And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn
And evening, withered; and the eyes, and smiles,
And faces of all men and women, withered,
Withered to him; and all the universe,
Like something which had been, appeared, but now
Was dead and mouldering fast away. He tried
No more to hope; wished to forget his vow,
Wished to forget his harp; then ceased to wish.
That was his last; enjoyment now was done.
He had no hope; no wish, and scarce a fear
Of being sensible, and sensible
Of loss, he as some atom seemed, which God
Had made superfluously, and needed not
To build creation with; but back again
To nothing threw, and left it in the void,
With everlasting sense that once it was.
Oh! who can tell what days, what nights he spent,
Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless woe?
And who can tell how many, glorious once,
To others and themselves of promise full,
Conducted to this pass of human thought,
This wilderness of intellectual death,
Wasted and pined, and vanished from the earth,
Leaving no vestige of memorial there.
It was not so with him. When thus he lay,
Forlorn of heart; withered and desolate,
As leaf of Autumn, which the wolfish winds,
Selecting from its falling sisters, chase,
Far from its native grove, to lifeless wastes,
And leave it there alone, to be forgotten
Eternally, God passed in mercy by—
His praise be ever new!—and on him breathed,
And bade him live, and put into his hands
A holy harp, into his lips a song,
That rolled its numbers down the tide of Time,
Ambitious now but little to be praised,
Of men alone; ambitious most to be
Approved of God, the Judge of all; and have
His name recorded in the book of life.
The "Course of Time" was only beginning to attract attention at the time when its author's ear was about to be closed, alike to the voice of censure and praise. Almost immediately after his death, it became extensively read throughout the British empire, especially among the numerous and respectable classes of dissenters. It has, accordingly, passed through a considerable number of editions, and now appears likely to keep its place among the standard poems in our language. A portrait of the author was obtained by the reverend Dr John Brown, of Edinburgh, before his departure for London, and has been engraved. It conveys the impression of deep and grave intelligence, such as might have been expected from the author of the "Course of Time."[1]
PONT, Robert, a churchman, judge of the court of session, and political and scientific writer of some eminence, was born at Culross, cir. 1524—30,
- ↑ This article is copied, (by permission,) with a few slight additions, from the preface to "Tales of the Covenanters, by Robert Pollok, A. M." Edinburgh, W. Oliphant, 1833.
