Remains of the late Rev. Charles Wolfe ..

Front matter

LIBRARY

OF THE

Theological Seminary, PRINCETON, N. J.

Preface

Ir was long a matter of painful doubt to the Editor whether he should be justifiable in committing to the press the collection of Remains contained in these volumes ; convinced as he was that none of them were ever designed for that purpose by the Author himself, who, indeed, would have shrunk from the idea of publication. However, his hesitation has been overborne by the strong hope that they may prove generally instructive as well as interesting, and afford a peculiar gratification to a wide circle of friends,

It was at first intended to publish the Sermons only ; but, on a more mature consideration, it seemed advisable to give a short account of the Author, interspersed with his poems and other remains, particularly as many of them have been for a considerable time in private circulation amongst a few acquaintances, and would, most probably, have found their way to the press in some other shape. In fact, their publication appeared inevitable ; and it therefore seemed better that they should go forth to the public through the hands ofa friend, who was in possession of all the original manuscripts, and who had also the happiness of an uninterrupted intimacy and communication with the Author, from the time he entered college until his lamented death.

VIII. | PREFACE.

The state in whichthe papers were committed to him rendered it a task of greater labour to select, arrange, and transcribe them for the press, than can easily be imagined. This circumstance, and the late arrival of some promised communications, caused a greater delay in the publication than the writer could have anticipated.

The miscellaneous nature of the work may possibly render it more generally useful than one exclusively upon religious subjects. Many, who admire the raptures of the poet, may be induced to regard with reverence the instructions of the divine : they may feel a peculiar desire to mark what thoughtsa heart, animated by the Muse, can bring forth when hallowed by a loftier and purer inspir ation.

The Editor is painfully conscious how (perieee is the sketch which he has here given of the Author’s life and character ; and must throw himself upon the indulgence of the friends who are most deeply interested in the work, with an humble hope that they will make candid allowance for any error of judgment, or defect in execution, which they may observe in the performance of the pleasing but anxious task he has had to fulfil.

Contents

PERRO et ie oh a oh ei sso! we en 31 oss Sh ae ae 51 Fragments of a Speech delivered in the Chair, in the

po CONTENTS.

SERMONS.

Appendix

Observations on Religious Poetry. ...-. Ses taeece’ sea Jesus raising Lazarus... .- + see ees ee eee ee 281 On the Death of Abel (prize poem). ....-..... 282 Grecia capta ferum Victorem cepit...... ela ieiet G0

Principiis Obsta .. 0 ee ee ee cee eee eee ee 287 Ira furor brevis est eocecveuo4u4serev7een eo 0 82 e © 6 6 @ 288 Miscellaneous Thoughts ..-+eseeeccevees 288

THE REV. CHARLES WOLFE.

Iin attempting to sketch even a brief Memoir of a friend, whose existence had been for many years blended with our own, there are difficulties which may be more easily conceived than described.

It is hard to restrain the pen from the expression of feelings which to others would be tedious and uninteresting. It is hard also to speak fully and freely of the immediate subject of the narrative, without an apparent self-obtrusion. This, however, shall be carefully avoided in the present little work; the object of which is, simply, to collect the Remains, and record a few particulars of the life and character of one, little known to the world; but who, throughout the circle in which he moved, excited an interest which cannot easily be forgotten, and diffused blessings with which his name and his memory will long be held in grateful association.

Amidst the pensive recollections awakened by an attempt to record the life of a departed friend, there may be much to afford comfort and instruction to one’s self, which it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to convey to an uninterested reader. It can easily be conceived in general, with what a tender and prevailing influence the instructions received at former periods

Ieee REMAINS OF of life come home to the heart when they are associated with the recollection of the amiable qualities, the exalted principles, and the early death of a cherished friend, from whom they have been imbibed. ‘‘ Amidst the sadness of such a remembrance (says an eloquent writer,)* it will be a consolation that they are not entirely lost tous. Wise monitions, when they return on us with this melancholy charm, have more pathetic cogency than when they were first uttered by the voice of a living friend.” ‘It will be an interesting occupation to recount the advantages which we have received from beings who have left the world, and to reinforce our virtues from the dust of those who first taught them.” } |

Such have been the feelings of the writer, and such will probably be the feelings of other friends upon the recollections which this little memoir may awaken. But, upon these sentiments it is unnecessary, as 1t would perhaps be obtrusive, to dilate. I shali therefore pass on to the immediate subject of the memoir.

T'o those who have personally known him whose Remains are presented in this volume to the public, it may be satisfactory to learn some particulars of his life.

Charles Wolfe was the youngest son of Theobald Wolfe, Esq. Blackhall, county Kildare, His mother was the daughter of the Rev. Peter Lombard, He was born in Dublin, 14th December, in the year 1791. The family from which he was descended has not been undistinguished. Through the military achievements of the illustrious hero of Quebec, the name stands conspicuous upon the records of British renown. It has also been signalised at the Irish bar, especially in the person of the much-lamented Lord Kilwarden, one of the same family, who was elevated to the dignity of the judicial bench. At an early age the subject of this memoir lost his father ; not long after whose death, the family removed to England, where they resided for some vears. Charles was sent to a school in Bath in

* Foster’s Essays, p. 16.

THE REV. C. WOLFE. lo the year 1801; from which, in afew months, he was obliged to return home in consequence of the delicacy of his health, which interrupted his education for “twelve months. Upon his recovery, he was placed under the tuition of Dr. Evans, in Salisbury, from which he was removed in the year 1805; and soon after was sent as a boarder to Winchester school, of which Mr. Richards, sen. was then the able master. There he soon distinguished himself by his great proficiency in classical knowledge, and by his early powers of Latin and Greek versification, and displayed the dawnings of a genius which promised to set him amidst that bright constellation of British poets which adorns the litera- ‘ture of the present age. |

The many high testimonies to his amiable disposition and superior talents, which are supplied by the affectionate letters of his schoolmasters, shew that he was not overvalued by his own family, with every member of which he seems to have been the special favourite. I cannot better describe the manner in which his character as a boy was appreciated at school and at home, and how deservedly it was so prized, than in the follow- ‘ing simple language of a very near relative, to whom I am indebted for some of the particulars of his life already mentioned. ‘ The letters I enclose you bear ' testimony to the amiable character of my dear, dear Charles, such as I ever remember it. Those from Mr. Richards I can better estimate than any one else, from knowing that he was not easily pleased in a pupil, or apt to flatter. He was greatly attracted by superior talents; but you will see that he speaks of qualities of more value. He never received even a slight punishment or reprimand at any school to which he ever went; and in nearly twelve years that he was under my mother’s care, I cannot recollect that he ever acted contrary to her wishes, or caused her a moment’s pain, except parting with her when he went to school. I do not know whether he ever told you that he had, when a boy, a wish to enter the army, which was acquired by

16 REMAINS OF being in the way of military scenes; but, when he found that it would give his mother pain, he totally gave up the idea, which I am sure, all his life, he thanked God that he had done. In 1808 he left Winchester (where he had been three years), owing to our coming to Ireland, as my mother could not think of leaving him behind. His company was her first earthly comfort, and she could not relinquish it; indeed, we used to count the hours when the time drew near that he was expected. We were often told that we would spoil him, but you know whether it was so. When we arrived in Ireland, it was intended that he should go to some other school; but he did not go to any, nor had he any one to read with him, so that he entered college with much less previous instruction than most others. I believe you knew him soon after; and I need not tell you of him since, or what he has been even if I could. Ihave never heard of a schoolfellow or a college acquaintance who did not respect or love him ; but { will net say more to you.”

The pleasing testimony to his character and abili-

ties contained in this extract is indeed fully borne out by the accounts which some of his schoolfellows have given of him to the writer. They spoke of him with the strongest affection, and represented him as the pride of Winchester school. Some of the poems and Latin verses by which he distinguished himself there, shall appear at the close of this volume.

In the year 1809, he entered the University of Dublin, under the tuition of the late Rev. Dr. Davenport, who immediately conceived the highest interest for him, and continued to shew it by special proofs of his favour. In a few months after his entrance, the writer had the happiness of becoming acquainted with him. This casual acquaintance soon became a cordial intimacy, which quickly ripened into a friendship that — continued not only uninterrupted, but was cemented more and more by constant intercourse, and by community of pursuits: it was, above all, improved and sweetened by an unreserved interchange of thoughts on those subjects which affect our eternal interests, and open to us the prospects of friendships which death can only suspend, but not destroy.

Our author immediately distinguished himself by his high classical attainments, for which he was early rewarded by many academical honours. The first English poem which attracted general notice was written very early in his college course, upon a subject proposed by the heads of the university. It evinces a boldnes of thought, a vigour of expression, and somewhat of a dramatic spirit, which seems to entitle it to a place in this litttle collection ; and it shall therefore be presented first in order tothe reader. The prison-scene of Jugurtha (which is the subject of the poem) gave the -author full scope for a masterly exhibition of the darkest and deadliest passions of human nature in fierce conflict. Disappointed ambition, revenge, despair, remorse, were to be represented as raging by turns in the captive’s mind, or dashing, as it were, against each other, and struggling for utterance. The subject was proposed in the following form.—

Well—is the rack prepared—the pincers heated? Where is the scourge ? How—not employ’d in Rome ?.- We have them in Numidia. Not in Rome?

I’m sorry for it; I could enjoy it now ;

I might have felt them yesterday; but now,— Now I have seen my funeral procession ;

The chariot-wheels of Marius have roll’d o’er me: His horses’ hoofs have trampled me in triumph ;

‘T have attain’d that terrible consummation

My soul could stand aloof, and frem on high

Look down upon the ruins of my body,

Smiling in apathy ; I feel no longer ;

I challenge Rome to give another pang. —

Gods! how he smiled, when he beheld me pause

Qe

Before his car, and scowl upon the mob ;

The curse of Rome was burning on my lips,

And I had gnaw’d my chain, and hu:l’d it at them, But that I knew he would have smiled again.—

A king! and led before the gaudy Marius,

Before those shouting masters of the world,

As if [had been conquer’d: while each street, Each peopled wall, and each insulting window, Peal’d forth their brawling triumphs o’er my head. Oh! fer a lion from thy woods, Numidia !—

Or had I, in that moment of disgrace,

Enjoy’d the freedom but of yonder slave,

I would have made my monument in Rome.

Yet am I not that fool, that Roman fool,

To think disgrace entombs the hero’s soul,— For ever damps his fires, and dims his glories ; That no bright laurel can adorn the brow

That once has bow’d ; no victory’s trumpet-sound Can drown in joy the rattling of his chains:

No ;—could one glimpse of victory and vengeance Dart preciously across me, I could kiss

Thy footstep’s dust again; then allin flame, | With Massinissa’s energies unquench’d, ‘

Start from beneath thy chariot-wheels, and grasp The gory laurel reeking in my view,

And force a passage through disgrace to glory— Victory! Vengeance! Glory !—Oh these chains ! My soul’s in fetters, too; for, from this moment, Through all eternity I see but—death ;

To me there’s nothing future now, but death:

- Then come and let me gloom upon the past.—

So then—Numidia’s lost ; those daring projects— (Projects that ne’er were breathed to mortal man, That would have startled Marius on his car,) O’erthrown, defeated! What avails it now,

That my proud views despised the narrow limits, Which minds that span and measure out ambition Had fix’d to mine; and, while [ seem’d intent

On savage subjects and Numidian forests,

My soul had pass’d the bounds of Africa !—

Defeated, overthrown! yet tothe last

Ambition taught me hope, and still my mind,

Through danger, flight, and carnage, grasp’d dominion ;

And had not Bocchus—curses, curses on him !—

What Rome has done, she did it for ambition ;

What Rome has done, I might—I would have done ;

What thou hast done, thou wretch !—Oh had she eae

Nobly deceitful; had she seized the traitor,

And join’d him with the fate of the betray’d,

Thad forgiven her all; for he had been

The consolation of my prison hours ;

I could forget my woes in stinging him ;

And if, before this day, his little soul

Had not in bondage wept itself away,

Rome and Jugurtha should have triuraph’d o’er him.

Look here, thou caitiff, if thou canst, and see

The fragments of Jugurtha; view him wrapt

In the last shred he borrow’d from Numidia ;

*Tis cover’d with the dust of Rome; behold

His rooted gaze upon the chains he wears,

And on the channels they have wrought upon him ;

Then look around upon his dungeon walls,

And view yon scanty mat, on which his frame

He flings, and rushes from his thoughts to sleep. Sleep!

Pll sleep no more, until I sleep for ever:

When I slept last, I heard Adherbal scream.

Pll sleep no more! Pil think untill die:

My eyes shall pore upon my miseries,

Until my miseries shall be no more.—

Yet wherefore did he scream? Why, I have heard

His living scream,—it was not half so frightful.

Whence comes the difference ? When the man was living,

Why, I did gaze upon his couch of torments With placid vengeance, and each anguish’d cry Gave me stern satisfaction ; now he’s dead, And his lips move not ;—yet his voice’s image Flash’d such a dreadful darkness o’er my soul, a) REMAINS OF

I would not mount Numidia’s throne again,

Did ev’ry night bring such a scream as that.

Oh yes, ’twas I that caused that Kving one,

And therefore did its echo seem so frightful :—

If twere to do again, I would not kill thee;

Wilt thou not be contented ?—But thou say’st,

‘* My father was to thee a father also ;

He watch’d thy infant years, he gave thee all

That youth could ask, and scarcely manhood came,

Than came a kingdom also; yet didst thou” ——

OhI am faint !—they have not brought me food—

How did I not perceive it until now?

Hold,—my Numidian cruise is still about me—

No drop within—Oh faithful friend, companiox _Of many a weary march and thirsty day,

Tis the first time that thou hast fail’d my lips.—

Gods! I’m in tears !—I did not think of weeping.

Oh Marius, wilt thou ever feel like this?

Ha !—I behold the ruins of a city;

And on a craggy fragment sits a form

That seems in ruins also; how unmoved,

How stern he looks! Amazement! it is Marius!

Ha! Marius, think’st thou now upon Jugurtha ?

He turns! he’s caught my eye! I see no more!

The above poem was written in the first year of his college course, at which early period he had gained the highest distinction amongst his contemporaries for his classical attainments. Towards the close of the same year, he had to sustain a severe domestic affliction, in ‘the death of his mother,—an event which wrought upon his affectionate heart an impression of the deepest regret.

As soon as he was enabled to resume his studies, he entered upon them with diligence. He did net, at first, apply, with much interest or assiduity, to the course of science prescribed in our university; and it appears that the circumstance which first led him to bestow upon it the attention proportioned to its importance, was a desire to assist some less gifted acquaintance in that branch of his academic pursuits. This was indeed truly characteristic of his natural disposition, which ever led him to apply himself with greater zeal in promoting the advantage or interest of others than his own. It had, however, a favourable effect upon his own studies, as it drew out his talents for scientific acquirements, and gave such an impulse to his progress, that he soon after won the prize from the most distinguished competitors, at an examination in which the severer sciences formed the leading subjects. When his circumstances, some time afterwards, rendered it expedient for him to undertake the duties of a college tutor, he discharged the task with such singular devotedness and disinterested anxiety, as materially to entrench upon his own particular studies. He was indeed so prodigal of his labour and of his time to each pupil, that he reserved little leisure for his own pursuits or relaxations. !

At the usual period, he obtained a scolarship, with the highest honour, upon which he immediately became a resident in college. A new theatre of literary honour was opened to him, at the commencement of the same year, where his genius for composition in prose and verse, and his natural powers of oratorical excellence, had more ample sphere for exercise and cultivation. In the Historical Society, of which he was now admitted a member, they were encouraged and expanded by the stimulus of generous competition, and by constant mental collision with the most accomplished and enlightened of his fellow-students. He soon obtained medals for oratory, and for compositions in prose and verse ; and was early appointed to the honourable office of opening the sessions, after the summer recess, by a speech from the chair. This was the grand post of distinction to which the most successful speakers in the society continually aspired. The main object of the address, was to unfold the advantages resulting from the Institution, and to expatiate at large upon its’ three leading departments,—History, Poetry, and Oratory. Cur author, though he had not fully completed his speech, was received with the highest applause, and the gold medal was adjudged to him by unanimous acclamation. This speech seems never to have been written out fairly ; but some fragments of it have been preserved, which, with a few other of his early productions, shall be presented to the reader in the course of this volume. -

Most of his poems were written within a very short period, during his abode in college; but the order in which they were composed cannot be exactly ascertained. It is not the editor’s object to enter into any minute critique upon the several fugitive little pieces which are here collected together. They shall be accompanied principally with such brief notices as may appear necessary to throw light upon the occasions which gave rise to them, and the circumstances under which they were written.

The next specimen of his poetical talents, which it may not be uninteresting to insert here, seems to have been but little valued by himself, as he never took the trouble of transcribing more than a few lines from the first rude sketch. His native modesty, and the fastidious judgment which he exercised over all his own compositions, led him often to undervalue what even his most judicious friends approved and admired.

The subject of the present poem is one of great historical interest. It chiefly refers to the battle of Busaco, - which first inspired the allied armies with mutual confidence, and led the way to those successful struggles which terminated in the complete deliverance of Portugal from the usurpation and tyranny of France. A_ brief account of this engagement, extracted from the Edinburgh Annual Register (vol. ii. p. 462,) may form an appropriate introduction to the poem.

_** Busaco, which was now to become famous in British history, had long been a venerable name in-Portuad gal. It is the only place in that kingdom where the barefooted Carmelites possessed what, in their language, is called a desart, an establishment where those brethren whose devotion flies to the highest pitch, may at once enjoy the advantage of the eremite, with the security of the cenobite life; one of those places where inan has converted an earthly paradise into a purgatory for himself, but where superstition almost seems sanctified by every thing around it. The solitude and silence of Busaco were now to be broken by events, in which its hermits, dead as they were to the world, might be permitted to feel all the agitation of worldly hope and fear. The British and Portuguse army was posted along the ridge, extending nearly eight miles, and forming the segment of a circle, whose extreme points embraced every part of the enemy’s position, and from whence every movement of the enemy below could be immediately observed. On the 26th Sept. 1810, the light troops on both sides were engaged throughout the line ; at six on the following morning, the French made two desperate attacks upon Lord Wellinton’s position; one on the right, the other on the left of the highest point of the sierra: this spot is remarkable as commanding one of the most extensive views in Portugal; and on the very summit stands a cross, planted upon a basis of masonry of such magnitude, that it is said that three thousand carts of stone were used in the work. One division of French infantry gained the top of the ridge, and was driven back ° with the bayonet; another division, farther on the right, was repulsed before it could reach the top. On the left they made their attack with three divisions, only one of which made any progress towards the summit, and this was charged with the bayonet, and driven down with immense loss. Some of the Portuguese charging a superior force, got so wedged in among them, that they had not room to use their bayonets ; they turned up the but-ends of their muskets, and plied them with such vigour, as completely to clear the way.”’

BATTLE OF BUSACO; DELIVERANCE OF PORTUGAL.

The breeze sigh’d sadly o’er the midnight flood ; On Lisbon’s tow’rs Don Henry’s spirit stood :

He wore not helm, he wore not casque; his hair Streamed like a funeral banner in the air:

In mournful attitude, with aspect drear,

He held revers’d his country’s guardian spear ; Dark was his eye, and gloomy was his brow,

He gaz’d with sternness on the wave below ; Then thrice aloft the deathful spear he shook, While sorrow’s torrent from his bosom broke :— Fiends! may the angel of destruction shed

‘This blood-red cup of horrors on your head ! Throughout your camp may hell-born demons play, Grin ruin to your host, and how! dismay !

Was it for this, dear, desolated shore !

I taught proud Commerce here her gifts to pour, Aliur’d from fairer Italy the maid,

And here the gound-works of the empire laid?

Is there a bolt to mortal guidance giv’n ?— Where are the thund’ring delegates of Heay’n— Through Europe’s plains the tyrant’s voice is heard, And blood-red anarchy her flag has rear’d,

Roll’d round her gorgon-eyes from native France, And petrified the nations with a glance ; Affrighted Italy her blasted vines

Has dropp’d, and Spain let fall her orange lines, And tough Teutonic forests, though they broke Awhile her force, yet yielded to the stroke. Where shall I turn, where find the free, the brave, A heart to pity, and an arm to save ?

To Britain, glorious Britain, will f call,

Her bulwark, valour,—and the sea, her wall. Around her crest, Gaul’s jav’lins idly play,

And glance with baffled impotence away ;

Her hands the redd’ning bolts of vengeance bear, Fate’s on her helm, and death upon her spear ;

THE REY. C. WOLFE.

She scorns at Victory’s shrine her vows to pay,

She grasps the laurel, she commands the day. England, what ! ho !—as thus the spectre spoke, All Lisbon’s turrets to their bases shook :— England, what ! ho!—again the spectre cried, And trembling Tagus heaved with all his tide, England, to arms !—at this dread call advance ! Assist, defend, protect !—now tremble, France !— He spoke,—then plunged into the river’s breast, And Tagus wrapt him in his billowy vest.

O’er seas, o’er shores the solemn summons pass’d, It rode upon the pinions of the blast :

The midnight shades are gone, the glooms are fled, See! the dawn broke as Britain rear’d her head! With Albion’s spear upon her shield she smote; Through every island rung the inspiring note. Roused at the sound, the English lion rose,

And burnt to meet hereditary foes ;

From Highland rocks came ev’ry Scottish clan ; Forward rush’d Erin’s sons, and led the van :

The Usurper shook,—then sent each chief of name, Partners of victory, sharers of his fame,

Who bore Gaul’s standard through the hostile throng, While Lodi trembled as they rush’d along ;

Who traversed Egypt’s plains and Syria’s waste, And left ared memorial where they pass’d ;

Who bathed, midst French and Austrian heaps of slain, Their gory footsteps on Marengo’s plain :

And those who laid the Prussian glories low,

Yet felt a Brunswick’s last expiring blow;

Who on Vimeria’s heights were taught to feel

The vengeful fury of a freeman’s steel ;

Who hung on British Moore in his retreat,

And purchas’d dear experience by defeat.

Such were the chiefs that Gaul’s batallia led ;—

Yet England came, they met her, and they fled.

At dark Busaco’s foot stood’ France’s might,

The hopes of Britain occupied the height.

rie) oy I

Gaul’s mantling terrors to the summit tend,—

Hold, Britain, charge not,—the attack suspend ;— Hush’d be the British whirlwind,—not a breath

Be heard within thy host,—be still as death !— With gathering gloom comes France’s dark array,— Rest, Britain on thy arms,—thy march delay—

See! France has gain’d the summit of the hill!

See! she advances! Soldier yet be still—

She’s at our bayonets,—touches every gun,—

Now speed thee, England! and the work is done.— Now where is France ?—Yon mountain heap of dead, Yon scatter’d band will tell you how they sped; The dying groan, the penetrating yell,

May tell how quick she sunk, how soon she fell: Her sons are gone, her choicest blood is spilt,

Her brightest spear is shiver’d to the hilt.

Nor ceased they here; but from the mountain height, Tempestuous Britain rolls to meet the fight,

Pours the full tide of battle o’er the plain,

And whelms beneath the waves its adverse train: The vanquish’d squadrons dread an added loss ; They skulk behind the rampart and the fosse;— Why lingers Wellesley? Does he fear their force ? Dreads he their foot, or trembles at their horse ? Alas! by hands unseen, he deals the blow,

By hands unseen, he prostrates ev’ry foe.

One night—(and France still shudders at that night, Pregnant with death, with horror, and affright ;) One night--on plans of victory intent,

A spy into the hostile camp he sent ;

It was a wretch, decrepit, shrivel’d, wild,—

A haggard visage that had never smiled ;

The miscreant’s jaws were never seen to close,

The miscreant’s eyes had never known repose ;-— Swift to the Gallic camp she sped her way,

And Britain’s soldiers, e’er the dawn of day,

Heard through the hostile tents her footstep’s tread :— For Famine—raging Famine claim’d her dead ;