No subtle nor superfluous lore he sought,
Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue :-
"Let man's own sphere" (quoth he) "confine his view ; Be man's peculiar work his sole delight.”
And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschew Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right, By pleasure unseduc'd, unaw'd by lawless might.
"And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe, O never, never turn away thine ear;
Forlorn in this bleak wilderness below,
Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear!
To others do (the law is not severe)
What to thyself thou wishest to be done :
Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear,
And friends, and native land; nor those alone;
All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own."
BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild-brook babbling down the mountain side.
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;
Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;
Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,
And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.
EDWIN'S FANCIES AT EVENING.
WHEN the long-sounding curfew from afar
Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale,
Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star,
Lingering and listening wander'd down the vale.
There would he dream of graves, and corses pale;
And ghosts, that to the charnel-dungeon throng,
And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail,
Till silenced by the owl's terrific song,
Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along.
Or when the setting moon, in crimson died, Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, To haunted stream, remote from man he hied, Where Fays of yore their revels wont to keep; And there let Fancy roam at large, till sleep A vision brought to his entranced sight. And first, a wildly-murmuring wind 'gan creep Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of Night.
Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch
Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold;
And forth a host of little warriors march,
Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold.
Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold,
And green their helms, and green their silk attire.
And here and there, right venerably old,
The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire.
With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear,
A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance:
The little warriors doff the targe and spear,
And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance.
They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance
To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze;
Now bound aloft with vigourous spring, then glance
Rapid along; with many-colour'd rays
Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.
LET vanity adorn the marble tomb
With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown,
In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome,
Where night and desolation ever frown.
Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where the green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrown,
Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.
And thither let the village swain repair;
And, light of heart the village maiden gay,
To deck with flowers her half-dishevel'd hair,
And celebrate the merry morn of May;
There let the shepherd's pipe the livelong day,
Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe;
And when mild evening comes with mantle gray,
Let not the blooming band make haste to go,
No ghost nor spell my long and last abode shall know.
FANCY AND EXPERIENCE.
I cannot blame thy choice (the Sage replied)
For soft and smooth are fancy's flowery ways.
And yet even there, if left without a guide,
The young adventurer unsafely plays.
Eyes dazzled long by fiction's gaudy rays,
In modest truth no light nor beauty find.
And who, my child, would trust the meteor-blaze,
That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind,
More dark and helpless far, than if it ne'er had shined ?
Fancy enervates, while it soothes, the heart,
And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight:
To joy each heightening charm it can impart,
But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night.
And often, where no real ills affright,
Its visionary fiends, and endless train,
Assail with equal or superior might,
And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy brain, And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than mortal pain.
And yet, alas! the real ills of life
Claim the full vigour of a mind prepared,
Prepared for patient, long, laborious stife,
Its guide Experience, and Truth its guard.
We fare on earth as other men have fared:
Were they successful? Let not us despair.
Was disappointment oft their sole reward?
Yet shall their tale instruct, if it declare
How they have borne the load ourselves are doom'd to bear.
POETIC LEGENDS IN EARLY CHILDHOOD.
BUT hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,
Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!
Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,
Amused my childhood, and inform'd my youth.
O let your spirit still my bosom soothe,
Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide!
Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth;
For well I know, wherever ye reside,
There harmony, and peace, and innocence, abide.
Ah me! abandon'd on the lonesome plain,
As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore,
Save when against the winter's drenching rain,
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door :
Then as instructed by tradition hoar,
Her legends when the beldam 'gan impart,
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,
Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;
Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art.
Various and strange was the long-winded tale;
And halls, and knights, and feats of arms, display'd;
Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale;
And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid;
The moonlight revel of the fairy glade;
Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,
And ply in caves th' unutterable trade,
'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood.
But when to horror his amazement rose,
A gentler strain the bedlam would rehearse,
A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,
The orphan-babes,* and guardian uncle fierce.
O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce
That heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone!
For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse,
To latest times shall tender souls bemoan
Those helpless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.
Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn,
The babes now famish'd lay them down to die,
'Midst the wild howl of darksome woods forlorn,
Folded in one another's arms they lie;
Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry:
"For from the town the man returns no more."
But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy,
This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore,
When Death lay waste thy house, and flames consume thy
BE HUMBLE AND BE WISE.
SHALL he, whose birth, maturity, and age,
Scarce fill the circle of one summer day,
Shall the poor knat with discontent and rage
Exclaim, that nature hastens to decay,
If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,
If but a momentary shower descend?
* See the fine old ballad, called "The Children in the Wood."
Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay,
Which bade the series of events extend
Wide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages, without end?
One part, one little part, we dimly scan
Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream;
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,
If but that little part incongruous seem,
Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem;
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.
O, then renounce that impious self esteem,
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies:
For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.
MICHAEL BRUCE.
Born 1746-Died 1767.
BRUCE's father was a weaver in Scotland, but out of his humble earnings afforded his beloved son, whose poetical talents were developed even in childhood, an education at the University of Edinburgh. After the usual classic course, the youthful poet entered on the study of Divinity; but while teaching a small school at no great distance from his native place he was seized with a deep consumption, in the midst of which he composed his poem on Lochleven. He toiled patiently onwards awhile through his day and evening school, till at length the progress of disease compelled him to resign his sanguine hopes, and return to his father's house, where he expired in his twentyfirst year.
Lochleven contains much that is beautiful in itself, and as a whole, gave promise of great poetical excellence in future. The Elegy written on the prospect of his own dissolution is deeply pathetic;-"a most interesting relic of his amiable feelings and fortitude."
EXTRACT FROM LOCHLEVEN.
I KNEW an aged swain, whose hoary head
Was bent with years, the village-chronicle,
Who much had seen, and from the former times
Much had receiv'd. He, hanging o'er the hearth
In winter evenings, to the gaping swains,
And children circling round the fire, would tell
Stories of old, and tales of other times."
Of Lomond and Levina he would talk;
And how of old in Britain's evil days,
When brothers against brothers drew the sword
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