William Knox (Scottish poet)

William Knox was born on 17 August 1789 in the small estate of Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, in the county of Roxburghshire, in southern Scotland.

From an early age William was considered to have powers of acute observation and steady attention, and a mind keen, active and susceptible of deep impressions.

At an early age William started writing songs and other poetical pieces, humorous and satirical, chiefly in the Scottish dialect.

[1] Despite having farmed for only five years, he earned the approbation of the intelligent agriculturists[2] in Dumfriesshire, who considered Knox as a man well fitted to excel as a farmer.

Both Sir Walter Scott and Professor John Wilson (Christopher North) of Edinburgh, had a high opinion of Knox as a man and as a poet with "fascinating conversational powers and general literary information".

The memory of William Knox was so powerful that once, when a bookseller mislaid the manuscript of The Harp of Zion, he is said to have sat down and in two or three days re-written the whole poem from his recollection (the only trouble it cost him being the manual labour).

You may probably have heard that the Bishop of Calcutta ... was engaged in forming a collection of hymns and sacred pieces, with the hope of having them introduced into our English churches.

… I cannot but wish that talents and feelings such as yours were employed in the ministry of the gospel, where you would find your happiness in the performance of your duty – you are young enough to think of this.”[7] William Knox suffered a stroke, and died three or four days later in Edinburgh on 12 November 1825.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?