Himself adored. Whatever shape or form
His actions took, whatever phrase he threw
About his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life,
To be the highest, was the inward cause
Of all; the purpose of the heart to be
Set up, admired, obeyed. But who would bow
The knee to one who served and was dependant;
Hence man's perpetual struggle, night and day,
To prove he was his own proprietor,

And independent of his God, that what

He had might be esteemed his own, and praised
As such. He labored still and tried to stand
Alone, unpropped, to be obliged to none;
And in the madness of his pride, he bade
His God farewell, and turned away to be
A god himself; resolving to rely,

Whatever came, upon his own right hand."

For the sake of specimens varying from each other as much as possible in character, we quote the following, though aware that it may suggest an unfavorable comparison with the masterly sarcasm of Cowper. It is from a description of the dead raised, and assembled for judgement.'

"It was a strange assembly; none, of all
That congregation vast, could recollect
Aught like it in the history of man.
No badge of outward state was seen, no mark
Of age, or rank, or national attire,

Or robe professional, or air of trade.
Untitled stood the man that once was called
My lord, unserved, unfollowed; and the man
Of tithes, right reverend in the dialect
Of Time addressed, ungowned, unbeneficed,
Uncorpulent; nor now, from him who bore,
With ceremonious gravity of step,
And face of borrowed holiness o'erlaid,
The ponderous book before the awful priest,
And opened and shut the pulpit's sacred gates
In style of wonderful observancy

And reverence excessive, in the beams

Of sacerdotal splendor lost, or if

Observed, comparison ridiculous scarce

Could save the little, pompous, humble man

From laughter of the people, not from him

Could be distinguished then the priest untithed."

The next is a description given with a touch of tenderness.

"Wrinkled with time,

And hoary with the dust of years, an old
And worthy man came to his humble roof,
Tottering and slow, and on the threshold stood.
No foot, no voice, was heard within. None came
To meet him, where he oft had met a wife,
And sons, and daughters, glad at his return;
None came to meet him; for that day had seen
The old man lay, within the narrow house,
The last of all his family; and now
He stood in solitude, in solitude

Wide as the world; for all, that made to him
Society, had fled beyond its bounds.
Wherever strayed his aimless eye, there lay

The wreck of some fond hope, that touched his soul
With bitter thoughts, and told him all was passed.
His lonely cot was silent, and he looked

As if he could not enter. On his staff,
Bending, he leaned; and from his weary eye,
Distressing sight! a single tear-drop wept.
None followed, for the fount of tears was dry.
Alone and last, it fell from wrinkle down
To wrinkle, till it lost itself, drunk by
The withered cheek, on which again no smile
Should come, or drop of tenderness be seen."

We have room for only one more extract from a passage, to us the most natural, simple, and affecting in the Poem. It is supposed to describe the author's early hopes, wishes, and disappointments; and does, indeed, seem to come from the heart.

"One of this mood I do remember well.

We name him not,-what now are earthly names?—
In humble dwelling born, retired, remote;
In rural quietude, mong hills, and streams,
And melancholy deserts, where the Sun
Saw, as he passed, a shepherd only, here
And there, watching his little flock, or heard
The ploughman talking to his steers; his hopes,
His morning hopes, awoke before him, smiling,
Among the dews and holy mountain airs;
And fancy colored them with every hue
Of heavenly loveliness. But soon his dreams
Of childhood fled away, those rainbow dreams,
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 be renowned;

And deeper vowed again to keep his vow.

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 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 passed. 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 superfluous, 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.'

Our demands upon a poet are higher perhaps than would be those of many of our readers. We have spoken of the evil done to Mr. Pollok's just fame by indiscriminate praise. In the fear lest we should fall into the same mistake with others, and let our zeal for the true faith for which he wrote lead us to over-estimate his poetic merit, it is possible that we may not have done him entire justice. We have therefore given more room to selections than we well knew how to spare, that those who have not already seen the Poem might not be induced by the character of our criticism to neglect reading it. If our remarks have been rigid, we trust we have made amends by extracts from the better portions of the work.

We cannot leave this Poem without recommending it as a help to the meditations of the serious, and without expressing the wish that those inclined to think full well of human nature and their own hearts, and carelessly of what God requires of them, would read it also. There is an alarming and an increasing propensity in society to both of these errors; indeed, they are necessarily coupled. We know of few works better calculated than the one we are noticing, to put an end to the vain, the worse than vain fancies of a preeminently vain age.

We are also becoming more and more creatures of society. The increasing facilities of intercourse, with other circumstances, are helping to make us so. The tendency of this state of things is to give us what the world calls good-natured views of our fellowmen, or in other words, to make us less scrupulous concerning points of moral conduct, and indiscriminately familiar with the good and the unprincipled, and ready enough to expend upon ourselves something of this same good nature which we are

bestowing so liberally upon the world at large. Thus much is at least true; the retired man, when occasionally amongst those living much with the world, is conscious of a depressing sensation at the absence of a certain sensitiveness where he feels quickly, and a want of earnestness and deep seriousness about that which he thinks connected with what is most important to our natures, and a disposition to pass lightly over that which lies closest to his heart.

The study of the Course of Time would serve as a corrective to these false views; and though the man of the world may think its requirements high, he will not find them urged with bitterness or severity, but pressed upon him from an enlarged principle of love; which may lead him to see how differently things have appeared in his eyes, from what they have in those of a religious man, and in connexion with God.

We are indebted to Mr. Pollok for having presented in their connexions some of the leading principles of the Orthodox faith. It is by attacks upon the system in parts only that its opponents ever venture to make war upon it. Assail it as a whole, and it is impregnable alike to stratagem or force. If Mr. Pollok has not done his part as well as it might have been done, let us remember that he is the first who has attempted it in verse, and that he has set a noble example. Let us, too, make all allowance for his difficulties. He not only had to set forth in poetry God's system in relation to man; but, alas for the children of this world, he had to argue with them, argue, not with their reason, but their prejudices, their self-conceit, and their evil hearts.

The copy of the work before us is from the Edinburgh third edition-the only accurate one we believe-yet we have no preface, no argument to the several books, and nothing more concerning the author than can be gathered from the title-page-namely, that his Christian name was Robert, and that he was an A. M. There is something of affectation in this chariness upon the last head, now the author is gone.

We learn from the Eclectic Review that he died of consumption, at the age of twenty-eight, near Southampton, in England, on his way from Scotland to Italy, for his health.*

*The following additional account of Mr. Pollok is selected from the Christian Review.

The Rev. Robert Pollok was born at Muirhouse, parish of Eaglesham, (N. B.,) October 19, 1798. His father still occupies the same farm, and is esteemed by his neighbors as a very worthy and intelligent person. Robert was the youngest of the family; and his early days were spent on the farm with his father, in such labors as the seasons called for. He was always fond of reading; and the winter's evenings were employed in this manner, when his companions were perhaps engaged in some trifling amusement. He is not known to have made any attempts at poetry when very young. At seventeen years of age, he commenced the study of the Latin language; and a few months after this, he produced the first poem which he is known to have committed to paper. In October, 1813, when seventeen years of age, he entered the University of Glasgow, where he studied five years at the end of which time he obtained the degree of Master of Arts. While at college he was a very diligent and exemplary student, and distinguished himself so far as to have several prizes awarded him by the suffrage of his fellows: besides the regular

How many have died of this disease in early life, who have discovered an extent of acquirements and a developement of the intellectual powers, which have led us to say of one and another of them, "Had he lived, what a man he would have made!" This is probably a mistake. This disorder often operates like a forcing system, and could it be stopped, and the subject of it be allowed to live on, there would most likely be a very little further growth. It would seem as if God had, in fatherly kindness, thus early opened to the wonders of his world here the minds of those so diseased, seeing that the days appointed to them on earth were few. Often, too, they are blessed with a clear serenity of spirit and mind that makes us look upon them as half celestial creatures passing by us on their way to a better world.

He of whom we have been writing, in truth, passed quickly; yet not without leaving us much for our eternal good.

It may be gathered from our remarks upon the poetical merits of the Course of Time, that we think a great religious poem in our language is something still to be desired rather than already attained.

exercises, he composed a number for his own pleasure and improvement, and several of these were poetical. Before he had finished his curriculum, his health was considerably impaired. In the autumn of 1822 he entered the United Secession Divinity Hall, under the care of Dr. Dick. Here his discourses attracted considerable notice, and called forth some severe criticisms from his fellow-students. A mind like his could not submit to the trammels of common divisions: the form of an essay suited better the impetuosity of his genius; and he occasionally indulged in lofty descriptions, both of character and external nature. In May, 1827, he received license to preach from the United Secession Presbytery of Edinburgh. During his previous trials he was employed superintending the printing of his poem. His first public discourse is said to have produced a powerful sensation on the audience. The text was, "How long halt ye between two opinions? If the Lord be God, follow him; but if Baal, then follow him." Some descriptive parts, respecting those who serve Baal rather than God, are said to gave been awfully grand. He preached only three other times, when he was obliged to retire from public service. His labors had been too great for his constitution, in which the seeds of consumption had long before been sown. By some medical gentlemen of eminence in Edinburgh, he was advised to try the effects of a warmer climate. Italy was his intended retreat; and, after providing himself with letters of introduction to some learned men on the Continent, he set out, accompanied by a sister. He had got as far as the neighborhood of Southampton, when, overpowered with the fatigues of travelling, he was compelled to desist. He here fevered, and after a few days, expired, far from the scenes of his birth and his studies. It is comforting to learn that Mr. Pollok's death was that of a true saint; his last moments being characterized by patience, resignation and faith.

His habits were those of a close student: his reading was extensive: he could converse on almost every subject: he had a great facility in composition; in confirmation of which, he is said to have written nearly a thousand lines weekly of the last four books of the "Course of Time." The poem, as a whole, was, however, no hasty performance: it had engaged his attention long. His college acquaintances could perceive that his mind was not wholly devoted to the business of the classes; he was constantly writing or reading on other subjects. Having his time wholly to himself, he amassed a prodigious store of ideas. It was his custom to commit to the flames, every now and then, a great number of papers. He had projected a prose work of some magnitude-a review of Literature in all ages-designed to show that literature must stand or fall in proportion as it harmonizes with Scripture Revelation. But death has put an end to this, as to many other projects; and all that we can now look for, is a posthumous volume, for which we are glad to understand there are ample materials in the poems, essays, and sermons, found among his papers. Such a volume, with a memoir of the lamented youth prefixed, cannot fail to prove an acceptable offering to the public: and we hope soon to hear that it is in course of preparation.