In the same poem, Churchill thus alludes to himself: By prattling streams, o'er flower-impurpled meads; For apt alliteration's artful aid; Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill, Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place The characters of Garrick, &c., in the Rosciad, have now ceased to interest; but some of these rough pen-and-ink sketches of Churchill are happily executed. Smollett, who, he believed, had attacked him in the Critical Review, he alludes to with mingled approbation and ridicule: Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen, Of Hogarth: In walks of humour, in that cast of style, Are aptly joined; where parts on parts depend, In Night, Churchill thus gaily addressed friend Lloyd on the proverbial poverty of poets: What is 't to us, if taxes rise or fall? his No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains To tax our labours and excise our brains. Burdens like these, vile earthly buildings bear; No tribute's laid on castles in the air! The reputation of Churchill was also an aërial structure. No English poet,' says Southey, 'had ever enjoyed so excessive and so short-lived a popularity; and indeed no one seems more thoroughly to have understood his own powers; there is no indication in any of his pieces that he could have done anything better than the thing he did. To Wilkes he said that nothing came out till he began to be pleased with it himself; but, to the public, he boasted of the haste and carelessness with which his verses were poured forth. Had I the power, I could not have the time, A plan, to methodise each thought, each line, Highly to finish, and make every grace In itself charming, take new charms from place. Nothing of books, and little known of men, When the mad fit comes on, I seize the pen; Rough as they run, the rapid thoughts set down, Rough as they run, discharge them on the town. Popularity which is easily gained, is lost as easily; such reputations resembling the lives of insects, whose shortness of existence is compensated by its proportion of enjoyment. He perhaps imagined that his genius would preserve his subjects, as spices preserve a mummy, and that the individuals whom he had eulogised or stigmatised would go down to posterity in his verse, as an old admiral comes home from the West Indies in a puncheon of rum: he did not consider that the rum is rendered loathsome, and that the spices with which the Pharaohs and Potiphars were embalmed, wasted their sweetness in the catacombs. But, in this part of his conduct, there was no want of worldly prudence: he was enriching himself by hasty writings, for which the immediate sale was in proportion to the bitterness and personality of the satire.' MICHAEL BRUCE. MICHAEL BRUCE was born at Kinnesswood, parish of Portmoak, county of Kinross, on the 27th of March 1746. His father was a humble tradesman, a weaver, who was burdened with a family of eight children, of whom the poet was the fifth. The dreariest poverty and obscurity hung over the poet's infancy, but the elder Bruce was a good and pious man, and trained all his children to a knowledge of their letters, and a deep sense of religious duty. In the summer months, Michael was put out to herd cattle. His education was retarded by this employment; but his training as a poet was benefited by solitary communion with nature, amidst scenery that overlooked Lochleven and its fine old ruined castle. When he had arrived at his fifteenth year, the poet was judged fit for college, and at this time a relation of his father died, leaving him a legacy of 200 merks Scots, or £11, 2s. 2d. sterling. This sum the old man piously devoted to the education of his favourite son, who proceeded with it to Edinburgh, and was enrolled a student of the university. Michael was soon distinguished for his proficiency, and for his taste for poetry. Having been three sessions at college, supported by his parents and some kind friends and neighbours, Bruce engaged to teach a school at Gairney Bridge, where he received for his labours about £11 per annum! He afterwards removed to Forest Hill, near Alloa, where he taught for some time with no better success. His schoolroom was low-roofed and damp, and the poor youth, confined for five or six hours a day in this unwholesome atmosphere, depressed by poverty and disappointment, soon lost health and spirits. He wrote his poem of Lochleven at Forest Hill, but was at length forced to return to his father's cottage, which he never again left. A pulmonary complaint had settled on him, and he was in the last stage of consumption. With death full in his view, he wrote his Elegy, the finest of all his productions. He was pious and cheerful to the last, and died on the 5th of July 1767, aged twenty-one years and three months. His Bible was found upon his pillow, marked down at Jer. xxii. 10: Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him.' So blameless a life could not indeed be contemplated without pleasure, but its premature termination must have been a heavy blow to his aged parents, who had struggled in their poverty to nurture his youthful genius. The poems of Bruce were first given to the world by his college-friend John Logan, in 1770, who warmly eulogised the character and talents of his brother-poet. They were reprinted in 1784, and afterwards included in Anderson's edition of the poets. The late venerable and benevolent Principal Baird, in 1807, published an edition by subscription for the benefit of Bruce's mother, then a widow. In 1837, a complete edition of the poems was brought out, with a life of the author from original sources, by the Rev. William Mackelvie, Balgedie, Kinrossshire. In this full and interesting memoir, ample reparation is made to the injured shade of Michael Bruce for any neglect or injustice done to his poetical fame by his early friend Logan. Had Bruce lived, it is probable he would have taken a higher place among our national poets. The pieces he has left have all the marks of youth; a style only half formed and immature, and resemblances to other poets, so close and frequent, that the reader is constantly stumbling on some familiar image or expression. In Lochleven, a descriptive poem in blank verse, he has taken Thomson as his model. The opening is a paraphrase of the commencement of Thomson's Spring, and epithets taken from the Seasons occur throughout the whole poem, with traces of Milton, Ossian, &c. The following passage is the most original and pleasing in the poem: [A Rural Picture.] Behold the village rise, In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees! And backward, through the gloom of ages past, The Last Day is another poem by Bruce in blank In poetical verse, but is inferior to Lochleven. beauty and energy, as in biographical interest, his latest effort, the Elegy. must ever rank the first in his productions. With many weak lines and borrowed ideas, this poem impresses the reader, and leaves him to wonder at the fortitude of the youth, who, in strains of such sensibility and genius, could describe the cheerful appearances of nature, and the certainty of his own speedy dissolution. Elegy-Written in Spring. 'Tis past the iron North has spent his rage; Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day; The stormy howlings of the winds assuage, And warm o'er ether western breezes play. Of genial heat and cheerful light the source, From southern climes, beneath another sky, The sun, returning, wheels his golden course: Before his beams all noxious vapours fly. Far to the north grim Winter draws his train, roar. Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant ground Behold! the trees new deck their withered boughs; The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun ; The birds on ground, or on the branches green, Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings; And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers; Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she On the green furze, clothed o'er with golden blooms While the sun journeys down the western sky, Now is the time for those who wisdom love, Who love to walk in Virtue's flowery road, Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws; Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; The winged moments, whose unstaying speed Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate; I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe; Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! Where melancholy with still silence reigns, And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. There let me wander at the shut of eve, When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes: The world and all its busy follies leave, And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies. There let me sleep, forgotten in the clay, Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise. JOHN LOGAN. He Mr D'Israeli, in his Calamities of Authors, has included the name of JOHN LOGAN as one of those unfortunate men of genius whose life has been marked by disappointment and misfortune. had undoubtedly formed to himself a high standard of literary excellence and ambition, to which he never attained; but there is no evidence to warrant the assertion that Logan died of a broken heart. From one source of depression and misery, he was happily exempt: though he died at the early age of forty, he left behind him a sum of Thus heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty cause, £600. Logan was born at Soutra, in the parish of And left the wondering multitude behind. Thus Ashley gathered academic bays; Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll, Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise, And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. Thus have I walked along the dewy lawn; My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn; Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn, And gathered health from all the gales of morn. And, even when winter chilled the aged year, Then, sleep my nights, and quiet blessed my days; Now, Spring returns: but not to me returns The vernal joy my better years have known; Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, And all the joys of life with health are flown. Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind, And count the silent moments as they pass: Fala, Mid-Lothian, in 1748. His father, a small farmer, educated him for the church, and, after he had obtained a licence to preach, he distinguished himself so much by his pulpit eloquence, that he was appointed one of the ministers of South Leith. He afterwards read a course of lectures on the Philosophy of History in Edinburgh, the substance of which he published in 1781; and next year he gave to the public one of his lectures entire on the Government of Asia. The same year he published his poems, which were well received; and in 1783 he produced a tragedy called Runnimede, founded on the signing of Magna Charta. His parishioners were opposed to such an exercise of his talents, and unfortunately Logan had lapsed into irregular and dissipated habits. The consequence was, that he resigned his charge on receiving a small annuity, and proceeded to London, where he resided till his death in December 1788. During his residence in London, Logan was a contributor to the English Review, and wrote a pamphlet on the Charges Against Warren Hastings, which attracted some notice. Among his manuscripts were found several unfinished tragedies, thirty lectures on Roman history, portions of a periodical work, and a collection of sermons, from which two volumes were selected and published by his executors. The sermons are warm and passionate, full of piety and fervour, and must have been highly impressive when delivered. 33 One act in the literary life of Logan we have already adverted to his publication of the poems of Michael Bruce. His conduct as an editor cannot be justified. He left out several pieces by Bruce, and, as he states in his preface, 'to make up a miscellany,' poems by different authors were inserted. The best of these he claimed, and published afterwards as his own. The friends of Bruce, indignant at his conduct, have since endeavoured to snatch this laurel from his brows, and considerable uncertainty hangs over the question. With respect to the most valuable piece in the collection, the ode To the Cuckoo-'magical stanzas,' says D'Israeli, and all will echo the praise, 'of picture, melody, and sentiment,' and which Burke admired so much, that on visiting Edinburgh, he sought out Logan to compliment him--with respect to this beautiful effusion of fancy and feeling, the evidence seems to be as follows: In favour of Logan, there is the open publication of the ode under his own name; the fact of his having shewn it in manuscript to several friends before its publication, and declared it to be his composition; and that, during the whole of his life, his claim to be the author was not disputed. On the other hand, in favour of Bruce, there is the oral testimony of his relations and friends, that they always understood him to be the author; and the written evidence of Dr Davidson, Professor of Natural and Civil History, Aberdeen, that he saw a copy of the ode in the possession of a friend of Bruce, Mr Bickerton, who assured him it was in the handwriting of Bruce; that this copy was signed 'Michael Bruce, and below it were written the words: 'You will think I might have been better employed than writing about a gowk'-[Anglice, cuckoo.] It is unfavourable to the case of Logan, that he retained some of the manuscripts of Bruce, and his conduct throughout the whole affair was careless and unsatisfactory. Bruce's friends also claim for him some of the hymns published by Logan as his own, and they shew that the unfortunate young bard had applied himself to compositions of this kind, though none appeared in his works as published by Logan. The truth here seems to be, that Bruce was the founder, and Logan the perfecter, of these exquisite devotional strains: the former supplied stanzas which the latter extended into poems, imparting to the whole a finished elegance and beauty of diction which certainly Bruce does not seem to have been capable of giving. Without adverting to the disputed ode, the best of Logan's productions are his verses on a Visit to the Country in Autumn, his halfdramatic poem of The Lovers, and his ballad stanzas on the Braes of Yarrow. A vein of tenderness and moral sentiment runs through the whole, and his language is select and poetical. In some lines On the Death of a Young Lady, we have the following true and touching exclamation: What tragic tears bedew the eye! To the Cuckoo. Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, What time the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee The school-boy, wandering through the wood Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,* What time the pea puts on the bloom, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring. [Written in a Visit to the Country in Autumn.] 'Tis past! no more the Summer blooms! Ascending in the rear, Behold congenial Autumn comes, The Sabbath of the year! And twilight consecrates the floods; O let me wander through the sounding woods! Ah! well-known streams !-ah! wonted groves, The wild-flower strown on Summer's bier Alas! the hospitable hall, Where youth and friendship played, A stranger to his native bowers: The fancied Eden fades with all its flowers! *This line originally stood: Starts thy curious voice to hear,' which was probably altered by Logan as defective in quantity. 'Curious may be a Scotticism, but it is felicitous. It marks the unusual resemblance of the note of the cuckoo to the human voice, the cause of the start and imitation which follow. Whereas the "new voice of spring" is not true; for many voices in spring precede that of the cuckoo, and it is not peculiar or striking, nor does it connect either with the start or imitation.'-Note by Lord Mackenzie (son of the 'Man of Feeling') in Bruce's Poems, by Rev. W. Mackelvie. Companions of the youthful scene, Endeared from earliest days! With whom I sported on the green, Or roved the woodland maze! Long-exiled from your native clime, Or by the thunder stroke of time Snatched to the shadows of despair; I hear your voices in the wind, Your forms in every walk I find; I stretch my arms: ye vanish into air! My steps, when innocent and young, I mourned the linnet-lover's fate, Alas! misfortune's cloud unkind All human beauty blast! The wrath of nature smites our bowers, In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps! Complaint of Nature. 'Few are thy days, and full of woe, O man, of woman born! Thy doom is written, "Dust thou art, And shalt to dust return." Determined are the days that fly Alas! the little day of life Is shorter than a span; Yet black with thousand hidden ills To miserable man. Gay is thy morning, flattering hope Before its splendid hour the cloud A pilgrim in a weary land, Behold! sad emblem of thy state, Or trees that crown the mountain's brow, When chill the blast of Winter blows, The flowers resign their sunny robes, Nipt by the year the forest fades; The leaves toss to and fro, and streak The Winter past, reviving flowers But man departs this earthly scene, Ah! never to return! No second Spring shall e'er revive The ashes of the urn. The inexorable doors of death The mighty flood that rolls along The days, the years, the ages, dark So man departs the living scene, Where are our fathers? Whither gone The mighty men of old? The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, In sacred books enrolled? Gone to the resting-place of man, The everlasting home, Where ages past have gone before, Where future ages come.' Thus nature poured the wail of woe, The Almighty heard: then from his throne And from the heaven, that opened wide, 'When mortal man resigns his breath, And falls a clod of clay, The soul immortal wings its flight 'Prepared of old for wicked men The above hymn has been claimed for Michael Bruce by Mr Mackelvie, his biographer, on the faith of 'internal evidence,' because two of the stanzas resemble a fragment in the handwriting of Bruce. We subjoin the stanzas and the fragment: When chill the blast of winter blows, Away the summer flies, The flowers resign their sunny robes, And all their beauty dies. Nipt by the year the forest fades; And, shaking to the wind, The leaves toss to and fro, and streak |