WILLIAM KNOX. WILLIAM KNOX was born at Firth, Roxburghshire, Scotland, August 17, 1789. He was educated at the parish - school of Lilliesleaf and the grammar-school of Musselburgh. In 1812 he leased a farm near Langholm, Dumfriesshire; but he was an unthrifty farmer, and abandoned it after five years, returning to his father's house. In 1820 the family removed to Edinburgh and opened a lodging-house, and William devoted himself to literature. He had written verses at an early age, and he now wrote largely for the newspapers. He published "The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems," in 1818; "The Songs of Israel," in 1824; and "The Harp of Zion," in 1825. A complete edition of his poems was published in London in 1847. He also published "A Visit to Dublin," and "Marianne," a Christmas tale. He is said to have been a lively talker, and to have recited and sung his own poems with fine effect. Scott recognized his talents and gave him considerable pecuniary assistance. But Knox was dissipated, and on November 12, 1825, his bad habits brought him to the grave. His poem "Oh, why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?" was a particular favorite with President Lincoln, who knew it by heart, but never learned the author's name. THE DEAR LAND OF CAKES.-TO MARY. 693 Oh, peace to the ashes of those that have bled For the land where the proud thistle raises its head! Oh, peace to the ashes of those gave us birth In a land freedom renders the boast of the earth! Though their lives are extinguish'd, their spirit remains, And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins; Still their deathless achievements our ardor awakes, For the honor and weal of the dear land of cakes. Ye sons of old Scotia, ye friends of my heart, From our word, from our trust, let us never depart; Nor e'er from our foe till with victory crown'd, And the balm of compassion is pour'd in his wound; And still to our bosom be honesty dear, And still to our loves and our friendships sincere ; And till heaven's last thunder the firmament shakes, May happiness beam on the dear land of cakes! TO MARY. FAREWELL! and though my steps depart O Mary! I must leave my heart Where'er my lot shall be, O Mary! I can ne'er forget The charm thy presence brought; No hour has pass'd since first we met, But thou hast shar'd my thought. At early morn, at sultry noon, Beneath the spreading tree, And, wandering by the evening moon, Still, still I think of thee. Yea, thou hast come to cheer my dream, Yet thou shalt still partake my care, Farewell! and when my steps depart, 'Tis only in the grave this heart Can cease to think of thee. HENRY HART MILMAN. leyn.". A collected edition of his poems appeared in 1840. HENRY HART MILMAN was born in London, February 10, 1791. He was the youngest son of Sir Francis Milman, physician to George Milman is better known by his historical writIII. He was educated at Eton and Oxford, ings than by his poetry. His "History of the and took the Newdigate prize in 1812. In Jews" appeared anonymously in 1829, when its 1815 he published "Fazio, a Tragedy," which extreme toleration gave great offence to the was represented with success at Covent Gar- most rigid churchmen, and it was attacked for den Theatre. In 1817 he took orders and was its lack of scholarship. Many of its defects appointed Vicar of St. Mary's, Reading. were corrected in a new edition, 1863. His 1818 he published "Samor, Lord of the Bright "History of Christianity from the Birth of City," an heroic poem, and in 1820 "The Fall Christ to the Abolition of Paganism in the of Jerusalem," a dramatic poem, containing Roman Empire was published in 1849, and several sacred lyrics. In 1821 he was chosen his "History of Latin Christianity" in 1854. Professor of Poetry at Oxford, and in the same He was made Dean of St. Paul's in 1849, which year he published three poems: "The Martyr office he retained until his death, which took of Antioch," "Belshazzar," and "Anne Bo- place in London, September 25, 1868. In God of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness, And pillared temples rise thy name to bless. For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate. O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam, And the sad City lift her crownless head, And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam In streets where broods the silence of the dead. The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand, slaves. |