So innocent and fair, that withered Age,
Even at the grave, cleared up his dusty eye,
And passing all between looked fondly back
To see them once again ere he departed.
These fled away, and anxious thought, that wished
To go, yet whither knew not well to go,
Possessed his soul, and held it still awhile.

He listened, and heard from far the voice of fame :
Heard and was charmed, and deep and sudden vow
Of resolution made to he renowned;

And deeper vowed again to keep his vow.

His parents saw-his parents whom God made
Of kindest heart,-saw, and indulged his hope.

The ancient page he turned, read much, thought much,
And with old bards of honourable name

Measured his soul severely, and looked up

To fame, ambitious of no second place.

Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair,
And out before him opened many a path,
Ascending where the laurel highest waved
Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring
But stood, admired not long. The harp he seized,
The harp he loved, loved better than his life;
The harp which uttered deepest notes, and held
The ear of thought a captive to its song.
He searched and meditated much, and whiles
With rapturous hand in secret touched the lyre,
Aiming at glorious strains, and searched again
For theme deserving of immortal verse.
Chose now, and now refused, unsatisfied;
Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still.

Thus stood his mind, when round him came a cloud;
Slowly and heavily it came, a cloud

Of ills we mention not; enough to say

'Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom,

He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes,

One after one, put out, as nearer still

It drew his soul; but fainted not at first,
Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man
Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst,-
Endure whate'er should come without a sigh;
Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs,
The bitterest cup that time could measure out,
And having done, look up and ask for more.
He called Philosophy, and with his heart
Reasoned. He called Religion, too, but called
Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard.
Ashamed to be o'ermatched by earthly woes,
He sought, and sought with eye that dimmed apace,
To find some avenue to light, some place
On which to rest a hope; but sought in vain.
Darker and darker still the darkness grew.
At length he sunk, and disappointment stood

His only comforter, and mournfully
Told all was past. His interest in life,
In being, ceased, and now he seemed to feel,
And shuddered as he felt, his powers of mind
Decaying in the spring-time of his day.
The vigorous weak became, the clear obscure;
Memory gave up her charge, Decision reeled,
And from her flight Fancy returned,-returned
Because she found no nourishment abroad.
The blue heavens withered, and the moon and sun,
And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn
And evening, withered; and the eyes, and smiles,
And faces of all men and women withered,-
Withered to him; and all the universe,
Like something which had been, appeared, but now
Was dead and mouldering fast away. He tried
No more to hope; wished to forget his vow,
Wished to forget his harp, then ceased to wish.
That was his last; enjoyment now was done.
He had no hope, no wish, and scarce a fear
Of being sensible, and sensible

Of loss; he as some atom seemed, which God
Had made superfluously, and needed not
To build creation with, but back again
To nothing threw, and left it in the void,
With everlasting sense that once it was.

"Oh! who can tell what days, what nights, he spent
Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless woe?
And who can tell how many glorious once,
To others and themselves of promise full,
Conducted to this path of human thought,
This wilderness of intellectual death,
Wasted and pined, and vanished from the earth,
Leaving no vestige of memorial there?

It was not so with him. When thus he lay,
Forlorn of heart, withered, and desolate
As leaf of autumn, which the wolfish winds,
Selecting from his falling sisters, chase
Far from its native grove to lifeless wastes,
And leave it there alone, to be forgotten
Eternally, God passed in mercy by-

His praise be ever new !-and on him breathed,
And bade him live, and put into his hands

A holy harp, into his lips a song

That rolled its numbers down the tide of time.
Ambitious now, but little to be praised

Of men alone; ambitious most to be

Approved of God, the Judge of all, and have
His name recorded in the book of life."

"The Course of Time,'" says Dr. Moir, "is a very extraordinary poem; vast in its conception, vast in its plan, vast in its materials, and vast, if very far from perfect, in its achievements. The wonderful

thing is, indeed, that it is such as we find it, and not that its imperfections are numerous. It has nothing at all savouring of the little or conventional about it, for he passed at once from the merely elegant and graceful. With Young, Blair, and Cowper for his guides, his Muse strove with unwearied wing to attain the high, severe, serene region of Milton, and he was at least successful in earnestness of purpose, in solemnity of tone, and in vigour and variety of illustration."

The following passage on "The Genius of Byron " was greatly admired by Professor Wilson, who regarded it as the best passage in the poem

"He touched his harp, and nations heard entranced;
As some vast river of unfailing source,

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
And oped new fountains in the human heart.
Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, his fresh as morning rose,!

And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath their arguments seemed struggling, whiles,
He from above descending stooped to touch

The loftiest thought, and proudly stooped, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty ;
He laid his hand upon the Ocean's mane,'
And played familiar with his hoary rocks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talked as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist the lightning's fiery wing,
Which as the footsteps of the dreadful God
Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed.
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were ;
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms,
His brothers,-younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed. All passions of all men,
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe;
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane ;
All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity;
All that was hated, and all that was dear;
All that was hoped, all that was feared by man,
He tossed about as tempest-withered leaves;
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made.
With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness;
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself;
But back into his soul retired alone,
Dark, sullen, gazing down contemptuously
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.
So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late

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To desolation swept, retired in pride,
Exulting in the glory of his might,

And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought.
As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
To which the stars did reverence as it passed;
So he, through learning rare and fancy, took
His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top

Of Fame's dread mountain sat: though not soiled nor worn,
As if he from the earth had laboured up;

But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair

He looked, which down from higher regions came,

And perched it there, to see what lay beneath."

"Poor Pollock ". '-we quote again from Dr. Moir-"gave his manuscript to the press from a dying hand. That manuscript, as I have said, I had at the time the melancholy pleasure of perusing, and remember well that several of the books had been copied over for him by a female hand, on account of his increasing debility-a symptom which he vainly tried, even to the last, to conceal from himself. On the 24th of March, 1827, The Course of Time' was given to the world; and on the 18th of September of the same year its author was removed from it."

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Such is in brief the sad record; but a few details may be given. The poem went to press January 3rd, 1827. Proof-reading and revising became thereafter an arduous labour; and his ill-health settled into a sleepless nervousness, producing indigestion, loss of appetite, and general feverishness; but the the poem was issued May 24th, 1827. In this condition and at such a time he was called upon by the church presbytery to write a specimen of Exegesis. This he did, in Latin, on the question, "Is the Church or Scripture the ultimate authority in matters of faith?" He was also required to prepare a specimen, or, as it is called, a "trial" discourse prior to receiving licence as a preacher in the Secession denomination. The text given him to preach from was "His name shall endure for ever: His name shall be continued as long as the sun and men shall be blessed in Him: all nations shall call Him blessed" (Psa. lxxii. 17). His trials were sustained," and on May 2nd he received licence. Next day being the day of preparation for the communion (called in Scotland "the fast day"), he preached in the church of Dr. John Brown (uncle of Dr. Samuel Brown, of whom a notice recently appeared in this serial, and father of Dr. John Brown, author of "Hora Subsecivæ," &c.). Here he met Dr. Belfrage, of Slateford, and was invited to spend a short time with him. At Slateford he preached twice on May 6th, and once on May 13th. He was destined to occupy the pulpit no more. In "The Course of Time" his earthly work was consummated. That poem attracted great attention; reviewers spoke of it in connection with those of Dante and Milton.

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Henry Mackenzie, author of "The Man of Feeling," then 84 years of age, favoured the author with his friendship; Thomas Aird, the purest poetic spirit of this age, at once Dantesque and Words

worthian, gave him his heart; and other distinguished men bestowed their respect upon the sickening young poet-preacher. Death had taken good security, through his agent Disease, against his enjoying the honours of authorship long. Pollock tried successively a sea trip to Aberdeen, a change to his native air and home scenes, but his health continued to decline. Through the kindness of friends, at the head of whom as the managing spirit was Sir John Sinclair (of some of whose merits our readers have already had an account), a tour to Italy was projected, the funds being raised through Sir John's instrumentality. On passing from home through Glasgow, Pollock's fellow-students presented him with an address, congratulating him on his fame, condoling with him in his illness, and wishing God's blessing on his journey. Dr. John Brown entertained him awhile, and had his portrait taken. Dr. Belfrage afterwards became his host, and when all things were ready, on August 22nd, he, in charge of his sister, Mrs. Gilmour, sailed from Leith to London. On arriving in the metropolis they became the guests of John Pirie (Lord Mayor of London) at Camberwell. Here it was found by Dr. Gordon that he was unfit to undertake a sea voyage, and he was recommended to proceed to Southampton, which they reached by carriage on the 1st of September. They took lodgings at Shirley Common; though the utmost kindness was shown him here, he failed daily, and at last died, September 18th, 1827, before he had completed a sojourn upon earth of 29 years. He rests in the churchyard of Mill. brook, about a mile out of Southampton, and over his English grave there rises an obelisk of Peterhead granite (placed there by his friends), bearing this inscription from the pen of Dr. Brown,"The grave of Robert Pollock, A.M., author of The Course of Time.' His immortal poem is his monument."

So passed away a bright spirit. He had not slackened in his "Toiling Upward," in his endeavour to rival the mighty minds of the past, to influence those among whom he lived for good to their souls, and to infuse into the future thoughts, drawn from the Book of heaven, uttered in words rendered attractive by "the beauty of holiness.' Earlier than Byron and Burns he died; at an age earlier by far than that at which Dante began to write his everduring Comedy, earlier than the age at which Milton conceived the first idea of his imperishable work. These were the works of great and tried minds; that was "the work of a man who had kept himself shy from literature for a first and great attempt." Pity," says Dr. Moir, "that it should have been his last; for unquestionably it is the production of a great and original genius-a genius which, whatever were its youthful deficiencies of taste and judgment, has made itself felt wherever the English language is spoken. Let the life of Robert Pollock be to us as an example of "Toiling Upward," and may his poem become an inducement for us to aim at the ultimate reach of human ambition-" the mark of the prize of our high calling in Christ Jesus our Lord!"

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