strong sense of duty and desire of Christian usefulness prevented the prospect being realised. It was under such feelings, and contrary to the advice of prudent friends, that he accepted, in 1823, the difficult task of bishop of Calcutta. With his family Heber's Parish Church. he arrived safely at his destination on the 10th of October; and no man could have entered on his mission with a more Christian or apostolic spirit. During the ensuing year, he was engaged in visiting the several European stations in Bengal and the upper provinces of Hindostan. In January 1825 he made a similar tour to the stations under the Bombay government, consecrating churches at various places. In May 1825 he held his episcopal visitation at Bombay. During this progress he laid the foundation of two central schools. He also visited the Deccan, Ceylon, and Madras, on his return to Bengal, performing at each station the active duties of his sacred office. His whole energies appear to have been devoted to the propagation of Christianity in the East. In 1826 the bishop made a journey to Travencore, accompanied by the Rev. Mr Doran, of the Church Missionary Society. He preached, confirmed, and visited his Christian communities with his usual affection and ardour. On the 1st of April he arrived at Trichinopoly, and had twice service on the day following. He went the next day, Monday, at six o'clock in the morning, to see the native Christians in the fort, and attend divine scrvice. He then returned to the house of a friend, and went into the bath preparatory to his dressing for breakfast. His servant conceiving he remained too long, entered the room, and found the bishop dead at the bottom of the bath. Medical assistance was applied, but every effort proved ineffectual; death had been caused by apoplexy. The loss of so valuable a public man, equally beloved and venerated, was mourned by all classes, and every honour was paid to his memory. Much might have been anticipated, from the zeal and learning of Heber, in elucidation of the antiquities of India, and the moral and religious improvement of its people, had his valuable life been spared. At the time of his death he was only in his forty-third year-a period too short to have developed those talents and virtues which, as one of his admirers in India remarked, rendered his course in life, from the moment that he was crowned with academical honours till the day of his death, one track of light, the admiration of Britain and of India. The widow of Dr Heber has published a Memoir of his Life, with selections from his letters; and also a Narrative of his Journey through the Upper Provinces of India from Calcutta to Bombay. In these works the excellent prelate is seen to great advantage, as an acute and lively observer, graphic in his descriptions both of scenery and manners, and everywhere animated with feelings of Christian zeal and benevolence. As a poet, Heber is always elegant, and often striking. His hymns are peculiarly touching and impressive, and musical in versification. The highest honours of the lyre he probably never could have attained; for he is deficient in originality, and is more rhetorical than passionate or imaginative. Passage of the Red Sea. [From 'Palestine."] For many a coal-black tribe and cany spear, The hireling guards of Misraim's throne, were there. rode ! Decked in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shangalla strode. the main?' With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, Down, down they pass-a steep and slippery dell; Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurled, The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world; And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green, And caves, the sea-calves' low-roofed haunt, are seen. Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread; The beetling waters storm above their head; While far behind retires the sinking day, And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, Or dark to them or cheerless came the night. Still in their van, along that dreadful road, Blazed broad and fierce the brandished torch of God. Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave 'Fly, Misraim, fly!' The ravenous floods they see, Oh! welcome came the morn, where Israel stood Poured on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. Hymn.-Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity. 'Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow: Say, with richer crimson glows One there lives, whose guardian eye Pass we blithely then the time, Missionary Hymn. From Greenland's icy mountains, What though the spicy breezes In vain, with lavish kindness, Shall we whose souls are lighted [From Bishop Heber's Journal.] If thou, my love, wert by my side, I miss thee at the dawning gray, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee from my side. I spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn or eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on! then on! where duty leads, That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, For sweet the bliss us both awaits Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, But ne'er were hearts so light and gay An Evening Walk in Bengal. Our task is done!-on Gunga's breast The sun is sinking down to rest; And, moored beneath the tamarind bough, Come, walk with me the jungle through- Yet who in Indian bowers has stood, A truce to thought-the jackal's cry 1 A shrub whose deep scarlet flowers very much resemble the geranium, and thence called the Indian geranium. 2 The Mucharunga. I know that soul-entrancing swell, CHARLES WOLFE. The REV. CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823), a native of Dublin, may be said to have earned a literary immortality by one short poem, and that copied, with considerable closeness, from a prose account of the incident which it relates. Reading in the Edinburgh Annual Register a description of the death and interment of Sir John Moore on the battlefield of Corunna, this amiable young poet turned it into verse with such taste, pathos, and even sublimity, that his poem has obtained an imperishable place in our literature. The subject was attractive -the death of a brave and popular general on the field of battle, and his burial by his companions in arms-and the poet himself dying when young, beloved and lamented by his friends, gave additional interest to the production. The ode was published anonymously in an Irish newspaper in 1817, and was ascribed to various authors; Shelley considering it not unlike a first draught by Campbell. In 1841 it was claimed by a Scottish student and teacher, who ungenerously and dishonestly sought to pluck the laurel from the grave of its owner. The friends of Wolfe came forward, and established his right beyond any further question or controversy; and the new claimant was forced to confess his imposture, at the same time expressing his contrition for his misconduct. Fame, like wealth, is sometimes pursued with unprincipled covetousness; but, unless directed by proper motives, the chase is never honourable, and very seldom safe. The great duties of life-its moral feelings and principles-are something more important than even the brightest wreaths of fame! Wolfe was a curate in the established church, and died of consumption. His literary remains have been published, with an interesting memoir of his life by Archdeacon Russell, one of his early college friends. The Burial of Sir John Moore. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed 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, 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; The passage in the Edinburgh Annual Register (1808) on which Wolfe founded his ode is as follows: Sir John Moore had often said that if he was killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the ramparts there by a body of the 9th regiment, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened; for about eight in the morning some firing was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered away, and not suffered to pay him their last duty. The officers of his family bore him to the grave; the funeral service was read by the chaplain; and the corpse was covered with earth.' Song. Oh say not that my heart is cold To aught that once could warm it ; Still oft those solemn scenes I view In Nature's features glowing, Stern duty rose, and frowning flung But what have slaves with Nature?' The above verses were written while Wolfe attended the university of Dublin, where he greatly distinguished himself. In 1817 he took orders, and was first curate of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards of Donoughmore. His incessant attention to his duties, in a wild and scattered parish, not only quenched his poetical enthusiasm, but hurried him to an untimely grave. Song. [The following pathetic lyric is adapted to the Irish air Grammachree. Wolfe said he on one occasion sung the air over and over till he burst into a flood of tears, in which mood he composed the song.] If I had thought thou couldst have died, But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: And think 'twill smile again; Sweet Mary! thou art dead! If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, Yet there was round thee such a dawn HERBERT KNOWLES. HERBERT KNOWLES, a native of Canterbury (17981817), produced, when a youth of eighteen, the following fine religious stanzas, which, being published 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. 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? But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom 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; Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 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. 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. Its publication is said to have been suggested by Professor Wilson, and this alone may be considered an evidence of its possessing merit. 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 Milton's early prose treatises. It is often harsh, turgid, and vehement, and deformed by a gloomy piety which repels the reader in spite of the many splendid passages and images that are scattered throughout the work. With much of the spirit and the opinions of Cowper, Pollok wanted his taste and his refinement. 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 so copious and energetic, by a youth of twenty-six, indicate remarkable intellectual power and determination of character. He studied five years in the divinity hall under Dr Dick. While at 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 had 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 great poem, which was published by Mr Blackwood of Edinburgh about the time that the author was admitted to the sacred office for which he was so well qualified. The greater part of the summer was spent by Pollok under the roof of a clerical friend, the Rev. Dr Belfrage of Slateford, where every means was tried for the restoration of his health. The symptoms, however, continued unabated, and the poet's friends and physicians recommended him to try the climate of Italy. Mr Southey has remarked of Kirke White, that it was his fortune through his short life, as he was worthy of the kindest treatment, always to find it.' The same may be said of his kindred genius, Pollok. His poetry and his worth had raised him up a host of fond and steady friends, who would have rejoiced to contribute to his comfort or relief. Having taken his departure for London, accompanied by a sister, Pollok was received into the house of Mr Pirie, then sheriff of London. An immediate removal to the south-west of England was pronounced necessary, and the poet 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 15th 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 nine or ten editions, 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 |