WILLIAM KNOX. 1789-1825. WILLIAM KNOX, a young poet of considerable talent, who died in Edinburgh in 1825, at the age of thirty-six, was author of "The Lonely Hearth," "Songs of Israel," "The Harp of Zion," &c. Extravagance and dissipation marked his earlier years, and for a time clouded his genius, but he could never fully overcome the force of early religious impressions; and it is said, that even in the midst of the most deplorable dissipation, he was able to command his mind, at intervals, to the composition of verses alive with sacred fire, and breathing of Scriptural simplicity and tenderness. The feelings of the poet's heart at a particular crisis of his family history, are truly expressed in the first of the following pieces: OPENING OF THE SOLES OF ISRAEL. HARP of Zion, pure and holy, Pride of Judah's eastern land, May a child of guilt and folly, Trembling from the prophet's touch, I have loved thy thrilling numbers, Clung with transport round my knee, And my glowing spirit blessed her With a blessing caught from thee! Mother-sister-both are sleeping Where no heaving hearts respire, He and his, amid their sorrow, Comfort from thy chords again! DIRGE OF RACHEL. (GENESIS XXXV. 19.) AND Rachel lies in Ephrath's land, The spring comes smiling down the vale, But Rachel never more shall hail The flowers that in the world are springing. The summer gives his radiant day, And Jewish dames the dance are treading; But Rachel on her couch of clay, Sleeps all unheeded and unheeding. The Autumn's ripening sunbeam shines, But Rachel's voice no longer joins The choral song at twilight's falling. The winter sends his drenching shower, To break the slumber that hath bound her. THE FIELD OF GILBOA. THE sun of the morning looked forth from his throne, And beamed on the face of the dead and the dying: For the yell of the strife like the thunder had flown, And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying. And there lay the husband that lately was pressed To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddyNow the claws of the vulture were fixed in his breast, And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody. And there lay the son of the widowed and sad, On the delicate limb that had ceased not to quiver. |