HE MIGHT HAVE BUILT A PALACE AT A WORD, RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 474 For whether thou sole-sittest on thy throne, Thou and all nature, saving man alone, TIME WAS, AND HE WHO NOURISHED CROWDS WITH BREAD WOULD NOT ONE MEAL UNTO HIMSELF AFFORD: AUTUMN. HINE, Autumn, is unwelcome lore- To whisper in the Rose's ear And bid her own the faith how vain, A queen deposed, she quits her state: The hundred-voiced bird may woo The piping winds sing Nature's dirge, WHO SOMETIMES HAD NOT WHERE TO LAY HIS HEAD: oh, self-denYING LOVE, WHICH FELT ALONE FOR NEEDS OF OTHERS, NEVER FOR ITS OWN."-TRENCH. OF SOME SWEET FUTURE, WHICH WE AFTER FIND BITTER TO TASTE, OR BIND THAT IN WITH FEARS,-(TRENCH) ["Thine, Autumn, is unwelcome lore- Whose leafy screen, like locks of eld, THE PRESENT WE FLING FROM US LIKE THE RIND WE LIVE NOT IN OUR MOMENTS OR OUR YEARS: AUTUMN. 475 AND WATER IT BEFOREHAND WITH OUR TEARS-VAIN TEARS FOR THAT WHICH NEVER MAY ARRIVE."-TRENCH. [From "Poems, Collected and Arranged Anew," ed. 1865.] "O RIGHTEOUS DOOM, THAT THEY WHO MAKE PLEASURE THEIR ONLY END,-TRENCH) WRITTEN DURING THE RUSSIAN WAR. And such is theirs, who in our England now, For those dread posts, too slow, too swift, that haste [From "Poems, Collected and Arranged Anew," ed. 1865.] THAT HARDEST OF ALL PRECEPTS-TO REJOICE."-TRENCH. ORDERING THE WHOLE LIFE FOR ITS SAKE, MISS THAT WHERETO THEY TEND."-TRENCH. "NOW IS THE TIME IN SOME MEEK SOLITUDE TO HOLD COMMUNION WITH THOSE INNOCENT THOUGHTS-(PROFESSOR WILSON) 66 HOW BEAUTIFUL THE PASTIME OF THE SPRING!"-WILSON. ["A WRITER of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius, whose eloquence is as the rush of mighty waters." It is in these terms that Mr. Hallam describes Professor Wilson-the illustrious "Christopher North" of Blackwood's Magazine-and no impartial critic will deny their truth. As essayist, lecturer, novelist, and poet, the Professor held a high rank among his contemporaries; and though, from the fugitive character of most of his productions, and their local and personal allusions, as well as from a certain exuberance which is displeasing to a refined taste, his fame will be less with posterity, yet some of his higher work will assuredly live. The fire and profuse energy,-the dash and impetuous flow,-of his prose style are, however, wholly wanting in his poetry, which, indeed, is remarkable for an almost excessive sweetness, and, as Jeffrey observes, by reason of this sweetness acquires a certain monotony and languor apt, after awhile, to pall upon the reader. He is felicitous in his landscape-painting, and strikes with success a tone of tender sentiment; dealing always with the gentler sympathies of our nature-never rising to the heights of thought, nor penetrating into the depths of passion. John Wilson was the son of a Paisley manufacturer, and born on the 18th of May 1785. At the age of thirteen he was sent to the University of Glasgow, and afterwards-in 1804-removed to Magdalene College, Oxford, where he carried off the Newdegate gold medal for the best English poem. Later in life he entered the Scottish bar, but derived his principal distinction from his numerous and varied contributions, under the nom de plume of Christopher North, to Blackwood's Magazine. These extended over a long series of years, and by their vivacity, fire, prodigal strength, richness of humour, lavish fancy, and impetuous eloquence, attracted an everincreasing circle of admiring readers. In 1820 Wilson was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh;-a post he held until his death, which took place on the 3rd of April 1854.] THAT BLESSED OUR EARLIER DAYS; TO LIST THE VOICE OF CONSCIENCE MURMURING FROM HER INMOST SHRINE."-WILSON) THE SHIPWRECK. IST! a low and moaning sound As if it called the ship along : A GENTLE PLEASURE TO SOME GENTLE HEART."-WILSON. 478 "TO ME MOST AWFUL IS THY HOUR OF REST,-(WILSON) PROFESSOR WILSON. And like a god who brings the day, Soon as his light has warmed the seas, O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, 'Mid the deep darkness white as snow. "SOULS OF HOLIEST BIRTH DWELL BUT A MOMENT WITH THE SONS OF EARTH:-(PROFESSOR JOHN WILSON) TO THIS DIM SPHERE BY GOD'S INDULGENCE GIVEN, THEIR FRIENDS ARE ANGELS, AND THEIR HOME IS HEAVEN."-WILSON. ["Fast the miserable ship becomes a lifeless wreck."] But gently now the small waves glide Are hurried o'er the deck; |