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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

And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him-
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
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;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-

But we left him alone with his glory!
The passage in the Edinburgh Annual Register
(1808) on which Wolfe founded his ode is as fol-
lows — 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 ser-
vice was read by the chaplain ; and the corpse was
covered with earth.'

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,

I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past

The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,

That I must look in vain!
But when I speak—thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art,

All cold and all serene
I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been !
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy gravem

And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!


HERBERT KNOWLES. Oh say not that my heart is cold

HERBERT KNOWLES, a native of Canterbury (1798To aught that once could warm it;

1817), produced, when a youth of eighteen, the That Nature's form, so dear of old,

following fine religious stanzas, which, being pubNo more has power to charm it;

lished in the Quarterly Review, soon obtained Or that the ungenerous world can chill

general circulation and celebrity: they have much One glow of fond emotion

of the steady faith and devotional earnestness of For those who made it dearer still,

And shared my wild devotion.

Lines written in the Churchyard of Richmond, Yorkshire. Still oft those solemn scenes I view

It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here In rapt and dreamy sadness ;

threo tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one Oft look on those who loved them too

for Elias.--Matthew, xvii. 4.
With Fancy's idle gladness ;
Again I longed to view the light

Methinks it is good to be here,
In Nature's features glowing,

If thou wilt, let us build—but for whom ?
Again to tread the mountain's height,

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;
And taste the soul's o'erflowing.

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom

The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. Stern duty rose, and frowning flung

Shall we build to Ambition! Ah no !
His leaden chain around me;

Affrighted, he shrinketh away;
With iron look and sullen tongue

For see, they would pin him below
He muttered as he bound me :

In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, "The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

Unfit for toil the creature; These for the free alone are given

To Beauty? Ah no ! she forgets

The charms which she wielded before;
But what have slaves with Nature?'

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The above verses were written while Wolfe attended The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, the university of Dublin, where he greatly distin- For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore. guished himself. In 1817 he took orders, and was Shall we build to the purple of Pride, first curate of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards the trappings which dizen the proud ? of Donoughmore. His incessant attention to his Alas! they are all laid aside, duties, in a wild and scattered parish, not only And here's neither dress nor adornments allowed, quenched his poetical enthusiasm, but hurried him But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the to an untimely grave.



To Riches ? Alas! 'tis in vain;

White, to an early grave. He was born in the year Who hid in their turns have been hid;

1799, at Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, The treasures are squandered again;

Renfrewshire, and after the usual instruction in
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;
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,
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,

Mid Muirhouse, the Residence of Pollok in Boyhood. Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the country schools, was sent to the university of Glasskies.

gow. 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 In 1827 appeared a religious poem in blank verse, application to his studies brought on symptoms of entitled The Course of T'ime, by ROBERT POLLOK, pulmonary disease, and shortly after he had rewhich speedily rose to great popularity, especially ceived his license to preach, in the spring of 1827, among the more serious and dissenting classes in it was too apparent that his health was in a preScotland. The author was a young licentiate of the carious and dangerous state. This tendency was Scottish Secession church. Many who scarcely ever further confirmed by the composition of his great looked into modern poetry were tempted to peruse poem, which was published by Mr Blackwood of a work which embodied their favourite theological Edinburgh about the time that the author was adtenets, set off with the graces of poetical fancy and mitted to the sacred office for which he was so well description; while to the ordinary readers of ima- qualified. The greater part of the summer was spent ginative literature, the poem had force and originality by Pollok under the roof of a clerical friend, the enough to challenge an attentive perusal. The Rev. Dr Belfrage of Slateford, where every means

Course of Time' is a long poem, extending to ten was tried for the restoration of his health. The books, written in a style that sometimes imitates the symptoms, however, continued unabated, and the lofty march of Milton, and at other times resembles poet's friends and physicians recommended him that of Blair and Young: The object of the poet is to try the climate of Italy: Mr. Southey has reto describe the spiritual life and destiny of man; marked of Kirke White, that it was his fortune and he varies his religious speculations with episo- through his short life, as he was worthy of the dical pictures and narratives, to illustrate the effects kindest treatment, always to find it.' The same may of virtue or vice. The sentiments of the author are be said of his kindred genius, Pollok. His poetry strongly Calvinistic, and in this respect, as well as and his worth had raised him up a host of fond and in a certain crude ardour of imagination and devo- steady friends, who would have rejoiced to contritional enthusiasm, the poem reminds us of the style bute to his comfort or relief. Having taken his of Milton's early prose treatises. It is often harsh, departure for London, accompanied by a sister, Polturgid, and vehement, and deformed by a gloomy lok was received into the house of Mr Pirie, then piety which repels the reader in spite of the many sheriff of London. An immediate removal to the splendid passages and images that are scattered south-west of England was pronounced necessary, throughout the work. With much of the spirit and and the poet went to reside at Shirley Common, the opinions of Cowper, Pollok wanted his taste and near Southampton. The milder air of this place his refinement. Time might have mellowed the effected no improvement, and after lingering on a fruits of his genius ; for certainly the design of such few weeks, Pollok died on the 17th of September an extensive poem, and the possession of a poetical 1827. The same year had witnessed his advent as diction so copious and energetic, by a young man a preacher and a poet, and his untimely death. The reared in circumstances by no means favourable for Course of Time, however, continued to be a poputhe cultivation of a literary taste, indicate remark- lar poem, and has gone through eighteen editions, able intellectual power and determination of cha- while the interest of the public in its author has led racter.

to a memoir of his life, published in 1843. Pollok Robert Pollok was destined, like Henry Kirke I was interred in the churchyard at Millbrook, the




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parish in which Shirley Common is situated, and To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled, some of his admirers have erected an obelisk of Beseeching for his ward before the throne, granite to point out the poet's grave.

Seemed fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was the

thought! (Love.]

But sweeter still the kind remembrance came,

That she was flesh and blood formed for himself, Hail love, first love, thou word that sums all bliss!

The plighted partner of his future life. The sparkling cream of all Time's blessedness, And as they met, embraced, and sat embowered The silken down of happiness complete!

In woody chambers of the starry night, Discerner of the ripest grapes of joy

Spirits of love about them ministered,
She gathered and selected with her hand,

And God approving, blessed the holy joy!
All finest relishes, all fairest sights,
All rarest odours, all divinest sounds,
All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul :

And brought the holy mixture home, and filled In 'customed glory bright, that morn the sun
The heart with all superlatives of bliss.

Rose, visiting the earth with light, and heat, But who would that expound, which words transcends, And joy; and seemed as full of youth, and strong Must talk in vain. Behold a meeting scene

To mount the steep of heaven, as when the stars Of early love, and thence infer its worth.

Of morning sung to his first dawn, and night It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood.

Fled from his face; the spacious sky received The corn-fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,

Him, blushing as a bride when on her looked

The bridegroom; and spread out beneath his eye, Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand ;

Earth smiled. Up to his warm enubrace the dews, And all the winds slept soundly. Nature seemed

That all night long had wept his absence, flew; In silent contemplation to adore

The herbs and flowers their fragrant stores uulocked, Its Maker. Now and then the aged leaf Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground;

And gave the wanton breeze that newly woke,

Revelled in sweets, and from its wings shook health, And, as it fell, bade man think on his end. On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high,

A thousand grateful smells; the joyous woods With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thought, Of night; and all the sons of music sung

Dried in his beams their locks, wet with the drops Conversing with itself. Vesper looked forth From out her western hermitage, and smiled ;

Their matin song—from arboured bower the thrush

Concerting with the lark that hymned on high.
And up the east, unclouded, rode the moon
With all her stars, gazing on earth intense,

On the green hill the flocks, and in the vale

The herds, rejoiced; and, light of heart, the hind As if she saw some wonder working there.

Eyed amorously the milk-maid as she passed,
Such was the night, so lovely, still, serene,

Not heedless, though she look another way.
When, by a hermit thorn that on the hill
Had seen a hundred flowery ages pass,

Å damsel kneeled to offer up her prayer
Her prayer nightly offered, nightly heard.

Not unremembered is the hour when friends This ancient thorn had been the meeting place Met. Friends, but few on earth, and therefore dear; Of love, before his country's voice had called

Sought oft, and sought almost as oft in vain; The ardent youth to fields of honour far

Yet always sought, so native to the heart, Beyond the wave: and hither now repaired,

So much desired and coveted by all. Nightly, the maid, by God's all-seeing eye

Nor wonder those—thou wonderest not, nor need'st. Seen only, while she sought this boon alone- Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair, Her lover's safety, and his quick return.'

Than face of faithful friend, fairest when seen In holy, humble attitude she kneeled,

In darkest day; and many sounds were sweet, And to her bosom, fair as moonbeam, pressed

Most ravishing and pleasant to the ear ; One hand, the other lifted up to heaven.

But sweeter none than voice of faithful friend, Her eye, upturned, bright as the star of morn, Sweet always, sweetest heard in loudest storm. As violet meek, excessive ardour streamed,

Some I remember, and will ne'er forget; Wafting away her earnest heart to God.

My early friends, friends of my evil day; Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as Zephyr sighs Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery too ; On morning's lily cheek, though soft and low, Friends given by God in mercy and in love ; Yet heard in heaven, heard at the mercy-seat. My counsellors, my comforters, and guides; A tear-drop wandered on her lovely face ;

My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy ; It was a tear of faith and holy fear,

Companions of my young desires ; in doubt, Pure as the drops that hang at dawning-time

My oracles, my wings in high pursuit. On yonder willows by the stream of life.

0, I remember, and will ne'er forget On her the moon looked steadfastly; the stars Our meeting spots, our chosen sacred hours, That circle nightly round the eternal throne

Our burning words that uttered all the soul, Glanced down, well pleased ; and everlasting Love Our faces beaming with unearthly love; Gave gracious audience to her prayer sincere.

Sorrow with sorrow sighing, hope with hope O had her lover seen her thus alone,

Exulting, heart embracing, heart entire. Thus holy, wrestling thus, and all for him !

As birds of social feather helping each Nor did he not: for ofttimes Providence

His fellow's flight, we soared into the skies, With unexpected joy the fervent prayer

And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and earth, Of faith surprised. Returned from long delay, With all her tardy leaden-footed cares, With glory crowned of righteous actions won,

And talked the speech, and ate the food of heaven! The sacred thorn, to memory dear, first sought These I remember, these selectest men, The youth, and found it at the happy hour

And would their names record; but what avails Just when the damsel kneeled herself to pray. My mention of their names ? Before the throne Wrapped in devotion, pleading with her God, They stand illustrious 'mong the loudest harps, She saw him not, heard not his foot approach. And will receive thee glad, my friend and theirsAll holy images seemed too impure

For all are friends in heaven, all faithful friends ;

And many friendships in the days of time

Of man, him thither sent for peace, and thus ! Begun, are lasting here, and growing still ;

Declared: Who finds it, let him find it there; So grows ours evermore, both theirs and mine. Who finds it not, for ever let him seek Nor is the hour of lonely walk forgot

In vain ; 'tis God's most holy, changeless will. In the wide desert, where the view was large.

True Happiness had no localities, Pleasant were many scenes, but most to me

No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. The solitude of vast extent, untouched

Where Duty went, she went, with Justice went, By hand of art, where nature sowed herself,

And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love.
And reaped her crops ; whose garments were the clouds; / Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart
Whose minstrels brooks; whose lamps the moon and Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew

Of sympathy anointed, or a pang.
Whose organ-choir the voice of many waters ; Of honest suffering soothed, or injury
Whose banquets morning dews; whose heroes storms; Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ;
Whose warriors mighty winds; whose lovers flowers; Where'er an evil passion was subdued,
Whose orators the thunderbolts of God;

Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned ; where'er Whose palaces the everlasting hills.;

A sin was heartily abjured and left; Whose ceiling heaven's unfathomable blue;

Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed And from whose rocky turrets battled high

A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish; Prospect immense spread out on all sides round, There was a high and holy place, a spot Lost now beneath the welkin and the main,

Of sacred light, a most religious fane, Now walled with hills that slept above the storm. Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled. Most fit was such a place for musing men,

But there apart, in sacred memory lives Happiest sometimes when musing without aim. The morn of life, first morn of endless days, It was, indeed, a wondrous sort of bliss

Most joyful morn! Nor yet for nought the joy. The lonely bard enjoyed when forth he walked, A being of eternal date commenced, Unpurposed ; stood, and knew not why; sat down, A young immortal then was born! And who And knew not where ; arose, and knew not when ; Shall tell what strange variety of bliss Had eyes, and saw not; ears, and nothing heard ; Burst on the infant soul, when first it looked And sought-sought neither heaven nor earth-sought Abroad on God's creation fair, and saw nought,

The glorious earth and glorious heaven, and face Nor meant to think ; but ran meantime through vast Of man sublime, and saw all new, and felt Of visionary things, fairer than aught

All new! when thought awoke, thought never more That was; and saw the distant tops of thoughts, To sleep! when first it saw, heard, reasoned, willed, Which men of common stature never saw,

And triumphed in the warmth of conscious life! Greater than aught that largest worlds could hold, Nor happy only, but the cause of joy, Or give idea of, to those who read.

Which those who never tasted always moumed. He entered into Nature's holy place,

What tongue !-no tongue shall tell what bliss o'erHer inner chamber, and beheld her face

flowed Unveiled ; and heard unutterable things,

The mother's tender heart while round her hung And incommunicable visions saw;

The offspring of her love, and lisped her name Things then unutterable, and visions then

As living jewels dropped unstained from heaven, Of incommunicable glory bright;

That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem But by the lips of after-ages formed

Than every ornament of costliest hue ! To words, or by their pencil pictured forth;

And who hath not been ravished, as she passed Who, entering farther in, beheld again,

With all her playful band of little ones, And heard unspeakable and marvellous things, Like Luna with her daughters of the sky, Which other ages in their turn revealed,

Walking in matron majesty and grace! And left to others greater wonders still.

All who had hearts here pleasure found : and oft

Have I, when tired with heavy task, for tasks [Happiness.]

Were heavy in the world below, relaxed

My weary thoughts among their guiltless sports, Whether in crowds or solitudes, in streets

And led them by their little hands a-field, Or shady groves, dwelt Happiness, it seems

And watch them run and crop the tempting flowerIn vain to ask; her nature makes it vain;

Which oft, unasked, they brought me, and bestowed Though poets much, and hermits, talked and sung With smiling face, that waited for a look Of brooks and crystal founts, and weeping dews, Of praise–and answered curious questions, put And myrtle bowers, and solitary vales,

In much simplicity, but ill to solve; And with the nymph made assignations there, And heard their observations strange and new ; And wooed her with the love-sick oaten reed; And settled whiles their little quarrels, soon And sages too, although less positive,

Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love. Advised their sons to court her in the shade.

And still I looked upon their loveliness, Delirious babble all! Was happiness,

And sought through nature for similitudes Was self-approving, God approving joy,

Of perfect beauty, innocence, and bliss, In drops of dew, however pure? in gales,

And fairest imagery around me thronged ; However sweet ? in wells, however clear ?

Dewdrops at day-spring on a seraph's locks, Or groves, however thick with verdant shade? Roses that bathe about the well of life,

True, these were of themselves exceeding fair; Young Loves, young Hopes, dancing on morning's How fair at morn and even! worthy the walk

cheek, Of loftiest mind, and gave, when all within

Gems leaping in the coronet of Love ! Was right, a feast of overflowing bliss ;

So beautiful, so full of life, they seemed But were the occasion, not the cause of joy.

As made entire of beams of angels' eyes.
They waked the native fountains of the soul

Gay, guileless, sportive, lovely little things!
Which slept before, and stirred the holy tides Playing around the den of sorrow, clad
Of feeling up, giving the heart to drink

In smiles, believing in their fairy hopes,
From its own treasures draughts of perfect sweet. And thinking man and woman true! all joy,
The Christian faith, which better knew the heart Happy all day, and happy all the night!


influence did indeed comfort those who had been [Picture of a Miser.]

conscientious sufferers.'

Mr Montgomery's first volume of poetry (he had But there was one in folly further gone;

previously written occasional pieces in his newsWith eye awry, incurable, and wild,

paper) appeared in 1806, and was entitled The The laughing-stock of devils and of men,

Wanderer of Switzerland, and other Poems. It And by his guardian-angel quite given up

speedily went through two editions; and his pubThe Miser, who with dust inanimate

lishers had just issued a third, when the Edinburgh Held wedded intercourse. Ill-guided wretch !

Review of January 1807 denounced the unfortuThou might'st have seen him at the midnight hour,

nate volume in a style of such authoritative reproWhen good men slept, and in light-winged dreams

bation as no mortal verse could be expected to Ascended up to God-in wasteful hall,

survive. The critique, indeed, was insolent and With vigilance and fasting worn to skin

offensive-written in the worst style of the Review, And bone, and wrapped in most debasing rags

when all the sins of its youth were full-blown and Thou might'st have seen him bending o'er his heaps,

unchecked. Among other things, the reviewer preAnd holding strange communion with his gold; dicted that in less than three years nobody would And as his thievish fancy seemed to hear

know the name of the Wanderer of Switzerland,' The night-man's foot approach, starting alarmed,

or of any other of the poems in the collection. And in his old, decrepit, withered hand,

Within eighteen months from the utterance of this That palsy shook, grasping the yellow earth To make it sure. Of all God made upright,

oracle, a fourth impression (1500 copies) of the

condemned volume was passing through the press And in their nostrils breathed a living soul,

whence the Edinburgh Review itself was issued, Most fallen, most prone, most earthy, most debased. Of all that sold Eternity for Time,

and it has now reached thirteen editions. The None bargained on so easy terms with death.

next work of the poet was The West Indies, a Illustrious fool! Nay, most inhuman wretch !

poem in four parts, written in honour of the

abolition of the African slave trade by the British He sat among his bags, and, with a look Which Hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor

legislature in 1807. This was undertaken at the Away unalmsed; and ʼmidst abundance died

request of Mr Bowyer, the publisher, to accompany Sorest of evils-died of utter want!

a series of engravings representing the past sufferings and the anticipated blessings of the longwronged Africans, both in their own land and in the West Indies. The poem is in the heroic couplet,

and possesses a vigour and freedom of description, JAMES MONTGOMERY, a religious poet of de- and a power of pathetic painting, much superior to servedly high reputation, was born at Irvine, in anything in the first volume. Mr Montgomery Ayrshire, in 1771. His father was a Moravian afterwards published Prison Amusements, written missionary, who died whilst propagating Chris- during his nine months' confinement in York castle tianity in the island of Tobago. The poet was in 1794 and 1795. In 1813 he came forward with a educated at the Moravian school at Fulneck, near more elaborate performance, The World Before the Leeds. In 1792 he established himself in Sheffield Flood, a poem in the heroic couplet, and extending (where he still resides) as assistant in a newspaper to ten short cantos. His pictures of the antediluvian office. In a few years the paper became his own patriarchs in their happy valley, the invasion of property, and he continued to conduct it up to the Eden by the descendants of Cain, the loves of Javan year 1825. His course did not always run smooth. and Zillah, the translation of Enoch, and the final In January 1794, amidst the excitement of that deliverance of the little band of patriarch families agitated period, he was tried on a charge of hav- from the hand of the giants, are sweet and touching, ing printed a ballad, written by a clergyman of and elevated by pure and lofty feeling. Connected Belfast, on the demolition of the Bastile in 1789; with some patriotic individuals in his own neighwhich was now interpreted into a seditious libel. bourhood 'in many a plan for lessening the sum of The poor poet, notwithstanding the innocence of his human misery at home and abroad,' our author intentions, was found guilty, and sentenced to three next published Thoughts on Wheels (1817), directed months' imprisonment in the castle of York, and to against state lotteries ; and The Climbing Boy's Solipay a fine of £20. In January 1795 he was tried loquies, published about the same time, in a work for a second imputed political offence-a paragraph written by different authors, to aid in effecting the in his paper, the Sheffield Iris, which reflected on abolition, at length happily accomplished, of the the conduct of a magistrate in quelling a riot at cruel and unnatural practice of employing boys in Sheffield. He was again convicted and sentenced sweeping chimneys. In 1819 he published Greento six months' imprisonment in York castle, to pay land, a poem in five cantos, containing a sketch of a fine of £30, and to give security to keep the peace the ancient Moravian church, its revival in the for two years. All the persons,' says the amiable eighteenth century, and the origin of the missions poet, writing in 1840, 'who were actively concerned by that people to Greenland in 1733. The poem, as in the prosecutions against me in 1794 and 1795, published, is only a part of the author's original plan, are dead, and, without exception, they died in peace but the beauty of its polar descriptions and episodes with me. I believe I am quite correct in saying, recommended it to public favour. The only other that from each of them distinctly, in the sequel, I long poem by Mr Montgomery is The Pelican Island, received tokens of good-will, and from several of suggested by a passage in Captain Flinders's voyage them substantial proofs of kindness. I mention not to Terra Australis, describing the existence of the this as a plea in extenuation of offences for which ancient haunts of the pelican in the small islands on I bore the penalty of the law; I rest my justifi- the coast of New Holland. The work is in blank cation, in these cases, now on the same grounds, verse, in nine short cantos, and the narrative is supand no other, on which I rested my justification posed to be delivered by an imaginary being who then. I mention the circumstance to the honour of witnesses the series of events related after the whole the deceased, and as an evidence that, amidst all the has happened. The poem abounds in minute and violence of that distracted time, a better spirit was delicate description of natural phenomena—has great not extinct, but finally prevailed, and by its healing | felicity of diction and expression—and altogether

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