light affliction, this light affliction!" and when the awful crisis drew near, he still maintained the same sweet spirit of resignation. Even then he showed an instance of that thoughtful benevolence, that amiable tenderness of feeling, which formed a striking trait in his character:-he expressed much anxiety about the accommodation of an attendant who was sleeping in the adjoining room; and gave even minute directions respecting it. 'On going to bed he felt very drowsy; and soon after the stupor of death began to creep over him. He began to pray for all his dearest friends individually; but his voice faltering, he could only say "God bless them all! The peace of God and of Jesus Christ overshadow them, dwell in them, reign in them!" "My peace," said he, addressing his sister, " (the peace I now feel) be with you!"-" Thou, O God, wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee." His speech again began to fail, and he fell into a slumber; but whenever his senses were recalled he returned to prayer. He repeated part of the Lord's prayer, but was unable to proceed; and at last, with a composure scarcely credible at such a moment, he whispered to the dear relative who hung over his death-bed, "Close this eye, the other is closed already; and now farewell!" Then, having again uttered part of the Lord's prayer, he fell asleep. "He is not dead, but sleepeth." pp. 209, 210. To the above we will only add one sentence, from the pen of another individual, the Rev. Dr Miller, author of Lectures on the Philosophy of Modern History. We quote it, both for the sake of the summary which it gives of the character of Mr Wolfe, and of the great beauty of the sentence itself. It forms the conclusion of a letter to the editor of a London paper. '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; everything in him held its proper place, except a due consideration of himself, and to his neglect of this he became an early victim.' In proceeding to select from the Remains, we shall begin with the poetry, all of which, as we are informed by the friend and biographer of Mr Wolfe, was written during his residence at college. There is not much of it, and the merit of what there is, is unequal; but a fair proportion of it is not unworthy of the author of one of the finest odes in our language. The first piece which attracted notice was written in the first . year of his college course, on a subject proposed by the heads of the University. The subject was Jugurtha in Prison.' The poem is in the form of a soliloquy, and is distinguished throughout by great vigor. A few of the first lines may serve as a specimen. 'Well-is the rack prepared-the pincers heated? Where is the scourge? How!-not employed in Rome? I'm sorry for it; I could enjoy it now; I might have felt them yesterday; but now, Now I have seen my funeral procession: The chariot-wheels of Marius have rolled o'er me: His horses' hoofs have trampled me in triumph, I have attained that terrible consummation My soul could stand aloof, and from on high I challenge Rome to give another pang.- pp. 8, 9. The celebrated ode on the death of Sir John Moore, stands as the third poetical piece in this collection. So little ambitious was the author of poetical fame, that it found its way into the newspapers of the time, without his knowledge or concurrence; and though it was claimed by and for several writers, he never took any pains to assert his own right to it. Byron pronounced it, as soon as he saw it, one of the very best lyrics of the age; and the concurrent testimony of the public has put upon it the stamp of immortality. Such being the rank and character of this ode, we make no apology for inserting the whole of it, as it is printed in the Remains, from the author's own manuscript. It will be perceived that some lines in it differ from the copy which has been most generally known. We shall prefix to it, as Mr Russell has done, the paragraph in the Edinburgh Annual Register which had the honor of prompting it. ""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 rampart there, by a party of the 9th regiment, the aides-du-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."-Edinburgh Annual Register, 1808, p. 458. 'Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 'No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 'We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 'Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 'But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; '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- Mr Wolfe was keenly alive to the impressions of music, and entered into its poetry with all a poet's feeling. The following little story will show how well he understood, and how passionately he must have loved the sweet and touching melodies of his native land. He wrote it as a kind of introduction to the well known song of 'The last Rose of Summer.' "This is the grave of Dermid:-he was the best minstrel among us all,—a youth of a romantic genius, and of the most tremulous and yet the most impetuous feeling. He knew all our old national airs, of every character and description: according as his song was in a lofty or a mournful strain, the village represented a camp or a funeral; but if Dermid were in his merry mood, the lads and lasses were hurried into dance with a giddy and irresistible gaiety. One day our chieftain committed a cruel and wanton outrage against one of our peaceful villagers. Dermid's harp was in his hand when he heard it. With all the thoughtlessness and independent sensibility of a poet's indignation, he struck the chords that never spoke without response,‚—and the detestation became universal. He was driven from amongst us by our enraged chief; and all his relations, and the maid he loved, attended our banished minstrel into the wide world. For three years there were no tidings of Dermid, and the song and dance were silent, when one of our little boys came running in and told us that he saw Dermid approaching at a distance. Instantly the whole village was in commotion; the youths and maidens assembled in the green, and agreed to celebrate the arrival of their poet with a dance; they fixed upon the air he was to play for them; it was the merriest of his collection. The ring was formed;—all looked eagerly towards the quarter from which he was to arrive, determined to greet their favorite bard with a cheer. But they were checked the instant he appeared; he came slowly and languidly and loiteringly along; his countenance had a cold, dim, and careless aspect, very different from that expressive tearfulness which marked his features, even in his more melancholy moments: his harp was swinging heavily upon his arm;—it seemed a burden to him; it was much shattered, and some of the strings were broken. looked at us for a few moments,—then, relapsing into vacancy, advanced, without quickening his pace, to his accustomed stone, and sat down in silence. After a pause, we ventured to ask him for his friends-he first looked up sharply in our faces,-next, down upon his harp,-then struck a few notes of a wild and desponding melody, which we had never heard before; but his hand dropped, and he did not finish it. Again we paused-then, He knowing well that if we could give the smallest mirthful impulse to his feelings, his whole soul would soon follow, we asked him for the merry air we had chosen. We were surprised at the readiness with which he seemed to comply;-but it was the same wild and heart-breaking strain he had commenced. In fact, we found that the soul of the minstrel had become an entire void, except one solitary ray, that vibrated sluggishly through its very darkest part it was like the sea in a dark calm, which you only know to be in motion by the panting which you hear; he had totally forgotten every trace of his former strains, not only those that were more gay and airy, but even those of a more pensive cast; and he had got in their stead that one dreary, single melody; it was about a lonely rose that had outlived all his companions; this he continued singing and playing from day to day, until he spread an unusual gloom over the whole village; he seemed to perceive it, for he retired to the churchyard, and remained singing it there to the day of his death. The afflicted constantly repaired to hear it, and he died singing it to a maid who had lost her lover. The orphans have learnt it, and still chant it over poor Dermid's grave.' pp. 38-41. Among his favorite airs was that deeply mournful one of 'Gramachree.' He was dissatisfied with all the words which had been written for it, even those two verses of Moore's, beginning, The Harp that once through Tara's Halls,' and said that they all appeared to him to want individuality of feeling. At the request of a friend he gave his own conceptions of the character of the air, in a song which seems to us to possess the requisites of tenderness, pathos, and individuality in an eminent degree. Being asked whether he had any real incident in view in the composition of it, he answered, 'He had not; but that he had sung the air over and over till he burst into a flood of tears, in which mood he composed the words.' This anecdote alone would be sufficient to show the susceptibility of his nature. The song is as follows '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, |