MICHAEL BRUCE.

BORN 1746.—DIED 1767.

MICHAEL BRUCE was born in the parish of Kinneswood, in Kinross-shire, Scotland. His father was by trade a weaver, who out of his scanty earnings had the merit of affording his son an education at the grammar-school of Kinross, and at the university of Edinburgh. Michael was delicate from his childhood, but shewed an early disposition for study, and a turn for poetry, which was encouraged by some of his neighbours lending him a few of the most popular

a English poets. The humblest individuals who have befriended genius deserve to be gratefully mentioned. The first encouragers to whom Bruce shewed his poetical productions were a Mr. Arnot, a farmer on the banks of Lochleven, and one David Pearson, whose occupation is not described. In his sixteenth year he went to the university of Edinburgh, where after the usual course of attendance, he entered on the study of divinity, intending, probably, to be a preacher in the Burgher sect of dissenters, to whom his parents belonged. Between the latter sessions, which he attended at college, he taught a small school at Gairney Bridge, in the neighbourhood of his native place, and afterwards at Forest-Hill, near Allan, in Clackmannanshire. This is nearly the whole of his sad and short history. At the latter

a

place he was seized with a deep consumption, the progress of which in his constitution, had always inclined him to melancholy. Under the toils of a day and evening school, and without the comforts that might have mitigated disease, he mentions his situation to a friend in a touching but resigned manner_“I had expected,” he says, “ to be happy

" , here, but my sanguine hopes are the reason of my disappointment.” He had cherished sanguine hopes of happiness, poor youth ! in his little village-school; but he seems to have been ill encouraged by his employers, and complains that he had no company, but what was worse than solitude. “I believe," he adds, " if I had not a lively imagination I should fall into a state of stupidity or delirium." now composing his poem on Lochleven, in which he describes himself,

He was

“ Amid unfertile wilds, recording thus
The dear remembrance of his native fields,
To cheer the tedious night, while slow disease
Prey'd on his pining vitals, and the blasts
Of dark December shook his humble cot.”

During the winter he quitted his school, and returning to his father's house, lingered on for a few months till he expired, in his twenty-first year. During the spring he wrote an elegy on the prospect of his own dissolution, a most interesting relic of his amiable feelings and fortitude.

FROM THE ELEGY ON SPRING.

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 shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind,

Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin’d,

And count the silent moments as they pass :

The winged moments, whose unstaying speed

No art can stop, or in their course arrest; Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,

And lay me down in peace with them that rest.

Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;

And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true. Led by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate,

And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;

I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,

Which mortals visit, and return no more.

Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains !

Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, Where melancholy with still silence reigns,

And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. There let me wander at the close 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,

When death shall shut these weary aching eyes, Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,

Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.

FROM LOCHLEVEN.

Now sober. Industry, illustrious power!
Hath rais'd the peaceful cottage, calm abode
Of innocence and joy; now, sweating, glides
The shining ploughshare ; tames the stubborn soil;
Leads the long drain along th' unfertile marsh;
Bids the bleak hill with vernal verdure bloom,
The haunt of flocks; and clothes the barren heath
With waving harvests, and the golden grain.

Fair from his hand, behold the village rise,
In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees !
Above whose aged tops, the joyful swains
At even-tide, descending from the hill,
With eye enamour'd, mark the many wreaths
Of pillar'd smoke, high-curling to the clouds.
The street resounds with labour's various voice,
Who whistles at his work. Gay on the green,
Young blooming boys, and girls with golden hair,
Trip nimble-footed, wanton in their play,

The village hope, All in a rev'rend row,
Their grey-hair'd grandsires, sitting in the sun,
Before the gate, and leaning on the staff,
The well-remember'd stories of their youth
Recount, and shake their aged locks with joy.

How fair a prospect rises to the eye,
Where beauty vies in all her vernal forms,
For ever pleasant, and for ever new!
Swells th' exulting thought, expands the soul,
Drowning each ruder care: a blooming train
Of bright ideas rushes on the mind.
Imagination rouses at the scene,
And backward, through the gloom of ages past,
Beholds Arcadia, like a rural queen,
Encircled with her swains and rosy nymphs,
The mazy dance conducting on the green.
Nor yield to old Arcadia's blissful vales
Thine, gentle Leven! green on either hand
Thy meadows spread, unbroken of the plough,
With beauty all their own. Thy fields rejoice
With all the riches of the golden year.
Fat on the plain, and mountain's sunny side,
Large droves of oxen, and the fleecy flocks
Feed, undisturb'd, and fill the echoing air
With music, grateful to the master's ear.
The traveller stops, and gazes round and round
O'er all the scenes, that animate his heart
With mirth and music. Even the mendicant,
Bowbent with age, that on the old gray stone,

, Sole sitting, suns him in the public way, Feels his heart leap, and to himself he sings.