her

earnest heart to God.
Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as Zephyr's sighs
On morning's lily cheek, though soft and low,
Yet heard in heaven, héard at the mercy-seat.
A tear-drop wandered on her lovely face;
It was a tear of faith and holy fear;.
Pure as the drops that hang at dawning-time
On yonder willows by the stream of life.
On her the moon looked steadfastly; the stars
That circle nightly round the eternal throne
Glanced down, well pleased; and everlasting Love,
Gave gracious audience to her prayer sincere.

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