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haps, obtained as wide a popularity as any single production in the English language. It was not, however, until after his death that the world became conscious of his value, and of the loss it had sustained. The lines on the burial of Sir John Moore, were printed in Captain Medwin's “ Conversations of Lord Byron,” by whom they were highly praised, and to whom the author of the work attributed them. Soon after the publication of the book, however, they were claimed for Mr. Wolfe by several of his friends, and ample proof was adduced of his right to the celebrity they were calculated to confer. Upon how slight chances does immortality depend! The Poem, small as it is, has been the means of registering the writer's name in the records of fame; and though it cannot be donbted that the circumstances connected with the publicity it obtained, and the sympathy consequently excited by the early death of one who had already manifested so much genius, has greatly increased the admiration produced by it—and will prevent the critic from exercising a sound judgment in considering it, its exceeding beauty will not be denied. Although Mr. Wolfe produced but few other Poems, he afforded sufficient proof that if circumstances had directed his mind to the cultivation of poetry, he would have greatly surpassed this composition, which he so little imagined would become famous. He appears to have been quite indifferent to the fate of his “ Lines :" they had been circulated full of errors, from one newspaper to another; and probably the author had himself forgotten their production. Fortunately for his posthumous fame—that fame which many so ardently covetthey had been repeated by him to a few of his acquaintances, one of whom was in his society when part of them was written, of they would now be wandering without an owner; and the name or Charles Wolfe as little known to the world, as that of any of the "gems” which

“The dark, unfathomed depths of ocean bear.” The Poem has been compared, we think unwisely, with Campbell's “ Hohenlinden,” to which it is certainly inferior. If Mr. Wolfe had anticipated the sensation his.“ Lines" created, he would, no doubt, have improved his composition, and have refined the structure of his verse, without impairing its vigour.



Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse 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 moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or 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 hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd 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 left him alone with his glory.


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 past,

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 would'st 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!

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore !

WALTER Savage LANDOR was born at Ipsley Court, Warwickshire -the seat of his family, an ancient and honourable one-on the 30th of January, 1775. He was educated at Rugby. When he had reached nearly the head of the school, he was too young for the University, and was placed under the tuition of Mr. Langley, at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire; but a year afterwards, was entered of Trinity College, Oxford, where the learned Benwell was his private tutor. During his residence there, he is said to have mani. fested that independence of spirit, and restlessness of control for which he has been since remarkable; and was rusticated for shooting across the quadrangle at prayer-time. In 1808, on the first insurrection of Spain, he joined the Viceroy of Gallicia, Blake. The Madrid Gazette of that year mentions a gift from him of 20,000 reals. On the extinction of the Constitution, he returned to Don. P. Cevallos the tokens of royal approbation he had received from the government, and expressed his sentiments on the subject in no very measured terms. In 1811, Mr. Landor married Julia, the daughter of J. Thuillier de Malaperte, descendant and repre. sentative of the Baron de Neuve-ville, first gentleman of the bedchamber to Charles the Eighth. In the autumn of 1815, he retired to Italy: for some years he occupied the Palazzo Medici, in Florence, and then purchased the beautiful villa of Count Gherardesca, at Fiesole, with its gardens and farms, half a mile from the ancient villa of Lorenzo de' Medici. His visits to England for the last twenty years have been few and brief; but it is stated, we trust upon good authority, that “with all her faults,” he loves his coun. try too well to contemplate a final separation ; and that it is probable the residue of his days will be spent among us.

Mr. Landor has afforded ample proof of a disposition exceedingly restless and excitable. He has more of the fierté of genius_less often witnessed than read of—than any living writer we could

His countenance does not, at first, convey this impression ; but it is impossible not to perceive that his passions are strong, his sensibilities keen and active, and his pride indomitable. His face is remarkably fine and intellectual; and, as with many who profess extreme liberal opinions, his look and bearing are those of a man who can have no sympathies in common with the mean and vulgar.


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