HERBERT KNOWLES, 1798–1817.

Tais most promising youth was born at Canterbury, in the year 1798. He early lost both father and mother, but, as the poet Southey says, was picked out of an humble situation for his genius, and sent to Richmond school (Yorkshire), by Dr. Andrews, Dean of Canterbury." His friends designed to send him to the University; and accordingly they endeavored to raise the means. Southey was applied to, and raised at once pledges for £30 a year for four years,-he himself, with his accustomed generosity, giving one-third of it. But, alas! as in the case of Henry Kirke White, the fair promise which high principle, talent, and good sense combined seemed to hold forth, was blighted in the bud; for, in little more than two months after he received the news of what his friends had done to aid him, Herbert Knowles was laid in his grave.

Of the following churchyard poem, written but a short time before he was laid in the grave himself, a writer in the twenty-first volume of the Quarterly Review thus speaks:-"The reader will remember that they are the verses of a schoolboy, who had not long been taken from one of the lowest stations of life; and he will then judge what might have been expected from one who was capable of writing with such strength and originality upon the tritest of all subjects."

LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND,

YORKSHIRE.

"It is good for us to be here: if Thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles: one for Thee, and ene for Moses, and one for Elias."-Matt. xvii. 4.

Methinks it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build,-but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve, that encompass with gloom

The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah, no!

Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pin him below

In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets

The charms which she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin that but yesterday fools could adore

For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride,

The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd,

Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches! Alas! 'tis in vain :

Who hid in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squander'd again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board,

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah, no! they have wither'd and died,
Or fled with the spirit above.

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The Dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which Compassion itself could relieve.

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;
Peace! peace is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath the cold dead and around the dark stone
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise;

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfill'd;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,

Who bequeath'd us them both when He rose to the skies.

JOHN WOLCOT, 1738–1819.

DR. JOHN WOLCOT, better known by the appellation of "Peter Pindar" (under which name he published numerous satirical effusions upon the reigning sovereign, George III.), was born at Dodbrooke, in Devonshire, on the 9th of May, 1738. He was apprenticed to his uncle, a respectable surgeon and apothecary at Fowey, in Cornwall. After going to London to attend the hospitals, he entered upon the practice of the profession, and in 1767 was appointed the medical attendant of Sir William Trelawney, who had been just nominated Governor of Jamaica. Finding there, however, but little to do in his profession, he solicited and obtained from his patron the gift of a living, which happened to be then vacant, in "the Church." "The Bishop of London ordained the graceless neophyte," and Wolcot entered upon those sacred duties for which he was so little spiritually qualified. But Sir William dying soon after, and there being no prospect of preferment in "the Church," Wolcot returned to England, and established himself as a physician at Truro, in Cornwall, where he practised about four years.

By this time he had acquired some reputation as a satirical poet by an effusion entitled A Supplicatory Epistle to the Reviewers; and, inheriting £2000 from his uncle, he concluded, in 1782, to remove to London, where he might have a wider field for his talents. Here he published Lyric Odes to the Royal

Academicians, in which he attacked West and other eminent artists: with these the public were so pleased that he continued the subject, under the title of More Lyric Odes. In 1786, a certain little obnoxious insect having been discovered on the plate of the king, he published The Lousiad, an Heroi-comic Poem, in five cantos, in which he ridicules the event with inimitable drollery. This was followed by a humorous poetical epistle to James Boswell, the biographer of Johnson, entitled Bozzy and Piozzi, or the British Biographers. Then succeeded Peeps at St. James, Royal Visits, &c., in which the personal habits of the king were ridiculed, and numerous other satirical pieces, aimed at different individuals. Indeed, so prolific was his pen that between 1778 and 1808 more than sixty poetical pamphlets were issued by this witty writer; and so formidable was he considered that it was said the ministry endeavored to bribe him to silence. In 1793 Wolcot sold the copyright of his works to the booksellers for an annuity of £250, payable half-yearly. He had been ill for some time, and the purchasers calculated upon his speedy death; but, to their great vexation and loss, he recovered, and continued to enjoy his annuity for more than twenty years. He died at his residence in Somers' Town on the 14th January, 1819.

Dr. Wolcot was certainly one of the most original poets England has produced; his productions displaying not merely wit and smartness, but a profound knowledge of the world and of the human heart, combined with a sound and cultivated understanding. His serious poems evince the same command of language and originality of ideas as are displayed in his satires; though he excelled in the latter. No man, perhaps, ever enjoyed so much temporary popularity as Peter Pindar; and he himself says, that when the Duke of Kent was in America, taking a stroll into the country, he entered a neat little farmhouse, and, seeing a pretty girl with a book in her hand, he said, with a sort of sneer, "And pray, do you have books here, my dear?" "Oh, yes, sir," the girl very archly replied: "we have the Bible and Peter Pindar."1

TO JAMES BOSWELL.

O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name,
Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame;
Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth
To eat Macpherson midst his native north;
To frighten grave professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,
All hail!

Triumphant thou through Time's vast gulf shall sail,
The pilot of our literary whale;

Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,

Close as a supple courtier to a king;

Fate shall not shake thee off, with all its power;

Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.

Nay, though thy Johnson ne'er had bless'd thy eyes,
Paoli's deeds had raised thee to the skies;
Yes, his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack),
A Tom-tit twittering on an eagle's back.

1"Wolcot was a genuine man of his sort, though his sort was not of a very dignified species. There does not seem to have been any real malice in him. He attacked great

ness itself, because he thought it could afford the joke; and he dared to express sympathies with the poor and outcast."-LEIGH HUNT'S Wit and Humor.

MAY DAY.

The daisies peep from every field,
And violets sweet their odor yield;
The purple blossom paints the thorn,
And streams reflect the blush of morn.
Then, lads and lasses all, be gay,
For this is nature's holiday.

Let lusty Labor drop his flail,
Nor woodman's hook a tree assail;
The ox shall cease his neck to bow,
And Clodden yield to rest the plough.
Then, lads, &c.

Behold the lark in ether float,

While rapture swells the liquid note!
What warbles he, with merry cheer?
"Let Love and Pleasure rule the year!"
Then, lads, &c.

Lo! Sol looks down with radiant eye,
And throws a smile around his sky;
Embracing hill, and vale, and stream,
And warming nature with his beam.
Then, lads, &c.

The insect tribes in myriads pour,
And kiss with zephyr every flower:
Shall these our icy hearts reprove,
And tell us we are foes to Love?
Then, lads, &c.

THE RAZOR-SELLER.

A fellow in a market-town,

Most musical, cried razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence;
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,

As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard,—
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad, black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:

With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid.
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
So home the clown with his good fortune went,
Smiling in heart and soul, content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze :

'Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he tried.
All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sigh'd,
"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

Hodge sought the fellow,-found him,-and begun :
"P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun

That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster-knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave:
As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul I never thought

That they would shave."

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;

"What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile,

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

A brace of sinners, for no good,

Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, wood,

TO SELL."

And in a curl'd white wig look'd wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel,

With something in their shoes much worse than gravei :
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,

The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:

A nostrum famous in old popish times

For purifying souls deep sunk in crimes:
A sort of apostolic salt,

That popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;

But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,
Light as a bullet from a gun;

The other limp'd as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin, soon, peccavi cried,—
Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever;
When home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit with saints above to live forever.