and the Dargle, have been graphically portrayed by his pen.
He became pious, but humbly laid his attainments at the foot of the cross, and in November, 1817, he took an obscure country curacy in the North, where his indefatigable labors and affectionate heart won him the love of all his flock, especially the poor, but who could not appreciate his talents, nor "enter into the deep feelings of his soul."
Here he labored, and here he loved to labor; and would have died among the simple flock he loved for Christ's sake; but his friends removed him to the seaside at Cove. His sermons were but precepts of which he was a living example. His sickness and closing scene were replete with all that is lovely in the Christian character. To his relatives who stood round him, he said, "the peace of God overshadow them, dwell in them, and reign over them;" and to a relative who hung over him, he said, "Close this eye, the other is closed already—and now farewell."
Thus this poet and Christian died, and thus is he buried, in that lonely deserted place, among the dead of almost every clime, who have been huddled and housed here, apart from country and kindred, and where few but strangers' feet ever tread the way to their isolated resting-place.
There was something to me quite forbidding in the associations that hung around the grave of Charles Wolfe, in that deserted corner:—
