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been going to raise himself in bed, and opened his eyes, which looked bright and peaceful. He then closed them, and lay down again, as if he had been going to sleep-remaining at ease in the same position till one o'clock, when he breathed his last.

Thus, in the early morning of Tuesday the 18th September 1827, died Robert Pollok, in the twenty-ninth year of his age. He was buried, with the rites of the Church of England, in the neighbouring churchyard of Millbrook, near the sea-shore; where a granite obelisk, erected by the admirers of his genius, marks his grave. But, as the inscription thereon saith, "His immortal Poem is his monument."

Since the death of its author, the Course of Time has taken a high and permanent place in the literature of his country. It has gone through many editions, inspiring and elevating with its noble religious feelings the hearts of millions. Criticism and panegyric are alike unneeded: the world has pronounced upon it a judgment of unanimous admiration.




Invocation to the Eternal Spirit.-The subject of the Poem announced.— A period long after the Last Judgment described.-Two youthful Sons of Paradise, waiting on the battlements of Heaven, observant of the return of holy messengers, or the arrival from distant worlds of spirits made perfect, discover one directing his flight towards Heaven.-The hills of Paradise.-The Mount of God.-Welcome of the faithful servant. -The hill of the Throne of God pointed out to him.-The Sons of Paradise offer to guide him into the presence of the Most High.-The Newarrived, bewildered by the strange sights beheld in his flight, begs for knowledge, and the solution of the mysteries he has seen.-Describes his flight through Chaos, and arrival at the place of Everlasting Punishment-Wall of fiery adamant-The Worm that never dies-Eternal Death-Hell-The dreadful sights beheld there.-The youthful Sons of Heaven refer the New-arrived to an ancient Bard of Adam's race.They fly towards his dwelling.-Flight through the fields of Heaven.— The Bard of Earth described-His bower in Paradise.-He is entreated to clear up the wondering doubt of the New-arrived, who tells what he has seen and conjectured.-The Bard informs him the gracious form he beheld in Hell is Virtue-Agrees to relate the history of the human




TERNAL SPIRIT! God of truth! to whom


All things seem as they are-Thou who of old The prophet's eye unscaled, that nightly saw, While heavy sleep fell down on other men, In holy vision tranced, the future pass Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned Burdens that made the Pagan mountains shake, And Zion's cedars bow-inspire my song; My eye unscale; me what is substance teach, And shadow what, while I of things to come, As past, rehearsing, sing the course of Time, The second birth, and final doom of man.

The muse that soft and sickly woos the ear
Of love, or chanting loud, in windy rhyme,
Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale,
Not overfraught with sense, I ask not: such
A strain befits not argument so high.
Me thought and phrase severely sifting out
The whole idea, grant, uttering as 'tis

The essential truth-Time gone, the righteous saved, The wicked damned, and Providence approved.

Hold my right hand, Almighty! and me teach
To strike the lyre, but seldom struck, to notes
Harmonious with the morning stars, and pure
As those by sainted bards and angels sung,
Which wake the echoes of Eternity;

That fools may hear and tremble, and the wise,
Instructed, listen of ages yet to come.

Long was the day, so long expected, past
Of the eternal doom, that gave to each
Of all the human race his due reward.


sun, earth's sun, and moon, and stars, had ceased To number seasons, days, and months, and years, To mortal man; Hope was forgotten, and Fear; And Time, with all its chance, and change, and smiles, And frequent tears, and deeds of villany Or righteousness, once talked of much as things Of great renown, was now but ill remembered; In dim and shadowy vision of the past Seen far remote, as country which has left The traveller's speedy step, retiring back From morn till even; and long, Eternity Had rolled his mighty years, and with his years Men had grown old. The saints, all home returned From pilgrimage, and war, and weeping, long Had rested in the bowers of peace, that skirt The stream of life; and long-alas, how long To them it seemed !-the wicked who refused To be redeemed, had wandered in the dark Of hell's despair, and drunk the burning cup Their sins had filled with everlasting woe.

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