THE SLEEP

Or all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace surpassing this-
"He giveth His beloved, sleep?"

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown to light the brows.
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake:

He giveth His beloved, sleep.

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, Who have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:
But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

O earth so full of dreary noises!

O men with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His beloved, sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill,

His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap:

More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,

He giveth His beloved, sleep.

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard-
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on his love repose
Who giveth His beloved, sleep.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let One, most loving of you all,
Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall!
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

ROBERT POLLOK was born in 1799, at Eaglesham, in Renfrewshire,-where his parents were occupied in agricultural pursuits. He gave early promise of the ability for which he was afterwards distinguished, and his friends determined to educate him for the church. He was accordingly entered at the University of Glasgow, where he applied himself with ardour to the study of theology; but had scarcely commenced the exercise of his professional duties, when his health became so seriously impaired, that a visit to the south of Europe was recommended as the only means of preserving his life. In August, 1827, he quitted Scotland, and proceeded to Southampton, with a view of embarking for Italy. His malady, however, continued to increase, and in the September of that year he died, at Shirley common. His early death is to be lamented; for probably a wider intercourse with mankind would not only have matured his natural talents, but would have produced a healthier state of mind as well as body. "Retired in voluntary loneliness," he saw only that which is cheerless in Nature, and depressing in Religion:

"To pleasure deaf,

And joys of common men, working his way

With mighty energy, not uninspired,

Through all the mines of thought; reckless of pain,

And weariness, and wasted health."

Soon after the death of the writer, his poem, "The Course of Time," attracted very general attention. He had previously published two stories in prose, "Ralph Gemmel," a tale for youth, and "The Persecuted Family," a narrative of the sufferings of the Presbyterians during the reign of Charles the Second. He was, however, beyond the influence of criticism, when his book became largely the subject of it. It has been highly lauded, we think too highly; and find it difficult to account for the popularity it has obtained. The poem is in blank verse; and is nearly as long as the "Paradise Lost." Its aspect is, therefore, uninviting; yet that it has been extensively read cannot be doubted,-several editions having from time to time appeared. If we may not describe the author as of a sickly mind, we perceive abundant proof that he was of a diseased constitution. He arrays Religion in dark robes, and considers it unnecessary to pourtray her features as both gentle and beautiful. "Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." The Poet, however, exerts himself to show how rugged he can render the one, and how gloomy he can make the other. His volume, from beginning to end, is an awful picture of wrath and vengeance; it contains little to cheer, and nothing to gladden; and would tempt the reader to imagine that man was created only to be tormented.

Such is unhappily too much the mode with Poets who occupy themselves with the treatment of sacred subjects. Instead of striving to direct and controul, they labour either to subdue or crush the natural sensations and desires of man. They therefore clip the wings of their own fancy; and, if they soar, it is with the painful flutter of a wounded bird. Religious poetry is, for the most part, prejudicial to the cause it professes to advocate. It may influence the head; but it rarely touches the heart. Men are drawn from low thoughts and vicious habits, far less by fear than persuasion. If Religion be in "Gorgon terrors clad," and "circled with a vengeful band," the effect produced must be unnatural and transitory. The Poets, therefore, who so introduce, never recommend it. Such a course is to be deprecated the more, because the very opposite is so accessible. The best auxiliaries to piety are abundant throughout Nature; the themes that most readily present themselves to the Poet are those which, by the surest and safest way, lead the heart to virtue,-and they are all graceful, and beautiful, and cheerful. There are, undoubtedly, many glorious exceptions to the rule we have ventured to lay down; but we believe they are not to be found among writers who have exclusively devoted themselves to the treatment of Religion in verse. Religion, therefore, is deprived of one of its most powerful and effective advocates. It is made most influential, indeed, by those who are indirectly its supporters--who describe natural objects, and excite love as well as veneration, by leading the mind through Nature up to Nature's God;-"the meanest flower that blows" has been made to teach a lesson; and he best instructs the reason, and directs the heart, who finds

"Good in every thing."

HAIL, holy love! thou word that sums all bliss.
Gives and receives all bliss,-fullest when most
Thou givest! spring-head of all felicity,
Deepest when most is drawn! emblem of God!
O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink.

Eternal, ever-growing, happy love!

Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all;

Instead of law, fulfilling every law:

Entirely blest, because thou seek'st no more,

Hopest not, nor fear'st; but on the present livest, And hold'st perfection smiling in thy arms.

THE RESURRECTION.

AND now, descending from the bowers of Heaven, Soft airs o'er all the earth, spreading, were heard, And hallelujalis sweet, the harmony

Of righteous souls that came to re-possess
Their long-neglected bodies; and, anon,
Upon the ear fell horribly the sound

Of cursing, and the yells of damned despair,
Uttered by felon spirits that the trump

Had summoned from the burning glooms of hell,
To put their bodies on, reserved for woe.

Now, starting up among the living changed,
Appeared innumerous the risen dead.
Each particle of dust was claimed: the turf,
For ages trod beneath the careless foot

Of men, rose, organized in human form ;
The monumental stones were rolled away;

The doors of death were opened; and in the dark
And loathsome vault, and silent charnel-house,
Moving, were heard the mouldered bones that sough
Their proper place. Instinctive, every soul
Flew to its clayey part from grass-grown mould,
The nameless spirit took its ashes up,
Reanimate; and, merging from beneath
The flattered marble, undistinguished rose
The great, nor heeded once the lavish rhyme,
And costly pomp of sculptured garnish vain.
The Memphian mummy, that from age to age
Descending, bought and sold a thousand times,
In hall of curious antiquary stowed,

Wrapped in mysterious weeds, the wondrous theme
Of many an erring tale, shook off its rags;
And the brown son of Egypt stood beside
The European, his last purchaser.

In vale remote, the hermit rose, surprised

At crowds that rose around him, where he thought
His slumbers had been single; and the bard,
Who fondly covenanted with his friend,
To lay his bones beneath the sighing bough
Of some old lonely tree, rising, was pressed
By multitudes that claimed their proper dust