dated January 8th, 1825::-" Before the new year, I had about three weeks of glorious study. Soaring into the pure ether of eternity, and linking my thoughts to the everlasting throne, I felt the healthy breezes of immortality revive my intellectual nerves, and found a point, unshaken and unthreatened by the rockings and stormings of this world. Blank-verse, the language of assembled gods, the language of eternity, was the form into which my thoughts fell. Some of them, I trust, shall outlive me in this world; and nothing, I hope, shall make me ashamed to meet them in the next. Thoughts, acquirements, appendages of any kind, that cannot be carried with us out of time into the help and solace of eternity, but must be left, the unredeemed and unredeemable of death, are little worth harbouring about us. It is the everlastingness of a thing that gives it weight and importance; and surely it is not impossible, even now, to have thoughts and ideas that may be transported over the vale of death, and not be refused the stamp and signature of the Eternal King. No doubt, the clearest eye must unscale when it comes in view of the uncreated light; and the purest earthly thought must wash itself before it enters into the holy of holies on high; but there are different eyes from those which have never tried to see, and there are different thoughts from those which must be exiled for ever beyond the confines of purity."

And his brother responded with the heart's warmth. He cheered him amid his many difficulties; and perhaps we had never heard the solemn music of the poet's harp had it not been for David's faithful love. His letter, dated from Auchindinny, May 25, 1826, is one of the

noblest in the English language. Humanity owes him eternal gratitude.

On the 24th of March, 1827, the song fell on the public ear: the "Course of Time" was issued; it excited marked attention; it roused every thinking mind; it stamped once and for ever greatness on the genius of its author. He was placed along with kindred spirits; he stood in the temple of fame; his strain rolled onwards-it was immortal. The poet saw and heard, and his heart was grateful. His wish-his morning wish was accomplished: he came into being for this. His work was done; his labour at an end; the laurelwreath of everlasting emerald graced his manly brow.

On Thursday, the 3rd of May, he preached his first sermon: it commanded great interest. His appearance was solemn; his countenance altogether unearthly; long study had given him an ashy paleness; but the fire of his eyes remained. He sacrificed in Jehovah's presence. Thrice afterwards he ministered: then came illness: he waxed feeble; health gradually forsook him. He thought Italy's calm and Italy's balmy air might recruit his wasted strength; he prepared to leave his fatherland; and on the 15th of August he bade an adieu, an everlasting adieu, to its hallowed coast. On his arrival at Southampton, he took up his residence, until he could depart for the golden southern sky; but sickness increased; his nights were restless; death was on the wing; it soon entered. In Christ he trusted, hoped, and confided: he felt that all was safety and security there. Its sting was therefore harmless; its venom, nectar. On the 18th of September he breathed his last on earth-a mighty spirit fell!

There is something peculiarly touching in all this. Just emerged from obscurity into refulgent day-taken with sickness-leaves his own fine country-endures the pangs of death far from kinsmen and friends

-one sister only present. We almost think that it would have been sweeter to have died surrounded by his own hills, and beside his own kindred; and yet perhaps it was more merciful as it was. The bitter agony of separation was over. He had bidden farewell to all he loved; he had done with sublunary things; he was in a more immediate communion with the Everlasting; that Power walked with him through death's dark and cheerless valley.

Two days afterwards, his mortal remains were entombed in the churchyard of Millbrook. They lie not far from the sea-shore; a spot suitable for a poet; the waves, softened by distance, murmur a dirge-like melody. In a land of strangers he lies, far off from his kindred and the home of his love. Over the grave stands an obelisk of granite, bearing, with the dates of his birth and death, this inscription: "The grave of Robert Pollok, A.M., author of the Course of Time:' his immortal poem is his monument. Erected by admirers of his genius."

Some may deem his death premature; but what if a man accomplishes the work of a long life ere he reaches his highest manhood?—what if he compresses the feelings, and experience, and labours of fourscore years into twenty-eight?-call we death then premature? The story of his life gives a deeper interest to his song; to strike the lyre with a master's hand was his ruling, sovereign, imperial passion; from his infancy this was his one great object. He passed his fingers over the

strings, and the hymn issued; that hymn is immortal: his work was done: the vows and assignations of his youth were kept his soul's desire was reaped. He had written an everlasting remembrance: what more could avail him on earth? Nothing. His labour was performed his hope realized; he had climbed nearly to the summit of Parnassus; only a few above him: he had plucked the laurel-its leaf unfading: what more? He had tasted every joy, and every sorrow of this lower region; he had lived and known all the witcheries of creation, and all the diviner witcheries of thought; he had traced the golden links of that chain which binds the universe to its God; he had seen the lovely form, that excelleth, and drank in the delicious warblings of the highest heaven: what more? Quaffed he not the cup of life? what more to complete his knowledge?— what but Paradise itself, and its mild morning sunlight? He was ripened for this; his harp's chords were strung for the sweeter and holier worship of the skies; its tones became more melodiously wild and beautiful. Why, then, call we it premature? True, he departed from this earth; but entered he not a better and brighter? He had attained to all its science and all its lore; he had communed with the mighty, the great, the gigantic-ah, and he had been with Jesus, and the Sanctifier had descended: he looked up at Vesper, twinkling ever brightly in evening's shadowy hemisphere, and lo, it was the work of His fingers: he gazed on the golden corn-field, “ripe already to harvest," as the wind swept over it, and beheld in its waving sunshine the goodness of Him who listened to the cry of the raven. Illustrations of His Providence teemed everywhere: he felt that he was cared for and loved

by the Deity; he viewed all the actions and all the concerns of time in the light of revelation; he ascended daily in the scale of moral worth; he approached nearer the throne; he arrived closer to the empurpled empyrean. His heart-his brave and sincere heartclothed in the unsullied purity of the Anointed, awaited the summons to enter the world of spirits. What wonder, then, if the angels came?-what marvel if he winged his flight with them to the fair city of eternity?

The "Course of Time" is a magnificent monument of the author's genius; it abounds in splendid passages; it teems with descriptions which, for pathos and sweetness, grandeur and sublimity, have rarely been surpassed. He has, indeed, none of the luscious beauty of Keats, nor the fine finish of Campbell, nor the oriental gorgeousness of Croly, nor the rich classical melody of Tennyson, nor the gigantic wildness of Edward Irving; his paintings remind one often of Nat Lee. He has, too, much of the dark gloom and powerful energy of Blair, but his lines are not so firm or compact; his style is peculiarly his own. Instead of light effusions, the youthful bard pours forth the secrets of the invisible world; he breaks down the partition wall which men have raised to shut out the daylight of that land; he shadows forth the miseries of hell; he opens up the glories of heaven; and around these he has entwined the flowers and the weeds of earth.

Many of his speculations have been pronounced rash and daring. We cannot agree with such criticism. They may, indeed, appear such to those who deem that the eternal world is still enshrouded in darkness; but they are the thoughts of those who, casting aside