al roof. In 1820, the
family, who had fallen into straitened circumstances, proceeded to
Edinburgh, where they opened a lodging-house. William now devoted his
attention to literature, contributing extensively to the public
journals. From his youth he had composed verses. In 1818, he published
"The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems," 12mo; in 1824, "The Songs of
Israel," 12mo; and in April 1825, a third duodecimo volume of lyrics,
entitled "The Harp of Zion." His poetical merits attracted the notice of
Sir Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly countenance and occasional
pecuniary assistance. He likewise enjoyed the friendly encouragement of
Professor Wilson, and other men of letters.

Of amiable and benevolent dispositions, Knox fell a victim to the undue
gratification of his social propensities; he was seized with paralysis,
and died at Edinburgh on the 12th of November 1825, at the early age of
thirty-six. His poetry, always smooth and harmonious, is largely
pervaded with pathetic and religious sentiment. Some of his Scriptural
paraphrases are exquisite specimens of sacred verse. A new edition of
his poetical works was published at London, in 1847. Besides his
poetical works, he published "A Visit to Dublin," and a Christmas tale
entitled "Marianne, or the Widower's Daughter." He left several
compositions in prose and verse, but these have not been published by
his executors.

Knox was short in stature, but handsomely formed; his complexion was
fair, and his hair of a light colour. Subject to a variation of spirits
in private, he was generally cheerful in society. He sang or repeated
his own songs with much enthusiasm, and was keenly alive to his literary
reputation. Possessing a fund of humour, he excelled in relating curious
anecdotes.

THE DEAR LAND OF CAKES.

O brave Caledonians! my brothers, my friends,
Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds;
Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west,
And courage is lull'd in the warrior's breast.
Here social pleasure enlivens each heart,
And friendship is ready its warmth to impart;
The goblet is fill'd, and each worn one partakes,
To drink plenty and peace to the dear land of cakes.

Though the Bourbon may boast of his vine-cover'd hills,
Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills;
Though the Indian may sit in his green orange bowers,
There slavery's wail counts the wearisome hours.
Though our