has subsequently acquired, by the beauty of some of his poetical effusions, his brief career might to use the language of Addison-" be comprised in those two circumstances, common to all mankind-that he was born upon one day, and died upon another." But be deserves more than a mere passing notice, when in him we consider the poet who at an early age had produced one of the most beautiful odes in the English language, and whose talents promised to place him in the very front rank of living authors; and still more, when we revere in him the exemplary minister of religion, whose untimely death was, in great measure, caused by his zealous devotion to his sacred duties.

Charles Wolfe, the author of the well known ode on the Burial of Sir John Moore, was born in Dublin on the 14th of December 1791. He was the youngest son of Theobald Wolfe, Esq., a gentleman of the County of Kildare, who had married a daughter of a clergyman named Lombard. His father's family was one of respectability, and although it seems doubtful that it was in any way connected with that from which had sprung the illustrious hero of Quebec; Mr. Wolfe was certainly a near relation of Lord Kilwarden, whose tragical fate is so well known. Wolfe at an early age had the misfortune to lose his father, and soon after his death the family left Ireland, and resided for some years in England. When ten years old, the subject of this memoir was sent to a school in Bath, where, however, he remained but for a few months, as in consequence of the delicate state of his health, he was obliged to return home. His recovery seems to have been tardy, as we learn from his friend and biographer, Archdeacon Russell, that his education was interrupted for a year. When his health was sufficiently re-established to enable him to leave his home, he was sent to Salisbury, in which city he remained, under the tuition of Dr. Evans, until the year 1805, when he entered Hyde Abbey School at Winchester as a boarder. This school was then presided over by Mr. Richards, with whom Wolfe seems to have soon become a special favorite ; indeed, from a very early age he appears to have displayed that sweetness of disposition and amiability of character for which he was always remarkable, and which justly endeared him to all who could boast of his friendship. With his mother he was deservedly an idol, and of his conduct towards her we have the following touching testimony from his sister:

"He never received even a slight punishment or reprimand at any school to which he ever went; and in nearly twelve years that he was under my mother's care, I cannot recollect that he ever acted contrary to her wishes, or caused her a moment's pain, except parting with her when he went to school." At Winchester he soon became distinguished for great proficiency in classical knowledge, and displayed early powers of versification. "His classical attainments," observes one of his most intimate friends, John Sydney Taylor, distinguished him when very young. The facility and eleqance with which he wrote Latin verse excited admiration. With most boys it is a mechanical labour, and it is indeed absurd to make it a general practice at our schools. But the mind of Wolfe was keenly sensitive of the charms of the Augustan age of composition. He was such a master of Latin expression, and had so much of the spirit of the bard in him, that his thoughts shaped themselves with a grace and vigor like those of his native tongue into the language of the Roman Muse." Some specimens of his early essays in Latin verse are preserved, but although they do undeniably display a considerable facility of expression, and a more than ordinary degree of elegance, they do not appear to merit greater attention than is in general bestowed upon,-those most absurd of all scholastic exercises, the classical effusions of juvenile scholars. Wolfe, however, displayed higher qualities than mere ability; and while his classical attainments caused him to be regarded as the pride of Winchester school, he was at the same time loved and respected by all his school-fellows, who always spoke of him in terms of the greatest affection. While under Mr. Richards his poetical talents also began to display themselves. Two of his earliest pieces are extant; one is a prize poem on the death of Abel, and was probably a Winchester exercise. This, though evidently the production of a youthful composer, contains some portions of considerable merit, and has one or two passages not deficient in beauty. Take for instance the following:

"In purity and innocence array'd,

The perfect work of God was Abel made.
To him the fleecy charge his sire consigned :
An angel's figure with an angel's mind,
In him his father ev'ry blessing view'd.
And thought the joys of Paradise renew'd.
But stern and gloomy was the soul of Cain;
A brother's virtue was the source of pain;
Malice and hate their secret wounds impart,
And envy's vulture gnaws upon his heart:

With discontented hand he turn'd the soil,
And inly grieving, murmur'd o'er his toil.
Each with his off ring to the Almighty came,
Their altars raised, and fed the sacred flame.
Scarce could the pitying Abel bear to bind
A lamb, the picture of his Master's mind:
Which to the pile with tender heart he drew,
And wept, as he the bleating victim slew.
Around, with fond regard the zephyr play'd,
Nor dared disturb th' oblation Abel made.
The gracious flames accepted, upward flew,
The Lord received them,-for his heart was true.
His first-reap'd fruits indignant Cain prepares,
But vain his sacrifice and vain his prayers,
For all were hollow: God and nature frown'd,
The wind dispersed them, and the Lord disown'd;
He looks behind-what flames around him rise?
O hell! 'tis Abel's, Abel's sacrifice!

The description of the death of Abel, with the horror and remorse of Cain, display the youthful genius of the poet.

-The stroke descended on his brow;

The suppliant victim sunk beneath the blow:
The streaming blood distained his locks with gore
Those beauteous tresses, that were gold before :
Nor could his lips a deep-drawn sigh restrain,
Not for himself he sigh'd-he sigh'd for Cain:
His dying eyes a look of pity cast,

And beam'd forgiveness, ere they closed their last,
The murd'rer view'd him with a vacant stare,
Each thought was anguish, and each look despair.
"Abel, awake! arise!" he trembling cried;
"Abel, my brother!"-but no voice replied.
At ev'ry call more madly wild he grew,
Paler than he, whom late in rage he slew.
In frightful silence o'er the corse he stood,
And chain'd in terror, wonder'd at the blood.
"Awake! yet oh! no voice, no smile, no breath!
O God, support me! O should this be death!
O thought most dreadful! how my blood congeals!
How ev'ry vein increasing horror feels!
How faint his visage, and how droops his head!

O God, he's gone!—and I have done the deed!"

The "Raising of Lazarus" is another of the Winchester poems; but this short piece is no-ways remarkable, except as being one of the earliest productions of Wolfe.

In 1808, Wolfe left Winchester, and returned with his mother to Dublin. He entered college in the following year under Dr. Davenport, and almost immediately distinguished himself by his academical honors. He did not, however, confine himself exclusively to classics: it was during his collegiate course that all his poems were written, before his devotion to higher pursuits had checked the exuberance of his genius. Wolfe indeed appears to have been essentially a poet; and to have possessed all those fine sensibilities which generally distinguish those who are gifted with high poetical talents.

"It was the peculiar temperament of his mind to display its emotions by the strongest outward demonstrations. Such were his intellectual sensibilities, and the corresponding vivacity of his animal spirits, that the excitation of his feelings generally discovered itself by the most lively expressions, and sometimes by an unrestrained vehemence of gesticulation, which often afforded amusement to his more sedate or less impressible acquaintances. Whenever in the company of his friends anything occurred in his reading, or to his memory, which powerfully affected his imagination, he usually started from his seat, flung aside his chair, and paced about the room giving vent to his admiration in repeated exclamations of delight, and in gestures of the most animated rapture. Nothing produced these emotions more strongly than music, of the pleasures of which he was in the highest degree susceptible. He had an ear formed to enjoy in the most exquisite manner the simplest melody or the richest harmony. Sacred music, above all, (especially the compositions of Handel) had the most subduing, the most transporting effect upon his feelings. He understood and felt all the poetry of music, and was particularly felicitous in catching the spirit and character of a simple air or a national melody."

To this peculiar talent we are indebted for two of the most beautiful of Wolfe's productions; which we shall give as specimens of his skill in this kind of adaptation. Of the first, the "Spanish Song," we are given the following account by Archdeacon Russell :

"He was so much struck by the grand national Spanish air, Viva el Rey Fernando,' the first time he heard it played by a friend, that he immediately commenced singing it over and over again until he produced an English song admirably suited to the time. The air, which has the character of an animated march, opens in a strain of grandeur, and suddenly subsides, for a few bars, into a slow and pathetic modulation, from which it abruptly starts again into all the enthusiasm of martial spirit."

SPANISH SONG.

The chains of Spain are breaking-
Let Gaul despair, and fly;
Her wrathful trumpet's speaking-
Let tyrants hear and die.

Her standard o'er us arching
Is burning red and far;
The soul of Spain is marching
In thunders to the war.
Look round your lovely Spain,
And say, shall Gaul remain ?

Behold yon burning valley-
Behold yon naked plain-
Let us hear their drum-

Let them come, let them come!
For vengeance and freedom rally,
And, Spaniards! onward for Spain !

Remember, remember Barossa-
Remember Napoleon's chain-
Remember your own Saragossa,

And strike for the cause of Spain-
Remember your own Saragossa,
And onward, onward for Spain!

The poem to which we shall now direct attention is one, the words of which are adapted to the popular Irish air "Gramachree," which was one of his favorite melodies. This beautiful piece is altogether different from the martial

"Song of Spain," being peculiarly, almost painfully, pathetic. It is impossible to read it without being deeply affected by its plaintive yet tender strain, and we often feel surprised that this exquisite poem should be, apparently so little known.

If I had thought thou could'st have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
"That thou could'st mortal be:

It never through my mind had passed,
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou should'st smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak-thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary: thou art dead!

If thou could'st stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold, and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still my own;

But there I lay thee in thy grave-
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore.

One of the most remarkable circumstances connected with the above poem is, that in its composition, the poet had no real incident in view. It appears almost impossible that such pathetic lamentations could be produced by anything but the actual calamity so plaintively, and at the same time, so inartificially bewailed yet when asked by a friend whether any real occurrence had prompted the lines, he replied in the negative, "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." A strange instance of the extraordinary effect which music always produced upon him.

:

composed at the request

Another of his songs, which was of a lady, a distinguished musician, is well deserving of insertion here:

Go, forget me-why should sorrow,
O'er that brow a shadow fling?
Go, forget me--and to-morrow

Brightly smile and sweetly sing.
Smile-though I shall not be near thee;
Sing, though I shall never hear thee;
May thy soul with pleasure shine
Lasting as the gloom of mine!
Go, forget me, &c.

Like the sun, thy presence glowing
Clothes the meanest things in light;
And when thou, like him art going,
Loveliest objects fade in night.

All things look'd so bright about thee,
That they nothing seem without thee;
By that pure and lucid mind
Earthly things were too refined.
Like the sun, &c.

Go, thou vision wildly gleaming,
Softly on my soul that fell;
Go, for me no longer beaming-
Hope and Beauty! fare ye well!
Go, and all that once delighted
Take, and leave me all benighted;
Glory's burning-generous swell-
Fancy and the Poet's shell.
Go, thou vision, &c.

It is, however, to the lines on the "Burial of Sir John Moore," that Wolfe is chiefly indebted for his celebrity as a poet. Of this short but expressive ode there can be but one