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. Wolfe was a curate in the established church, and died of consumption. His literary remains have been published, with a memoir of his life by Archdeacon Russell. The Burial of Sir John Moore. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound 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, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 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 was written by Southey, and 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 rampart 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.' In 1817 Wolfe 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. 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, containing 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 Bowling, No more he 'll hear the tempest howling, Tom never from his word departed, And shiver each splinter of wood, And while peace and plenty I find at my board, And when I at last must throw off this frail covering Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : 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 Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse everything (1798-1817), produced, when a youth of eighteen, tight, And under reefed foresail we'll scud: For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, I heard our good chaplain palaver one day For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft 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 (see vol. i. p. 311). In the Downhill of Life. In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, 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: 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? But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom 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 Beauty? Ah no! she forgets 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 ; The treasures are squandered again; To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 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 watchword, the only one here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, 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. 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,' said 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! 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 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 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! But who would that expound, which words transcends, It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood. Its Maker. Now and then the aged leaf Such was the night, so lovely, still, serene, As violet meek, excessive ardour streamed, Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as Zephyr's sighs Oh, had her lover seen her thus alone, To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled, Seemed fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was the thought! But sweeter still the kind remembrance came The plighted partner of his future life. And as they met, embraced, and sat embowered Friendship. From the same. Nor unremembered is the hour when friends Friends, but few on earth, and therefore dear; So much desired and coveted by all. Nor wonder thou-thou wonderest not, nor need'st. Was seen beneath the sun; but nought was seen Than face of faithful friend, fairest when seen And talked the speech, and ate the food of heaven! For all are friends in heaven, all faithful friends; By hand of art, where nature sowed herself, Whose minstrels, brooks; whose lamps, the moon and stars; Whose organ-choir, the voice of many waters; Happiness. From the same. Whether in crowds or solitudes, in streets True, these were of themselves exceeding fair; 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, for ever 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. But these apart. In sacred memory lives The morn of life, first morn of endless days, Most joyful morn! Nor yet for nought the joy. Shall tell what strange variety of bliss All new! when thought awoke, thought never more Nor happy only, but the cause of joy, flowed The mother's tender heart, while round her hung And who hath not been ravished, as she passed All who had hearts here pleasure found: and oft Of praise-and answered curious questions, put Gems leaping in the coronet of Love! JAMES MONTGOMERY. run smooth. In January 1794, amidst the excitement of that agitated period, he was tried on a charge of having printed a ballad, written by a clergyman of Belfast, on the demolition of the Bastille in 1789; which was then interpreted into a seditious libel. The poor poet, notwithstanding the innocence of his intentions, was found guilty, and sentenced to three months' imprisonment in the castle of York, and to pay a fine of £20. In January 1795 he was tried for a second imputed political offence-a paragraph in his paper which reflected on the conduct of a magistrate in quelling a riot at Sheffield. He was again convicted, and sentenced to six months' imprisonment in York Castle, to pay a fine of £30, and to give security to keep the peace for two years. All the persons,' says the amiable poet, writing in 1840, 'who were actively concerned in the prosecutions against me in 1794 and 1795, are dead, and, without exception, they died in peace with me. I believe I am quite correct in saying, that from each of them distinctly, in the sequel, I received tokens of goodwill, and from several of them substantial proofs of kindness. I mention not this as a plea in extenuation of offences for which I bore the penalty of the law; I rest my justification, in these cases, now on the same grounds, and no other, on which I rested my justification then. I mention the circumstance to the honour of the deceased, and as an evidence that, amidst all the violence of that distracted time, a better spirit was not extinct, but finally prevailed, and by its healing influence did indeed comfort those who had been conscientious sufferers.' Mr Montgomery's first volume of poetry-he had previously written occasional pieces in his newspaper-appeared in 1806, and was entitled The Wanderer of Switzerland, and other Poems. It speedily went through two editions; and his publishers had just issued a third, when the Edinburgh Review of January 1807 'denounced the unfortunate volume in a style of such authoritative reprobation as no mortal verse could be expected to survive. The critique, indeed, was insolent and unfeeling-written in the worst style of the Review, when all the sins of its youth were full-blown and unchecked. Among other things, the reviewer predicted that in less than three years nobody would know the name of The Wanderer of Switzerland, or of any other of the poems in the collection. Within eighteen months from the utterance of this oracle, a fourth impression-1500 copies— of the condemned volume was passing through the press whence the Edinburgh Review itself was issued, and it has now reached nearly twenty editions. The next work of the poet was The West Indies, a poem in four parts, written in honour of the abolition of the African slave-trade by the British legislature in 1807. The poem is in the heroic couplet, and possesses a vigour and freedom of description, and a power of pathetic painting, much superior to anything in the first JAMES MONTGOMERY, a religious poet of deservedly high reputation, was born at Irvine, in Ayrshire, November 4, 1771. His father was a Moravian missionary, who died whilst propagating Christianity in the island of Tobago. The poet was educated at the Moravian school at Fulneck, near Leeds, but declined being a priest, and was put apprentice to a grocer at Mirfield, near Fulneck. In his sixteenth year, with 3s. 6d. in his pocket, he ran off from Mirfield, and after some suffering, became a shop-boy in the village of Wath, in Yorkshire. He next tried London, carry-volume. Mr Montgomery afterwards published ing with him a collection of his poems, but failed in his efforts to obtain a publisher. In 1791, he obtained a situation as clerk in a newspaper office in Sheffield; and his master failing, Montgomery, with the aid of friends, established the Sheffield Iris, a weekly journal, which he conducted with marked ability, and in a liberal, conciliatory spirit, up to the year 1825. His course did not always Prison Amusements, written during his nine months' confinement in York Castle in 1794 and 1795. In 1813 he came forward with a more elaborate performance, The World before the Flood, a poem in the heroic couplet, and extending to ten short cantos. His pictures of the antediluvian patriarchs in their happy valley, the invasion of Eden by the descendants of Cain, the |