The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued, Till kindling into warmer zeal, around The struggling spirit throbbed in Miriam's breast. The dark transparence of her lucid eye, Poured on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. Palestine. THE RISE OF SALEM. Yet still destruction sweeps the lonely plain, And who is He? the vast, the awful form, Lo! cherub hands the golden courts prepare, Hail the glad beam, and claim their ancient home? Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave!" MISSIONARY HYMN. From Greenland's icy mountains, Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes The gifts of God are strown- Shall we, whose souls are lighted Shall we to man benighted The joyful sound proclaim, Has learnt Messiah's name. Waft, waft, ye winds, his story, It spreads from pole to pole; Redeemer, King, Creator, TO HIS WIFE. If thou wert by my side, my love, 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 spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn and eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on! then on! where duty leads, O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, O'er bleak Almorah's hill. That course nor Delhi's kingly gates For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee! ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER. Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking, 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, Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining, Maker and Monarch, and Saviour of all! Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion, 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! 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. |