JOHN WILSON was born at Paisley, in 1789. After going through a preparatory course of study at the University of Glasgow, he was entered a fellow-commoner at Magdalen College, Oxford, and very soon obtained some portion of that fame of which he was destined to participate so largely. Much of his paternal property was lost by the failure of a mercantile concern in which it had been embarked; but enough remained to purchase the elegancies of life: he bought the beautiful estate of Elleray, on the lake of Winandermere-a fit dwelling for a Poet-and continues to inhabit it, when his professional duties permit his absence from Edinburgh. In 1812, he published the Isle of Palms; and the City of the Plague, in 1816. In 1820 he became, under circumstances highly honourable to him, a successful candidate for the Chair of Moral Philosophy, in the University of the Scottish metropolis. He has since published but little poetry: his prose tales-"The Trials of Margaret Lindsay," "The Foresters," and "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life,"-have, however, amply compensated the world for his desertion of the Muses; and his contributions to "Blackwood's Magazine," which are too strongly marked to leave any doubt of their authorship, have established for him a high and enduring reputation. The conduct of this periodical is so universally understood to be in the hands of the Professor, that we may consider ourselves justified in describing him as its Editor. He has long upheld its supremacy: the best supported Magazines of England have failed in competing with it; because there is no living writer whose talents are so versatile, and consequently so fitted to deal with the varied topics upon which his judgment or his fancy must be employed. His learning is both profound and excursive; his criticism searching and sound; his descriptions of scenery exquisitely true; his paintings of human character and passion admirable; his wit and humour delightful, when it does not degenerate into "fun;" and no writer of modern times has written so many deliciously eloquent passages, which produce, if we may so express ourselves, gushes of admiration. The mind of Wilson is a remarkable blending of the kindly and the bitter:-his praise is always full and hearty; his censure almost unendurable: he appears to have no control over his likings or dislikings;-at times, pursues with almost superhuman wrath, and then, again, becomes so generous and eloquent, that he absolutely makes an author's character, and establishes his position by a few sentences of approval. From all his criticisms there may be gathered some evidence of a sound heart; of a nature like the Highland breezes-keen, but healthy; often most invigorating when most severe-but which may be safely encountered only by those whose stamina is unquestionable. The personal appearance of Prof-ssor Wilson is very remarkable: his frame is, like his mind, powerful and robust. His complexion is florid, and his features are finely marked; the mouth is exquisitely chiselled, the expression of his countenance is gentle to a degree; but there is a lurking devil" in his keen grey eye, that gives a very intelligible hint to the observer. His forehead is broad and high. To us, among all the great men we have ever beheld-and they have not been few-there is not one who so thoroughly extorts a mingled sensation of love and fear.

The poetry of Professor Wilson has not attained the popularity to which it is entitled; probably because, when he first published, he had to compete with a formidable rival in his own illustrious countryman, and the fame which, in England, nearly at the same period, was about to absorb that of all other Bards. His poems are, however, full of beauty; they have all the freshness of the heather,-a true relish for nature breaks out in them all: there is no puerile or sickly sentimentalism;-they are the earnest breathings of a happy and buoyant spirit; a giving out, as it were, of the breath that has been inhaled among the mountains. They manifest, moreover, the finest sympathies with humanity; nothing harsh or repining seems to have entered the Poet's thoughts: they may be read as compositions of the highest merit,-as bearing the severest test of critical asperity; but also as graceful and beautiful transcripts of Nature, when her grace and beauty is felt and appreciated by all. There is no evidence of "fine phrenzy" in his glances "from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;" but there is ample proof of the depth of his worship, and the fulness of his affection for all the objects which "Nature's God" has made graceful and fruitful. It is worthy of comment, that, as far as we know, Wilson has never penned a line of satire, in poetry, seeming as if his thoughts could take in nothing but what was good, and holy, and tranquillizing, when his associates were the Muses.

"Tis a lonely glen! but the happy child

Hath friends whom she meets in the morning wild!

As on she trips, her native stream,

Like her hath awoke from a joyful dream;

And glides away by her twinkling feet

With a face as bright, and a voice as sweet.

In the osier bank the ouzel sitting,

Hath heard her steps, and away is flitting
From stone to stone, as she glides along,

Then sinks in the stream with a broken song.

The lapwing, fearless of his nest,

Stands looking round with his delicate crest;
Or a lovelike joy is in his cry,

As he wheels, and darts, and glances by.

Is the heron asleep on the silvery sand
Of his little lake? Lo! his wings expand
As a dreamy thought, and withouten dread,
Cloud-like he floats o'er the maiden's head.
She looks to the birch-wood glade, and lo!
There is browsing there the mountain-roe,
Who lifts up her gentle eyes-nor moves
As on glides the form whom all nature loves.
Having spent in heaven an hour of mirth,
The lark drops down to the dewy earth;
And in silence smooths his yearning breast
In the gentle fold of his lowly nest:
The linnet takes up the hymn, unseen
In the yellow broom or the bracken green.
And now, as the morning hours are glowing,
From the hill-side cots the cocks are crowing;
And the shepherd's dog is barking shrill
From the mist fast rising from the hill;
And the shepherd's self, with locks of grey,
Hath bless'd the maiden on her way!
And now she sees her own dear flock
On a verdant mound beneath the rock-
All close together in beauty and love,
Like the small fair clouds in heaven above;
And her innocent soul at the peaceful sight
Is swimming o'er with a still delight.

LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN.

To whom belongs this valley fair,
That sleeps beneath the filmy air,
Even like a living thing?
Silent-as infant at the breast-
Save a still sound that speaks of rest,
That streamlet's murmuring!

The heavens appear to love this vale; Here clouds with scarce-seen motion sail, Or, mid the silence lie!

By that blue arch, this beauteous earth 'Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth, Seems bound unto the sky.

O! that this lovely vale were mine,
Then, from glad youth to calm decline,
My years would gently glide;
Hope would rejoice in endless dreams,
And memory's oft-returning gleams
By peace be sanctified.

There would unto my soul be given,
From presence of that gracious heaven,
A piety sublime!

And thoughts would come of mystic mood,
To make in this deep solitude

Eternity of Time!

And did I ask to whom belong'd
This vale? I feel that I have wrong'd
Nature's most gracious soul!
She spreads her glories o'er the earth,
And all her children, from their birth,
Are joint-heirs of the whole!

Yea, long as Nature's humblest child
Hath kept her temple undefiled
By sinful sacrifice;

Earth's fairest scenes are all his own,
He is a monarch, and his throne
Is built amid the skies!

A CHURCH-YARD DREAM.

METHOUGHT that in a burial ground

One still, sad vernal day,

Upon a little daisied mound

I in a slumber lay;

While faintly through my dream I heard

The hymning of that holy bird,

Who with more gushing rapture sings

The higher up in heaven float his unwearied wings!

In that my mournful reverie,

Such song of heavenly birth,

The voice seem'd of a soul set free

From this imprisoning earth;

Higher and higher still it soared,
A holy anthem that adored,-
Till vanish'd song and singer blest
In the blue depths of everlasting rest.

Just then a child in sportive glee
Came gliding o'er the graves,
Like a lone bird that on the sea

Floats dallying with the waves;
Upon the vernal flowers awhile
She pour'd the beauty of her smile,-
Then laid her bright cheek on the sod,

And, overpowered with joy, slept in the eye of God.

The flowers that shine all round her head
May well be breathing sweet;

For flowers are they that spring hath shed,
To deck her winding sheet;

And well the tenderest gleams may fall

Of sunshine, on that hillock small

On which she sleeps,-for they have smiled

O'er the predestined grave of that unconscious child.

In bridal garments, white as snow,

A solitary maid

Doth meekly bring a sunny glow

Into that solemn shade:

A church-yard seems a joyful place
In the visit of so sweet a face;

A soul is in that deep blue eye

Too good to live on earth,-too beautiful to die.

But Death behind a marble tomb

Looks out upon his prey;

And smiles to know that heavenly bloom

Is yet of earthly clay.

Far off I hear a wailing wide,

And, while I gaze upon that bride,

A silent wraith before me stands,

And points unto a grave with cold, pale, clasped hands.

A matron, beautiful and bright,

As is the silver moon,

Whose lustre tames the sparkling light

Of the starry eyes of June,