TOPLADY was born at Farnham, in Surrey, November 4th, 1740. As a clergyman he held successively the living of New Ottery, and by exchange, in 1768, that of Broad Hembury, near Honiton, in Devonshire, where he continued till his death, in 1778. He was of considerable eminence as a champion of Calvinism against Wesley, and reciprocated with him a full measure of polemical bitterness. His well-known hymn, "Rock of Ages," was inserted in the "Gospel Magazine" for 1776--of which publication he was the founder and first editor-with the title of "A Living and Dying Prayer for the Holiest Believer in the World." The affectionate interest with which succeeding generations have regarded it, was, if possible, lately increased by the fact of its being much on the dying lips of the late lamented Prince Consort. His collected hymns are entitled "Hymns on Sacred Subjects, wherein the fundamental doctrines of Christianity, with many other interesting points, are occasionally introduced."

Rock of ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee!
Let the water and the blood,

From thy riven side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure,

Cleanse me from its guilt and power.

Not the labours of my hands
Can fulfil thy law's demands:
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears for ever flow,
All for sin could not atone;
Thou must save, and Thou alone.

Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to thy cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;
Foul, I to the Fountain fly,
Wash me, Saviour, or I die!

While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my eyelids close in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on thy judgment throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!

THE DYING BELIEVER TO HIS SOUL.

Deathless principle, arise!

Soar, thou native of the skies!
Pearl of price, by Jesus bought,
To his glorious likeness wrought!

Go to shine before his throne;
Deck his mediatorial crown;
Go, his triumphs to adorn;
Made for God, to God return!

Lo, He beckons from on high!
Fearless to his presence fly!
Thine the merit of his blood;
Thine the righteousness of God.

Angels, joyful to attend,
Hovering round thy pillow, bend;
Wait to catch the signal given,
And escort thee quick to heaven!

Is thy earthly house distrest?
Willing to retain her guest?
"Tis not thou, but she, must die;
Fly, celestial tenant, fly!

Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay,
Sweetly breathe thyself away;
Singing, to thy crown remove,
Swift of wing, and fired with love.

Shudder not to pass the stream,
Venture all thy care on Him;
Him, whose dying love and power
Stilled its tossing, hushed its roar.

Safe is the expanded wave,
Gentle as a summer's eve;
Not one object of his care
Ever suffered shipwreck there.

See the haven full in view;

Love divine shall bear thee through!
Trust to that propitious gale;
Weigh thy anchor, spread thy sail.

Saints, in glory perfect made,
Wait thy passage through the shade;
Ardent for thy coming o'er,
See, they throng the blissful shore!

Mount, their transports to improve;
Join the longing choir above;
Swiftly to their wish be given;
Kindle higher joy in heaven!

Such the prospects that arise,
To the dying Christian's eyes!
Such the glorious vista Faith
Opens through the shades of death!

JAMES BEATTIE, the son of a small farmer and shopkeeper at Laurencekirk, in Kincardineshire, was born October 25th, 1735. In his fourteenth year, he succeeded in obtaining a bursary or exhibition in Marischal College, Aberdeen. He became, four years after, schoolmaster of the parish of Fordoun, and published poems which procured for him the appointment of usher in the grammar school at Aberdeen, and subsequently, at the age of twenty-six, that of professor of moral philosophy in Marischal College. In 1770, Beattie published his "Essay on Truth," of which, on the appearance of a third edition in 1772, Dr. Johnson expressed himself as "liking it the more, the more he looked upon it." The first part of "The Minstrel," on which Beattie's poetical fame reposes, appeared in 1771. It was received with singular marks of approbation; and the author on his visit to London soon after, was welcomed into the best literary circles. Upon a second visit to the metropolis in 1773, he had an audience of the king and queen, which resulted in his nomination to a pension of £200 per annum. His domestic life was unfortunate. His wife became irreclaimably insane; and when his promising sons died at the ages of twenty-two and eighteen respectively, the unhappy father derived comfort from the fact that he should at least be spared the pain of seeing their fine intellects infected with the

maternal taint. Dr. Beattie succumbed to overwhelming sorrow, and a succession of paralytic attacks, August 18th, 1803. The pathos of his "Hermit," quoted below, especially that of the fourth stanza, drew tears from the not always stoical eyes of Dr. Johnson.

THE HERMIT.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove;
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious a hermit began ;
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral;
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away;
Full quickly they pass-but they never return.

Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
The moon half-extinguished her crescent displays;
But lately I marked, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again;
But man's faded glory what change shall renew?
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew;