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ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER.

Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;
Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portals before thee,

And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom!
Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may die, for the Sinless has died!

Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long;

But the mild rays of paradise beam'd on thy waking,

And the sound which thou heard'st was the Seraphim's song! Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide; He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died!

CHRISTMAS HYMN.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,
Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid!
Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining,
Low lies his bed with the beasts of the stall!
Angels adore him in slumber reclining,

Maker and Monarch, and Saviour of all!

Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion,
Odors of Edom, and off'rings divine?
Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation;

Vainly with gold would His favor secure;

Richer by far is the heart's adoration,

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning!
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid!
Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid!

ROBERT POLLOK, 1799-1827.

IN 1827, the world was startled by the appearance of a new epic-a religious poem in blank verse, entitled, "The Course of Time," by Robert Pollok, a young clergyman of the Scottish Secession Church. Few works before ever became so rapidly and extensively popular. It was read with eagerness by all classes, and passed through numerous editions; and, by many, it was pronounced the finest poem that had appeared in our language since the Paradise Lost. Some even went so far as to claim for the author a genius and a power equal to Milton. This, of course, was extravagant. But, after the first excitement passed away, the literary world settled down in the well-matured conviction that the "Course of Time" is a poem of extraordinary power, and destined to live as long as the English language endures.

Robert Pollok, the son of a farmer in Renfrewshire,' Scotland, was born in the year 1799. Whilst a mere boy he was remarkably thoughtful, and from a very early age displayed a taste for the beauties of nature, and a capacity for enjoying them by no means common. After going through the ordinary preparatory studies, he was sent to the University of Glasgow, where he studied theology for five years, under Dr. Dick. He had hardly entered upon his professional duties, when his health, enfeebled by excessive application to his studies, and in the composition of his great poem, became so much impaired that his friends urged him to try the climate of southern Europe. He, therefore, shortly after the publication of his poem, in 1827, in company with his sister, departed on his journey. But he was enabled to get no farther than to the south of England. His disease (consumption) increased to such a degree as to preclude all hope of recovery, and his death took place at Shirley Common, Southampton, on the 17th of September, 1827.

Few youthful poets have excited so much interest as Robert Pollok. Like Henry Kirke White, he died young. Like him, his muse was the handmaid of virtue and religion, to both of which his studies were consecrated. On him, as on White, consumption "laid her hand," and he as constantly "nursed the pinion that impelled the steel." Each fell a martyr to too severe application to study; and each will be remembered and loved as long as genius united to virtue and piety has friends among men.

"The Course of Time" is in ten books, and 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 and vice." Though as a whole, the poem is unequal, it abounds with passages that will rank with the very best poetry in our language; and though many may not agree with some of the author's religious specu

On the western coast of Scotland, due west from Edinburgh.

lations, all will unite in praise and gratitude for what he did, and in sincere regret that his life was not spared longer to do more, as he doubtless would have done, to make mankind wiser and better, by pouring forth further treasures from a mind filled with the purest and noblest sentiments.

HAPPINESS.

Whether in crowds or solitudes, in streets
Or shady groves, dwelt Happiness, it seems
In vain to ask; her nature makes it vain;
Though poets much, and hermits, talked and sung
Of brooks and crystal founts, and weeping dews,
And myrtle bowers, and solitary vales,
And with the nymph made assignations there,
And wooed her with the love-sick oaten reed;
And sages too, although less positive,
Advised their sons to court her in the shade.
Delirious babble all! Was happiness,
Was self-approving, God-approving joy,
In drops of dew, however pure? in gales,
However sweet? in wells, however clear?
Or groves, however thick with verdant shade ?

True, these were of themselves exceeding fair;
How fair at morn and even! worthy the walk
Of loftiest mind, and gave, when all within
Was right, a feast of overflowing bliss;
But were the occasion, not the cause of joy.
They waked the native fountains of the soul
Which slept before, and stirred the holy tides
Of feeling up, giving the heart to drink
From its own treasures draughts of perfect sweet.

The Christian faith, which better knew the heart
Of man, him thither sent for peace, and thus
Declared: Who finds it, let him find it there;
Who finds it not, forever let him seek

In vain; 'tis God's most holy, changeless will.
True Happiness had no localities,

No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.

Where Duty went, she went, with Justice went,
And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love.
Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart
Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed, or injury
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven;
Where'er an evil passion was subdued,
Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned; where'er
A sin was heartily abjured and left;
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish;

There was a high and holy place, a spot

Of sacred light, a most religious fane,

Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled,

HAPPINESS OF CHILDHOOD.

What tongue!-no tongue shall tell what bliss o'erflowed
The mother's tender heart, while round her hung
The offspring of her love, and lisped her name
As living jewels dropped unstained from heaven,
That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem
Than every ornament of costliest hue!

And who hath not been ravished, as she passed
With all her playful band of little ones,
Like Luna with her daughters of the sky,
Walking in matron majesty and grace?

All who had hearts here pleasure found: and oft
Have I, when tired with heavy task, for tasks
Were heavy in the world below, relaxed

My weary thoughts among their guiltless sports,

And led them by their little hands a-field,

And watched them run and crop the tempting flowerWhich oft, unasked, they brought me, and bestowed With smiling face, that waited for a look

Of praise-and answered curious questions, put

In much simplicity, but ill to solve;

And heard their observations strange and new;
And settled whiles their little quarrels, soon
Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love.

Gay, guileless, sportive, lovely little things!
Playing around the den of sorrow, clad
In smiles, believing in their fairy hopes,
And thinking man and woman true! all joy,
Happy all day, and happy all the night!

THE MISER.

But there was one in folly further gone;
With eye awry, incurable, and wild,
The laughing-stock of devils and of men,
And by his guardian-angel quite given up-

The Miser, who with dust inanimate

Held wedded intercourse. Ill-guided wretch!

Thou might'st have seen him at the midnight hour, When good men slept, and in light-winged dreams Ascended up to God-in wasteful hall,

With vigilance and fasting worn to skin

And bone, and wrapped in most debasing rags-
Thou might'st have seen him bending o'er his heaps,
And holding strange communion with his gold;
And as his thievish fancy seemed to hear
The night-man's foot approach, starting alarmed,
And in his old, decrepit, withered hand,
That palsy shook, grasping the yellow earth .
To make it sure. Of all God made upright,

And in their nostrils breathed a living soul,
Most fallen, most prone, most earthy, most debased.
Of all that sold Eternity for Time,

None bargained on so easy terms with death.
Illustrious fool! Nay, most inhuman wretch!
He sat among his bags, and, with a look

Which Hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor
Away unalmsed; and 'midst abundance died-
Sorest of evils-died of utter want!

FRIENDSHIP.

Not unremembered is the hour when friends
Met. Friends, but few on earth, and therefore dear;
Sought oft, and sought almost as oft in vain;
Yet always sought, so native to the heart,

So much desired and coveted by all.

Nor wonder those-thou wonderest not, nor need'st.
Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair,

Than face of faithful friend, fairest when seen
In darkest day; and many sounds were sweet,
Most ravishing and pleasant to the ear;
But sweeter none than voice of faithful friend,
Sweet always, sweetest heard in loudest storm.
Some I remember, and will ne'er forget;
My early friends, friends of my evil day;
Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery too;
Friends given by God in mercy and in love;
My counsellors, my comforters, and guides;
My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy;
Companions of my young desires; in doubt
My oracles, my wings in high pursuit.
O, I remember, and will ne'er forget
Our meeting spots, our chosen sacred hours,
Our burning words that uttered all the soul,
Our faces beaming with unearthly love;
Sorrow with sorrow sighing, hope with hope
Exulting, heart embracing heart entire.
As birds of social feather helping each
His fellow's flight, we soared into the skies,
And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and earth,
With all her tardy leaden-footed cares,

And talked the speech, and ate the food of heaven!

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