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CHARLES WOLPE was born in Dublin, on the 14th of December, 1791. He received his early education at a school in Winchester : his classical attainments distinguished him when very young; and on entering, in 1809, the University of his native city. he had already given proofs of the genius which, although perceived and appreciated by all who knew him, was unhappily known to the world only when death had removed him alike from censure and praise. In College he soon became remarkable; obtained a scholarship ; gained several prizes, and attracted general attention as one of the most promising young men of the time. His mind, however, appears to have been reflective rather than energetic ; and when the chief excitements to distinction ceased to influence him, he preferred the easy life of a country curate to the continued struggle for academic fame. It is said, however, that his ambitious hopes were chilled by the unfavourable result of a deep attachment : one of his friends writes, that " it pressed upon both mind and body; until this unfortunate epoch of his life, he had been in the enjoyment of robust health,--but the sickness at his heart soon communicated itself to his whole frame. Even his general deportment was quite altered." He settled in an obscure corner of Tyrone County, and was afterwards removed to the curacy of Castle Caulfield, in the diocese of Armagh :-his duties were discharged with unremitting zeal: and he succeeded in obtaining the affection as well as the respect of his parishjoners. In the spring of 1821, symptoms of consumption made their appearance, and he was at length induced by his friends to remove from his parish, and commence a search after health in more genial climates. For a short time he resided in Devon. shire, and afterwards at Bourdeaux. His restoration to health was but temporary. " The fatal disease," writes his amiable and excellent biographer, Mr. Russell, “ which

ong apprehended, proved to have taken full hold of his constitution. The bounding step which expressed a constant buoyancy of mind, became slow and feeble : his robust and upright figure began to droop; his marked and prominent features ac.

of form; and his complexion, naturally fair, assumed the pallid cast of wasting disease." He died at the Cove of Cork, on the 21st of February, 1823.

While at College Mr. Wolfe wrote the Poem which has, perhaps, obtained as wide A popularity as any single production in the English language. It was not, however, until after his death that the world became conscious of his value, and of the loss it had sustained. The lines on the burial of Sir John Moore, were printed in Captain Medwin's " Conversations of Lord Byron," by whom they were highly praised, and to whom the author of the work attributed them. Soon after the publication of the book, however, they were claimed for Mr. Wolfe by several of his friends, and ample proof was adduced of his right to the celebrity they were calculated to confer. Upon how #light chances does immortality depend! The Poem, small as it is, has been the means of registering the writer's name in the records of fame; and though it cannot be doubted that the circumstances connected with the publicity it obtained, and the sympathy consequently excited by the early death of one who had alre manifested so much genius, has greatly increased the admiration produced by itand will prevent the critic from exercising a sound judgment in considering it, its exceeding beauty will not be denied. Although Mr. Wolfe produced but few other Poems, he afforded sufficient proof that if circumstances had directed his mind to the cultivation of poetry, he would have greatly surpassed this composition, which he No little imagined would become famous. He appears to have been quite indifferent to the fate of his " Lines :" they had been circulated full of errors, from one Newspaper to another; and probably the author had himself forgotten their production. Fortunately for his posthumous fame--that fame which many so ardently covet--they had been repeated by him to a few of his acquaintances, one of whom was in his society when part of them was written, or they would now be wandering without an owner; and the name of Charles Wolfe as little known to the world, as that of any of the “gems" which

"The dark, unfathomed depths of ocean bear." The Poem has been compared, we think unwisely, with Campbell's "Hohenlinden." to which it is certainly inferior. If Mr. Wolfe had anticipated the sensation his “ Lines" created, he would, no doubt, have materially improved his composition, and have re

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

cannot be doubted that the curcumsan co wuucuwu win the puurvey - www and the sympathy consequently excited by the early death of one who had already manifested so much genius, has greatly increased the admiration produced by itand will prevent the critic from exercising a sound judgment in considering it, its exceeding beauty will not be denied. Although Mr. Wolfe produced but few other Poems, he afforded sufficient proof that if circumstances had directed his mind to the cultivation of poetry, he would have greatly surpassed this composition, which he so little imagined would become famous. He appears to have been quite indifferent to the fate of his “ Lines :" they had been circulated full of errors, from one Newspaper to another; and probably the author had himself forgotten their production. Fortunately for his posthumous fame—that fame which many so ardently covet-they had been repeated by him to a few of his acquaintances, one of whom was in his society when part of them was written, or they would now be wandering without an owner; and the name of Charles Wolfe as little known to the world, as that of any of the “ gems” which

“ The dark, unfathomed depths of ocean bear." The Poem has been compared, we think unwisely, with Campbell's “Hohenlinden," to which it is certainly inferior. If Mr. Wolfe had anticipated the sensation his “ Lines" created, he would, no doubt, have materially improved his composition, and have re

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Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun,

That the foe was sullenly firing.

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,-

But left him alone with his glory.

SONG.

Ir 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,

The time would e'er be o'er,-
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again ;
And still the thought I will not brook,

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