WILLIAM KNOX.

BORN 1789-DIED 1825.

WILLIAM KNOX, the author of the pathetic | was born at Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, poem which was so great a favourite with the late President Lincoln, beginning,

a slight gratification for the admirer of poetry, I may also have done something to raise the devotional feelings of the pious Christian." A new edition of his poetical works was published in London in 1847. Besides the volumes mentioned above he also wrote A Visit to Dublin, and a Christmas tale entitled

school of Lilliesleaf, and afterwards at the grammar-school of Musselburgh. In 1812 he became lessee of a farm near Langholm, but he was so unsuccessful as a farmer that at the end of five years he gave up his lease, and commenced that precarious literary life which he continued to the close. From his early youth he had composed verses, and in 1818"Marianne, or the Widower's Daughter." he published The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems, followed six years later by The Songs of Israel. In 1825 appeared a third volume of lyrics, entitled The Harp of Zion. Knox's poetical merits attracted the attention of Sir Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly countenance and occasional pecuniary assistance. Professor Wilson also thought highly of his poetical genius, and was ever ready to befriend him. He was a kind and affectionate son, and a man of genial disposition; but he unwisely squandered his resources of health and strength, and died of paralysis at Edinburgh, November 12, 1825, in his thirty-sixth year. Knox's poetry is largely pervaded with pathetic and religious sentiment. In the preface to his Songs of Israel he says "It is my sincere wish that, while I may have provided

Much of his authorship, however, was scattered over the periodicals of the day, and especially the Literary Gazette. As a prose writer his works are of little account, but the same cannot be said of his poetry, which possesses a richness and originality that insure for it a more lasting popularity. Sir Walter Scott, alluding to our poet, remarks-"His talent then showed itself in a fine strain of pensive poetry, called, I think, "The Lonely Hearth," far superior to that of Michael Bruce, whose consumption, by the way, has been the life of his verses." He was keenly alive to his literary reputation, and could not but have been greatly gratified had he known that a poem of his would one day go the rounds of the American press and that of the Canadas as the production of a president of the United States.

THE WOOER'S VISIT.

My native Scotland! how the youth is blest
To mark thy first star in the evening sky,
When the far curfew bids the weary rest,

Tripping as lightly as the breathing gales
That fan his cheek upon the lonesome road,
Seldom by other footsteps trod!

And in his ear the milk-maid's wood-notes die! Even though no moon shed her conducting ray,

O! then unseen by every human eye,
Soon as the lingering daylight hath decayed,
Dear, dear to him o'er distant vales to hie,
While every head in midnight rest is laid,
To that endearing cot where dwells his favourite
maid.

Though he has laboured from the dawn of morn,
Beneath the summer sun's unclouded ray,
Till evening's dewdrops glistened on the thorn,
And wild-flowers closed their petals with the
day;

And though the cottage home be far away,
Where all the treasure of his bosom lies,

O! he must see her, though his raptured stay Be short-like every joy beneath the skies-And yet be at his task by morning's earliest rise.

Behold him wandering o'er the moonlit dales,
The only living thing that stirs abroad,

And light his night-path to that sweet abode,
Angels will guide the lover's dreariest way,
If but for her dear sake whose heart is pure as they.

And see him now upon the very hill,

From which in breathless transport he doth hail, At such an hour so exquisitely still,

To him the sweetest, far the sweetest, vale That e'er was visited by mountain gale. And, O! how fondly shall be hailed by him

The guiding lamp that never yet did failThat very lamp which her dear hand doth trim To light his midnight way when moon and stars are dim.

But who shall tell what her fond thoughts may be,
The lovely damsel sitting all alone,
When every inmate of the house but she

To sweet oblivion of their cares have gone?
By harmless stealth unnoticed and unknown,

Behold her seated by her midnight fire,

And turning many an anxious look upon The lingering clock, as if she would require The steady foot of time to haste at her desire.

But though the appointed hour is fondly sought,
At every sound her little heart will beat,
And she will blush even at the very thought

Of meeting him whom she delights to meet.
Be as it may, her ear would gladly greet
The house-dog's bark that watch'd the whole
night o'er,

And C! how gently shall she leave her seat,
And gently step across the sanded floor,

Who may at length their country's guardians stand,

And own the undaunted heart, and lift the unconquered hand!

MORTALITY.

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud!
Like a fast-flying meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave-
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

With trembling heart and hand, to ope the The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade, creaking door.

The hour is past, and still her eager ear

Hears but the tinkle of the neighbouring rill; No human footstep yet approaching near

Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the
high,

Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.

A child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection that proved,
The husband that mother and infant that blest,
Each-all are away to their dwelling of rest.

Disturbs the night calm so serene and still, That broods, like slumber, over dale and hill. Ah! who may tell what phantoms of dismay The anxious feelings of her bosom chillThe wiles that lead a lover's heart astrayThe darkness of the night-the dangers of the The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in way?

But, lo! he comes, and soon shall she forget
Her griefs, in sunshine of this hour of bliss;
Their hands in love's endearing clasp have met,
And met their lips in love's delicious kiss.
O! what is all the wealth of worlds to this!
Go-thou mayest cross each foreign land, each

sea,

In search of honours, yet for ever miss
The sweetest boon vouchsafed by Heaven's de-

cree

whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and

praised,

Are alike from the minds of the living crased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,

The heart that loves thee well, the heart that's The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the