THIS amiable poet of promise, who was so prematurely snatched from the world when he had given hopes of attaining the highest excellence, was born at Eaglesham, a village within a few miles of Glasgow, in 1799. His parents were of humble rank, but he received in his native village that excellent education which the parochial system ensures to the lowliest of the Scottish peasantry, while the picturesque scenery with which his native district abounds, produced an early and indelible impression upon his susceptible mind. As his views were directed to the church, he removed to the University, where, although his shrinking modesty kept him aloof from those academic displays in which he was so well qualified to excel, his excellencies were discovered by the professors of the several classes at which he successively studied. One striking proof of his modesty is, that about his twentieth year, when he had commenced his Course of Time, his class-fellows were not aware that he had the slightest pretension to poetical talent, so that on its completion their surprise was allied to merriment when they learned that he had written an epic poem, and was now only seeking for a publisher. He had composed this admirable work during the progress of his studies at the Divinity Hall, and had persevered in it from year to year in silence and obscurity, no doubt finding in the conception and delineation of those beautiful pictures with which the poem so richly abounds, a depth of enjoyment upon which common applause would only have jarred combined, perhaps with the consciousness that he had produced a work which the world would not willingly let die. On offering The Course of Time to the publishers, he experienced all those difficulties which were to be expected under such cir cumstances, and the bare offer of a religious poem, in ten books, by a youth whom no one had ever heard of, was enough to make them reject it without examination. Fortunately, however, the work was shown to Professor Wilson, and none who know that distinguished individual will believe that his enthusiasm was not awakened in behalf of a production of such obvious merit. He entered into its success with all his characteristic ardour, so that it was published from the press of Messrs. Blackwood, and on its appearance a powerful and eloquent criticism from the pen of the professor analysed the poem, and pointed out its many excellencies. Few volumes produced so strong a sensation as the Course of Time; in a year four editions were exhausted, and the unknown youth found himself suddenly transported to popular celebrity, as well as the prospect of lasting fame. The rest of Pollok's history is soon told. He was licensed as a preacher of the United Secession Church, and high hopes were entertained that the spirit which had been so eloquent in poetry would be equally powerful in prose, and that the usefulness of the preacher would transcend the fame of the poet. But the intense application and excitement which such a lengthened work as that of The Course of Time had produced upon his youthful mind and delicate constitution, had already broken the elasticity of the spring, and it was found that a consumption had made fatal inroads upon his system. Change of climate was then prescribed, and he repaired to England with the purpose of proceeding to Italy, and taking up his abode in Pisa; but he got no further on his journey than Southampton, where he died on the 15th of September, 1827. The poetry of Pollok, as might be expected, evinces many symptoms of immaturity. The descriptions and sentiments are, in many instances, expanded to an undue extent, and weakened by over-anxiety to strengthen them. The style of versification is also irregular, sometimes imitating the grandeur of Milton, at others the sombre heaviness of Young, and sometimes the didactic point of Blair, as each author might be supposed to occur to his thoughts. But who would not forgive even greater faults than these in consideration of such great and numerous excellencies. Had Pollok lived, he would probably have formed a style of his own, and become one of the most original, as well as one of the greatest, of English poets. Breathe all thy minstrelsy, immortal Harp! O thou wast needed much in days of Time! many excellencies. Few volumes produced so strong a sensation as the Course of Time; in a year four editions were exhausted, and the unknown youth found himself suddenly transported to popular celebrity, as well as the prospect of lasting fame. The rest of Pollok's history is soon told. He was licensed as a preacher of the United Secession Church, and high hopes were entertained that the spirit which had been so eloquent in poetry would be equally powerful in prose, and that the usefulness of the preacher would transcend the fame of the poet. But the intense application and excitement which such a lengthened work as that of The Course of Time had produced upon his youthful mind and delicate constitution, had already broken the elasticity of the spring, and it was found that a consumption had made fatal inroads upon his system. Change of climate was then prescribed, and he repaired to England with the purpose of proceeding to Italy, and taking up his abode in Pisa; but he got no further on his journey than Southampton, where he died on the 15th of September, 1827. The poetry of Pollok, as might be expected, evinces many symptoms of immaturity. The descriptions and sentiments are, in many instances, expanded to an undue extent, and weakened by over-anxiety to strengthen them. The style of versification is also irregular, sometimes imitating the grandeur of Milton, at others the sombre heaviness of Young, and sometimes the didactic point of Blair, as each author might be supposed to occur to his thoughts. But who would not forgive even greater faults than these in consideration of such great and numerous excellencies. Had Pollok lived, he would probably have formed a style of his own, and become one of the most original, as well as one of the greatest, of English poets. Breathe all thy minstrelsy, immortal Harp! O thou wast needed much in days of Time! No man e'er enter'd heaven. Let me record His praise, the man of great benevolence, The helpless, the last mite beyond his own And would not ask: and who can tell what sights |