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another of great elegance and beauty, to the memory of Dr. Dick, late professor of theology in the United Secession Church. "Say not that the good ever die," and "he sleeps a sacred sleep," are engraven, in Greek, upon the sides of the monument, beautiful and appropriate sentiments for the tomb of a Christian. Dr. Dick was pre-eminently a good man, and not only so but a man of the highest attainments. Well does the writer remember his dignified bearing, fine countenance, and silver hair. But a few years ago, he sat at the feet of this venerable man, as his instructor in theology, and received from his lips lessons of holy wisdom. While professor of theology, the reverend doctor was also pastor of one of the largest and most influential of the Secession churches in the city of Glasgow. He was greatly venerated, both by the people of his charge and by his theological pupils, for his dignity and purity of character, his clear, well balanced intellect, his calm and consistent piety. Не wrote lucidly and elegantly on the "Inspiration of the Scriptures," a work which a distinguished English bishop so much admired that he carried it about with him in his pocket. His "Lectures on the Acts of the Apostles," though inferior to the production just named, is also a valuable work. Since his death, his " Theological Prelections" have been published, and are much esteemed for their clear statement, and defence of evangelical truth. Always lucid, always logical and satisfactory, he is never profound or original. His style glides in pellucid beauty, like a rivulet through the meadow,

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mirroring in its calm depths the green foliage which adorns its banks, and the blue heavens bending above it, but never cutting itself a new channel, or sweeping onward, with majestic force, like a torrent to the sea. The labors of Dr. Dick were pre-eminently useful; and a host of young men, educated under his influence, now fill posts of the highest responsibility in Scotland, and in other parts of the world. Pollok was a student of the Doctor's at the same time with the writer, but was not known to be possessed of any extraordinary genius till after the publication of "The Course of Time." He was considered a man of talent, however, and had written two or three sermons, containing passages of considerable power. But his heart was in his great poem during the whole of his student life. So intensely did he work upon it, that he had often to be assisted to bed, from sheer exhaustion. "The Course of Time" has many obvious faults, but abounds in strokes of genius and power. A great soul has poured itself into this rugged and sometimes gloomy channel, which, traversing the whole course of time, finally loses itself in the ocean of eternity. Pollok was tall, well proportioned, of a dark complexion, "şicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," with deep-set eyes, heavy eyebrows and black bushy hair. A smothered light burned in his dark orbs, which flashed, with a meteor brilliancy, whenever he spoke with enthusiasm and energy. He was born in 1798, at North Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire,

"Mong hills and streams

And melancholy deserts, where the sun
Saw as he pass'd, a shepherd only here
And there, watching his little flock; or heard
The ploughman talking to his steers."

His father was an honest farmer, and his early home a scene of much domestic endearment. To the trees which overshadowed the paternal mansion he thus pays homage in his verse:

"Much of my native scenery appears,

And presses forward, to be in my song;
But must not now; for much behind awaits,
Of higher note. Four trees I pass not by,

Which o'er our house their evening shadow threw ;—

Three ash, and one of elm. Tall trees they were,

And old; and had been old a century

Before my day. None living could say aught
About their youth; but they were goodly trees;

And oft I wondered, as I sat and thought
Beneath their summer shade, or in the night

Of winter heard the spirits of the wind

Growling among their boughs-how they had grown
So high, in such a rough, tempestuous place:

And when a hapless branch, torn by the blast
Fell down, I mourned as if a friend had fallen."

Pollok had just finished his studies, and was licensed as a preacher, by the United Secession Church, when he published his poem which thrilled all hearts in Scotland, and struck his fellow-students with perfect amazement, not unmingled, however, with delight. But he was then sick. His overwrought frame began to yield, and he sought health in a foreign country, which he did not live to reach. He died in England in the autumn

of 1827, the same year in which he had published his poem, having lived just long enough to complete it, and receive the applause of his countrymen.

Before leaving the Necropolis, we must visit a grave at one corner of the grounds, in a quiet, shady spot, as if retired somewhat from the rest. There it is, the grave of Willlam Motherwell, one of the sweetest of the Scottish poets, the author of "Bonnie Jeanie Morrison" and "My Heid is like to rend, Willie," and many other poems of exquisite grace and pathos.

William Motherwell was born in the city of Glasgow in the year 1797, and died there in 1835. In his eleventh year he was transferred to the care of his uncle in Paisley, who brought him up. Here he received a liberal education, and commenced the study of law. At the age of twenty-one he was appointed Deputy to the Sheriff-Clerk of Paisley, a highly respectable but not lucrative situation. He early evinced a love of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany, called "The Harp of Renfrewshire," which he conducted with much taste and judgment. A relish for antiquarian research led him to investigate the subject of the ballad poetry of Scotland, the results of which he published in 1827, in two volumes, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern." His introduction to this collection is admirably written, and must form the basis of all future investigations upon this subject. He seems to have been unusually successful in recovering many of the old ballads, which were

never committed to writing, and known to very few persons. Some of these, though rude and grotesque in thought or style, are exquisitely beautiful. Allan Cunningham, another of Scotland's sweetest poets, had labored in this field, but not with the same success. But the genius of both of these poets was deeply imbued with the spirit of the old ballad rhymes. They had conned them in their minds so frequently that they naturally wrote their own effusions in the same simple and touching style. Soon after the publication of his "Ancient Minstrelsy," Motherwell became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established a magazine there, to which he contributed some of his finest poems. The talent and spirit which he evinced in these literary labors, were the occasion of his being removed to the city of Glasgow, to the editorial care of the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his death. He conducted this paper with great ability.

Motherwell was of small stature, but thick set and muscular. His head was large and finely formed; his eyes were bright and penetrating. In ' mixed society he was rather reserved, "but appeared internally to enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul." Somewhat pensive in his mood, he lived much in the solitude of his own thoughts, and at times gave way to a profound melancholy. This spirit pervades his poetry. The wailings of a wounded heart mingle with his fine descriptions of nature, and his lofty aspirations after the beautiful and true.

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