that Scipio, when once he had opened the books of Xenophon, would with difficulty be prevailed with to close them. His style, says the same great orator and critic, is sweeter than honey, and the muses themselves seem to have spoken from his mouth. Julius Cæsar is thought to have resembled him in his style, as he did in the circumstance of profession. He has nothing florid or grand, but, like a gentle river, flows on with a surface unruffled. A wonderful instance of moderation, to have recounted his own achievements with accuracy, yet without being, for a moment, betrayed into an unbecoming pomp either of diction or representation. Yet with all the gracefulness of modesty and simplicity, he has an air of grandeur that commands respect. In comparison with this, ostentatious ornament would have been contemptible deformity. He Cicero, who understood and valued the simplicity of Xenophon, was, however, himself sometimes guilty of its violation. adopted the Asiatic manner in some of his orations, and they are sometimes more verbose, diffuse, and affected, than an Attic taste can patiently endure. But it is a kind of sacrilege, as well as presumption, to detract from the deserved glory of a man who, in his life and writings, advanced human nature to high perfection. To write in a plain style appears easy in theory; but how few in comparison have avoided the fault of unnecessary and false ornament! The greater part seem to have mistaken unwieldy corpulence for robust vigor, and to have despised the temperate habit of sound health as meagreness. The taste for finery is more general than for symmetrical beauty and chaste elegance; and many, like Nero, would not be content till they should have spoiled, by gilding it, the statue of a Lysippus. Essays, No. XV. CHARLES WOLFE, 1791-1823. CHARLES WOLFE, the youngest son of Theobald Wolfe, Esq., was born in Dublin on the 14th of December, 1791. As a youth, he showed great precocity of talent, united to a most amiable disposition, and after the usual preparatory studies, in which he distinguished himself, he entered the University of Dublin in 1809. He immediately attained a high rank for his classical attainments, and for his true poetic talent; and the first year of his college course he obtained a prize for a poem upon "Jugurtha in Prison." Before he left the university, he wrote a number of pieces of poetry that were truly beautiful, but especially that one on which his fame chiefly rests, the "Lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore." In 1814, he took his bachelor's degree, and entered at once upon the study of divinity. In 1817, he was ordained as curate of the church of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards of Donoughmore. His most conscientious and incessant attention to his duties in a wild and scattered parish soon made inroads upon his health, and he was advised to go to the south of France as the most likely means to avert the threatened malady-consumption. He remained but little more than a month at Bordeaux, and returned home, appearing to have been benefited by the voyage. But the fond hopes of his friends were soon to be blasted-the fatal disease had taken too strong a hold upon its victim-and, after a protracted illness, accompanied with much suffering, which he bore with the greatest Christian fortitude and patience, he expired on the 21st of February, 1823, in the thirty-second year of his age.1 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE." Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, O'er the grave where our hero we buried. The following eloquent tribute to his memory was written by the Rev. Dr. Miller, of Trinity College, Dublin, author of the "Lectures on Modern History: "He combined eloquence of the first order with the zeal of an apostle. During the short time in which he held a curacy in the diocese of Armagh, he so wholly devoted himself to the discharge of his duties in a very populous parish, that he exhausted his strength by exertions disproportioned to his constitution, and was cut off by disease in what should have been the bloom of youth. This zeal, which was too powerful for his bodily frame, was yet controlled by a vigorous and manly intellect, which all the ardor of re ligion and poetry could never urge to enthusiasm. His opinions were as sober as if they were merely speculative; his fancy was as vivid as if he never reasoned; his conduct as zealous as if he thought only of his practical duties; everything in him held its proper place, except a due consideration of himself, and to his neglect of this he became an early victim." The passage in the Edinburgh Annual Register (1808), on which Wolfe founded his ode, is as follows: Sir John Moore had often said that, if he was killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the ramparts there by a body of the ninth regiment, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened; for, about eight in the morning, some firing was heard, and the officers feared that, if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered away, and not suffered to pay him their last duty. The officers of his family bore him to the grave; the funeral service was read by the chaplain; and the corpse was covered with earth." We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 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 carv'd not a line, and we rais'd not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory. SONG. Oh, say not that my heart is cold Still oft those solemn scenes I view Again I long'd to view the light Stern duty rose, and frowning flung He mutter'd, as he bound me: "The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven, Unfit for toil the creature; These for the free alone are given But what have slaves with Nature?" SONG. TO MARY. If I had thought thou couldst have died, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had past And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; But when I speak, thou dost not say If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art- I still might press thy silent heart, But there I lay thee in thy grave- I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn As fancy never could have drawn, THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY. I must tune up my harp's broken string, But yet such a theme will I sing, That I think she'll not ask me again. For I'll tell her-Youth's blossom is blown, She'll frown at the words I have said.) Ah, Beauty! of all things on earth How many thy charms most desire! Ah, fair ones! so sad is the tale, That my song in my sorrow I steep; I must lay down my harp, and must weep. But Virtue indignantly seized The harp, as it fell from my hand; "Thy tears and thy pity employ For the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain- "For Beauty alone ne'er bestow'd Such a charm as Religion has lent; "Time's hand, and the pestilence-rage, But I will not yield to the grave." REMEMBER THY CREATOR IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH. If there were no other reason for remembering our Creator in the days of our youth, than that we may never have an old age vouchsafed to us in which we may recall him to our thoughts; that between us and that old age there may be a great gulf fixed |