He suffered-but his pangs are o'er;

Enjoyed-but his delights are fled;

Had friends his friends are now no more, And foes-his foes are dead.

He loved but whom he loved the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O, she was fair! but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encountered all that troubles thee;

He was whatever thou hast been;
He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,

Erewhile his portion, life and light,

To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye

That once their shades and glory threw,

Have left in yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,

Their ruins, since the world began,

Of him afford no other trace

Than this there lived a man.

LOVE OF COUNTRY AND HOME.

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;—
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend;-
"Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?"
Art thou a man ?-a patriot ?-look around!
O, thou shalt find, howe'er, thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!
On Greenland's rocks, o'er rude Kamschatka's plains,
In pale Siberia's desolate domains;

When the wild hunter takes his lonely way,
Tracks through tempestuous snows his savage prey,
Or, wrestling with the might of raging seas,
Where round the Pole the eternal billows freeze,
Plucks from their jaws the stricken whale, in vain
Plunging down headlong through the whirling main,

His wastes of snow are lovelier in his eye
Than all the flowery vales beneath the sky;
And dearer far than Cæsar's palace-dome,
His cavern-shelter, and his cottage-home.
O'er China's garden-fields and peopled floods,
In California's pathless world of woods;

Round Andes' heights, where Winter, from his throne,
Looks down in scorn upon the summer zone;
By the gay borders of Bermuda's isles,
Where Spring with everlasting verdure smiles;
On pure Madeira's vine-robed hills of health;
In Java's swamps of pestilence and wealth;
Where Babel stood, where wolves and jackals drink,
'Midst weeping willows, on Euphrates' brink;
On Carmel's crest; by Jordan's reverend stream,
Where Canaan's glories vanished like a dream;
Where Greece, a spectre, haunts her heroes' graves,
And Rome's vast ruins darken Tiber's waves;
Where broken-hearted Switzerland bewails
Her subject mountains and dishonored vales;
Where Albion's rocks exult amid the sea,
Around the beauteous isle of Liberty;--
Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside;
His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.

JOHN WILSON.

PROFESSOR WILSON, so long the distinguished occupant of the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, earned his first. laurels by his poetry.

He was born in the year 1788, in the town of Paisley, where his father carried on business and attained to opulence as a manufacturer. At thirteen he entered Glasgow University, from which in due time he was transferred to Magdalene College, Oxford. A notable capacity for knowledge and remarkable literary powers were at the same time united to a singular taste for Gymnastic exercises and rural sports. After four years' residence at Oxford, the poet purchased a small but beautiful estate on the banks of Lake Windermere. He married-built a house and a yacht-enjoyed himself among the magnificent scenery of the lakes-wrote poetry-and cultivated the society of Wordsworth. These must have been happy days. With youth, robust health, fortune, and an exhaustless imagination, Wilson must, in such a spot, have been blest even up to the dreams of a poet. Some reverses, however, came, and, after entering himself of the Scottish bar, he sought and obtained his Moral Philosophy chair.

He connected himself with Blackwood's Magazine, and in this miscellany poured forth the riches of his fancy, learning, and taste. The poetical works of Wilson have been collected in two volumes. They consist of the "Isle of Palms," "City of the Plague," and several smaller pieces.

"The

His prose works have been more popular than his poems. Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," a collection of beautiful stories

illustrative of Scottish manners, scenery, and history, has had an immense sale, and an unbounded popularity.

Gilfillan, in his "Literary Portraits," says:—

"It is probable that the very variety and versatility of Wilson's powers have done him an injury in the estimation of many. They can hardly belive that an actor, who can play so many parts, is perfect in all. Because he is, confessedly, one of the most eloquent of men, it is doubted whether he can be profound: because he is a fine poet, he must be a shallow metaphysician;-because he is the Editor of Blackwood, he must be an inefficient professor. There is such a thing on this round earth, as diffusion along with depth, as the versatile and vigorous mind of a man of genius mastering a multitude of topics, while others are blunderingly acquiring one, or as a man 'multiplying himself among mankind, the Proteus of their talents,' and proving that the Voltairian activity of brain has been severed, in one splendid instance, at least, from the Voltairian sneer and the Voltairian shallowness. Such an instance as that of our illustrious Professor, who is ready for every tack, who can, at one time, scorch a poetaster to a cinder, at another cast illumination into the 'dark deep holds' of a moral question by a glance of his genius; at one time dash off the picture of a Highland glen with the force of a Salvator, at another lay bare the anatomy of a passion with the precision and force of an Angelo,-write now the sweetest verse, and now the most energetic prose,-now let slip, from his spirit, a single star, like the 'evening cloud,' and now unfurl a Noctes upon the wondering world,-now paint Avarice till his audience are dying with laughter, and now Emulation and Sympathy till they are choked with tears,-write now 'the Elder's Deathbed,' and now the Address to a Wild Deer,'-be equally at home in describing the Sufferings of an Orphan girl, and the undressing of a dead Quaker, by a congregation of ravens, under the brow of Helvellyn."