Tyrone, and afterward of Donoughmore. His most conscientious and incessant attention to his duties in a wild and scattered parish soon made inroads upon his health, and he was advised to go to the south of France as the most likely means to avert the threatened malady-consumption. He remained but little more than a month at Bordeaux, and returned home, appearing to have been benefited by the voyage. But the fond hopes of his friends were soon to be blasted--the fatal disease had taken too strong a hold upon its victim-and, after a pretracted illness, accompanied with much suffering, which he bore with great Christian fortitude and patience, he expired on the 21st of February, 1823, in the thirtysecond year of his age.1

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.2
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning-
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow:

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

The following eloquent tribute to his memory was written by the Rev. Dr. Miller of Trinity College, Dublin, author of the "Lectures on Modern History:"-" He combined eloquence of the first order with the zeal of an apostle. During the short time in which he held a curacy in the diocese of Armagh, he so wholly devoted himself to the discharge of his duties in a very populous parish, that he exhausted his strength by exertions disproportioned to his constitution, and was cut off by disease in what should have been the bloom of youth. This zeal, which was too powerful for his bodily frame, was yet controlled by a vigorous and manly intellect, which all the ardor of religion and poetry could never urge to enthusiasm. His opinions were as sober as if they were merely speculative; his fancy was as vivid as if he never reasoned; his conduct as zealous as if he thought only of his practical duties; every thing in him held its proper place, except a due consideration of himself, and to his neglect of this he became an early victim."

2 The passage in the Edinburgh Annual Register, (1808.) on which Wolfe feunded his ode, is as follows: "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 Ninth 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 service was read by the chaplain; and the corpse was covered with earth,"

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.'

SONG. TO MARY.2

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 corpse I have,
That seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave-
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;

1 "Charles Wolfe has been one of the few who have gained probable immortality from a casual gleam of inspiration thrown over a single poem, consisting of only a few stanzas, and these, too, little more than a spirited version from the prose of another. But the lyric is indeed full of fervor and freshness; and his triumph is not to be grudged."-D. M. MOIR. This song was written to one of Wolfe's favorite melodies, the Irish air "Gramachree," for which he thought no words had ever been composed which came up to his idea of the peculiar pathos which pervades the whole of that strain. When asked if he had any real incident in view, or alluded to any particular person, he said,-"That he had sung the air over and over till he burst into a flood of tears, in which mood he composed the words." The song seems, indeed, to have been inspired by the muse of Grief, and rivals the pathos of Cowper's address to a real Mary. In tenderness, simplicity, and elegance, it is hardly surpassed by any thing in our language.

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!

REMEMBER THY CREATOR IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH.

If there were no other reason for remembering our Creator in the days of our youth, than that we may never have an old age vouchsafed to us in which we may recall him to our thoughts; that between us and that old age there may be a great gulf fixed that we shall never pass; if this were the only reason, should it not be enough?

But there is another reason for remembering our Creator in the days of our youth. The days of our youth are the days of our blessings. In those days we enter into life with a shower of God's blessings upon our heads; we come adorned with all the choicest gifts of the Almighty: with strength of body, with activity of limb, with health and vigor of constitution, with every thing to fit us both for labor and for enjoyment; if not endowed with a sufficiency, endowed with what is better, the power of obtaining it for ourselves by an honest and manly industry; with senses keen and observing; with spirits high, lively, and untamable, that shake off care and sorrow whenever they attempt to fasten upon our mind, and that enable us to make pleasure for ourselves, where we do not find it, and to draw enjoyment and gratification from things in which they see nothing but pain, vexation, and disappointment.

But, above all, in the days of our youth, the mind and the memory, with which we have been endowed by the Almighty, are then all fresh, alive, and vigorous. Alas! we seldom think what an astonishing gift is that understanding which we enjoy the bright light that God has kindled within us-until our old age comes, when we find that that understanding is wearing away, and that light becoming dim. Then shall we feel bitterly, most bitterly, what it is to have enjoyed, in the days of our youth, that privilege which seems to be withheld from all the animals by whom we are surrounded-even the privilege of knowing that there is a God: the privilege even of barely thinking upon such a Being; but more than that, the privilege of studying and understanding the astonishing variety of his works, of observing the ways of his providence, of admiring his power, his wisdom, and his goodness: the power of acquiring knowledge of a thousand different kinds, and the power of laying it up in our memory, and using it when we please; and this in the days of our youth, when the mind is all on fire, brisk, clear, and powerful, and when we actually seem to

take knowledge by force, and when the memory is large and spacious, so as to admit and contain the good things that we learn; and where the place that should be filled by knowledge has not yet been preoccupied by crimes, by sorrows, and anxieties.

THE WORLDLING'S AND THE CHRISTIAN'S YOKE.

There is the yoke of pride; and who has not felt its weight? There is scarcely a day of our lives in which our pride is not hurt. Sometimes we meet with direct affront; at other times, we do not think we are treated with the respect we deserve; at other times, we find that people do not entertain the opinion of us which we would wish them to hold; but, above all, how often do we find ourselves lowered in our own opinion! and then the yoke of pride becomes more uneasy by our endeavors to regain our own good opinion, and to hide the real state of the case from our conscience. But the Christian's yoke is humility; its very nature depends upon humility: for no one has submitted to the service of Christ, or become his disciple, until fully sensible of his own unworthiness, and, consequently, of his want of the merits of a Redeemer.

There is the yoke of debauchery and sensuality-that galling yoke which even those who wear it cannot bear to think upon; and, therefore, they still continue to plunge into drunkenness and profligacy, lest they should have time to think on their lost and disgraceful situation. Those miserable men, when the carousal and the debauch are over, then begin to feel the weight and the wretchedness of the yoke that they are bearing. Is it necessary to compare the Christian yoke with this? We will not disgrace it by naming it in the same breath.

Then there is the yoke of covetousness: and who does not know all the cares, all the watchings, all the restless days and sleepless nights and, after all, the endless disappointments-that the most prosperous and successful will have to encounter through life? And then the fearful anticipation of that day, when a man shall find that all these things are as if they had never been!

But the grand difference between the Christian and the man of the world is, that the burden of the one is gathering as he proceeds, while that of the other is becoming lighter and more easy: the man of carnal mind and worldly affections clings more and more to his beloved earth, and new cares thicken around his death-bed; his burden is collecting as he advances, and when he comes to the edge of the grave it bears him down to the bottom like a millstone. But the blessed Spirit, by gradually elevating the Christian's tempers and desires, makes obedience become more easy and delightful, until he mounts into the presence of God, where he finds it " a service of perfect freedom."

BLINDNESS OF MILTON.

There lived a divine old man, whose everlasting remains we have all admired, whose memory is the pride of England and of nature. His youth was distinguished by a happier lot than perhaps genius has often enjoyed at the commencement of its career; he was enabled, by the liberality of Providence, to dedicate his soul to the cultivation of those classical accomplishments in which almost his infancy delighted; he had attracted admiration at the period when it is most exquisitely felt; he stood forth the literary and political champion of republican England; and Europe acknowledged him the conqueror. But the storm arose; his fortune sank with the republic which he had defended; the name which future ages have consecrated was forgotten; and neglect was imbittered by remembered celebrity. Age was advancing. Health was retreating. Nature hid her face from him for ever; for never more to him returned

"Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine."

What was the refuge of the deserted veteran from penuryfrom neglect from infamy-from darkness? Not in a querulous and peevish despondency; not in an unmanly recantation of principles, erroneous, but unchanged; not in the tremendous renunciation of what Heaven has given, and Heaven alone should take away: but he turned from a distracted country and voluptuous court; he turned from triumphant enemies and inefficient friends; he turned from a world, that to him was a universal blank, to the muse that sits among the cherubim, and she caught him into heaven! The clouds that obscured his vision upon earth instantaneously vanished before the blaze of celestial effulgence, and his eyes opened at once upon all the glories and terrors of the Almighty, the seats of eternal beatitude and bottomless perdition. What though to look upon the face of this earth was still denied? what was it to him that one of the outcast atoms of creation was concealed from his view, when the Deity permitted the muse to unlock his mysteries, and disclose to the poet the recesses of the universe-when she bade his soul expand into its immensity, and enjoy as well its horrors as its magnificence? what was it to him that he had "fallen upon evil days and evil tongues?" for the muse could transplant his spirit into the bowers of Eden, where the frown of fortune was disregarded, and the weight of incumbent infirmity forgotten in the smile that beamed on primeval innocence, and the tear that was consecrated to man's first disobedience!