Plumed Conceit himself surveying, Folly with her shadow playing, Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence, Bloated empiric, puffed Pretence, Noise that through a trumpet speaks, Laughter in loud peals that breaks, Intrusion with a fopling's face, Ignorant of time and place, Sparks of fire Dissension blowing, Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing, Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer, Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer, Ambition's buskins, steeped in blood, Fly thy presence, Solitude.

Sage Reflection, bent with years, Conscious Virtue, void of fears, Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy, Meditation's piercing eye, Halcyon Peace on moss reclined, Retrospect that scans the mind, Rapt, earth-gazing Reverie, Blushing, artless Modesty, Health that snuffs the morning air, Full-eyed Truth, with bosom bare, Inspiration, Nature's child, Seek the solitary wild.

You, with the tragic muse retired, The wise Euripides inspired, You taught the sadly-pleasing air That Athens saved from ruins bare. You gave the Cean's tears to flow, And unlocked the springs of woe; You penned what exiled Naso thought, And poured the melancholy note. With Petrarch o'er Vaucluse you strayed, When death snatched his long-loved maid; You taught the rocks her loss to mourn, Ye strewed with flowers her virgin urn. And late in Hagley you were seen, With bloodshot eyes, and sombre mien, Hymen his yellow vestment tore, And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore. But chief your own the solemn lay That wept Narcissa young and gay, Darkness clapped her sable wing, While you touched the mournful string, Anguish left the pathless wild, Grim-faced Melancholy smiled, Drowsy Midnight ceased to yawn, The starry host put back the dawn, Aside their harps even seraphs flung To hear thy sweet Complaint, O Young! When all nature's hushed asleep, Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep, Soft you leave your caverned den, And wander o'er the works of men; But when Phosphor brings the dawn By her dappled coursers drawn, Again you to the wild retreat And the early huntsman meet, Where as you pensive pace along, You catch the distant shepherd's song, Or brush from herbs the pearly dew, Or the rising primrose view. Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings, You mount, and nature with you sings. But when mid-day fervours glow, To upland airy shades you go, Where never sunburnt woodman came, Nor sportsman chased the timid game; And there beneath an oak reclined, With drowsy waterfalls behind, You sink to rest. Till the tuneful bird of night From the neighbouring poplar's height Wake you with her solemn strain, And teach pleased Echo to complain.

With you roses brighter bloom, Sweeter every sweet perfume, Purer every fountain flows, Stronger every wilding grows. Let those toil for gold who please, Or for fame renounce their ease. What is fame? an empty bubble. Gold? a transient shining trouble. Let them for their country bleed, What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed? Man's not worth a moment's pain, Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. Then let me, sequestered fair, To your sibyl grot repair; On yon hanging cliff it stands, Scooped by nature's salvage hands, Bosomed in the gloomy shade Of cypress not with age decayed. Where the owl still-hooting sits, Where the bat incessant flits, There in loftier strains I'll sing Whence the changing seasons spring, Tell how storms deform the skies, Whence the waves subside and rise, Trace the comet's blazing tail, Weigh the planets in a scale; Bend, great God, before thy shrine, The bournless macrocosm's thine. * * * * *



MICHAEL BRUCE.

We refer our readers to Dr Mackelvie's well-known and very able Life of poor Bruce, for his full story, and for the evidence on which his claim to the 'Cuckoo' is rested. Apart from external evidence, we think that poem more characteristic of Bruce's genius than of Logan's, and have therefore ranked it under Bruce's name.

Bruce was born on the 27th of March 1746, at Kinnesswood, parish of Portmoak, county of Kinross. His father was a weaver, and Michael was the fifth of a family of eight children.

Poor as his parents were, they were intelligent, religious, and most conscientious in the discharge of their duties to their children. In the summer months Michael was sent out to herd cattle; and one loves to imagine the young poet wrapt in his plaid, under a whin-bush, while the storm was blowing,—or gazing at the rainbow from the summit of a fence,—or admiring at Lochleven and its old ruined castle,—or weaving around the form of some little maiden, herding in a neighbouring field —some 'Jeanie Morrison'—one of those webs of romantic early love which are beautiful and evanescent as the gossamer, but how exquisitely relished while they last! Say not, with one of his biographers, that his 'education was retarded by this employment;' he was receiving in these solitary fields a kind of education which no school and no college could furnish; nay, who knows but, as he saw the cuckoo winging her way from one deep woodland recess to another, or heard her dull, divine monotone coming from the heart of the forest, the germ of that exquisite strain, 'least in the kingdom' of the heaven of poetry in size, but immortal in its smallness, was sown in his mind? In winter he went to school, and profited there so much, that at fifteen (not a very early period, after all, for a Scotch student beginning his curriculum—in our day twelve was not an uncommon age) he was judged fit for going to college. And just in time a windfall came across the path of our poet, the mention of which may make many of our readers smile. This was a legacy which was left his father by a relative, amounting to 200 merks, or L11, 2s.6d. With this munificent sum in his pocket, Bruce was sent to study at Edinburgh College. Here he became distinguished by his attainments, and particularly his taste and poetic powers; and here, too, he became acquainted with John Logan, afterwards his biographer. After spending three sessions at college, supported by his parents and other friends, he returned to the country, and taught a school at Gairney Bridge (a place famous for the first meeting of the first presbytery of the Seceders) for L11 of salary. Thence he removed to Foresthill, near Alloa, where a damp school-room, poverty, and hard labour in teaching, united to injure his health and depress his spirits. At Foresthill he wrote his poem 'Lochleven,' which discovers no small descriptive power. Consumption began now to make its appearance, and he returned to the cottage of his parents, where he wrote his 'Elegy on Spring,' in which he refers with dignified pathos to his approaching dissolution. On the 5th of July 1767, this remarkable youth died, aged twenty-one years and three months. His Bible was found on his pillow, marked at the words, Jer. xxii. 10, 'Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: but weep sore for him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his native country.'

Lord Craig wrote some time afterwards an affecting paper in the Mirror, recording the fate, and commending the genius of Bruce. John Logan, in 1770, published his poems. In the year 1807, the kind-hearted Principal Baird published an edition of the poems for the behoof of Bruce's mother, then an aged widow. And in 1837, Dr William Mackelvie, Balgedie, Kinross- shire, published what may be considered the standard Life of this poet, along with a complete edition of his Works.

It is impossible from so small a segment of a circle as Bruce's life describes, to infer with any certainty the whole. So far as we can judge from the fragments left, his power was rather in the beautiful, than in the sublime or in the strong. The lines on Spring, from the words 'Now spring returns' to the close, form a continuous stream of pensive loveliness. How sweetly he sings in the shadow of death! Nor let us too severely blame his allusion to the old Pagan mythology, in the words—

'I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe, I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore;'

remembering that he was still a mere student, and not recovered from that fine intoxication in which classical literature drenches a young imaginative soul, and that at last we find him 'resting in the hopes of an eternal day.' 'Lochleven' is the spent echo of the 'Seasons,' although, as we said before, its descriptions possess considerable merit. His 'Last Day' is more ambitious than successful. If we grant the 'Cuckoo' to be his, as we are inclined decidedly to do, it is a sure title to fame, being one of the sweetest little poems in any language. Shakspeare would have been proud of the verse—

'Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year.'

Bruce has not, however, it has always appeared to us, caught so well as Wordsworth the differentia of the cuckoo,—its invisible, shadowy, shifting, supernatural character—heard, but seldom seen—its note so limited and almost unearthly:—

'O Cuckoo, shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?'

How fine this conception of a separated voice—'The viewless spirit of a lonely sound,' plaining in the woods as if seeking for some incarnation it cannot find, and saddening the spring groves by a note so contradictory to the genius of the season. In reference to the note of the cuckoo we find the following remarks among the fragments from the commonplace-book of Dr Thomas Brown, printed by Dr Welsh:—'The name of the cuckoo has generally been considered as a very pure instance of imitative harmony. But in giving that name, we have most unjustly defrauded the poor bird of a portion of its very small variety of sound. The second syllable is not a mere echo of the first; it is the sound reversed, like the reading of a sotadic line; and to preserve the strictness of the imitation we should give it the name of Ook-koo.' This is the prose of the cuckoo after its poetry.

TO THE CUCKOO.

1 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! The messenger of spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing.

2 Soon as the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year?

3 Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet, From birds among the bowers.

4 The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts thy curious voice to hear, And imitates the lay.

5 What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another spring to hail.

6 Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year.

7 Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make with joyful wing Our annual visit o'er the globe, Attendants on the spring.

ELEGY, WRITTEN IN SPRING.

1 'Tis past: the 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.

2 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.

3 Far to the North grim Winter draws his train, To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore; Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign, Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar.

4 Loosed from the bonds of frost, the verdant ground Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, Again puts forth her flowers, and all around, Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen.

5 Behold! the trees new-deck their withered boughs; Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane, The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose; The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene.

6 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.

7 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 sings.

8 On the green furze, clothed o'er with golden blooms That fill the air with fragrance all around, The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes, While o'er the wild his broken notes resound.

9 While the sun journeys down the western sky, Along the green sward, marked with Roman mound, Beneath the blithesome shepherd's watchful eye, The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around.

10 Now is the time for those who wisdom love, Who love to walk in Virtue's flowery road, Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove, And follow Nature up to Nature's God.

11 Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws; Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; Thus heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty cause, And left the wondering multitude behind.

12 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.

13 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.

14 And even when Winter chilled the aged year, I wandered lonely o'er the hoary plain: Though frosty Boreas warned me to forbear, Boreas, with all his tempests, warned in vain.

15 Then sleep my nights, and quiet blessed my days; I feared no loss, my mind was all my store; No anxious wishes e'er disturbed my ease; Heaven gave content and health—I asked no more.

16 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.

17 Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind, Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined, And count the silent moments as they pass:

18 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 at peace with them at rest.

19 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.

20 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.

21 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.

22 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 of wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

23 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.



CHRISTOPHER SMART.

We hear of 'Single-speech Hamilton.' We have now to say something of 'Single-poem Smart,' the author of one of the grandest bursts of devotional and poetical feeling in the English language—the 'Song to David.' This poor unfortunate was born at Shipbourne, Kent, in 1722. His father was steward to Lord Barnard, who, after his death, continued his patronage to the son, who was then eleven years of age. The Duchess of Cleveland, through Lord Barnard's influence, bestowed on Christopher an allowance of L40 a-year. With this he went to Pembroke Hall, Cam- bridge, in 1739; was in 1745 elected a Fellow of Pembroke, and in 1747 took his degree of M.A. At college, Smart began to display that reckless dissipation which led afterwards to such melancholy consequences. He studied hard, however, at intervals; wrote poetry both in Latin and English; produced a comedy called a 'Trip to Cambridge; or, The Grateful Fair,' which was acted in the hall of Pembroke College; and, in spite of his vices and follies, was popular on account of his agreeable manners and amiable dispositions. Having become acquainted with Newberry, the benevolent, red-nosed bookseller commemorated in 'The Vicar of Wakefield,'—for whom he wrote some trifles,—he married his step- daughter, Miss Carnan, in the year 1753. He now removed to London, and became an author to trade. He wrote a clever satire, entitled 'The Hilliad,' against Sir John Hill, who had attacked him in an underhand manner. He translated the fables of Phaedrus into verse,—Horace into prose ('Smart's Horace' used to be a great favourite, under the rose, with schoolboys); made an indifferent version of the Psalms and Paraphrases, and a good one, at a former period, of Pope's 'Ode on St Cecilia's Day,' with which that poet professed himself highly pleased. He was employed on a monthly publication called The Universal Visitor. We find Johnson giving the following account of this matter in Boswell's Life:—'Old Gardner, the bookseller, employed Rolt and Smart to write a monthly miscellany called The Universal Visitor.' There was a formal written contract. They were bound to write nothing else,—they were to have, I think, a third of the profits of the sixpenny pamphlet, and the contract was for ninety-nine years. I wrote for some months in The Universal Visitor for poor Smart, while he was mad, not then knowing the terms on which he was engaged to write, and thinking I was doing him good. I hoped his wits would soon return to him. Mine returned to me, and I wrote in The Universal Visitor no longer.'

Smart at last was called to pay the penalty of his blended labour and dissipation. In 1763 he was shut up in a madhouse. His derangement had exhibited itself in a religious way: he insisted upon people kneeling down along with him in the street and praying. During his confinement, writing materials were denied him, and he used to write his poetical pieces with a key on the wainscot. Thus, 'scrabbling,' like his own hero, on the wall, he produced his immortal 'Song to David.' He became by and by sane; but, returning to his old habits, got into debt, and died in the King's Bench prison, after a short illness, in 1770.

The 'Song to David' has been well called one of the greatest curiosities of literature. It ranks in this point with the tragedies written by Lee, and the sermons and prayers uttered by Hall in a similar melancholy state of mind. In these cases, as well as in Smart's, the thin partition between genius and madness was broken down in thunder,—the thunder of a higher poetry than perhaps they were capable of even conceiving in their saner moments. Lee produced in that state—which was, indeed, nearly his normal one—some glorious extravagancies. Hall's sermons, monologised and overheard in the madhouse, are said to have transcended all that he preached in his healthier moods. And, assuredly, the other poems by Smart scarcely furnish a point of comparison with the towering and sustained loftiness of some parts of the 'Song to David.' Nor is it loftiness alone,—although the last three stanzas are absolute inspiration, and you see the waters of Castalia tossed by a heavenly wind to the very summit of Parnassus,—but there are innumerable exquisite beauties and subtleties, dropt as if by the hand of rich haste, in every corner of the poem. Witness his description of David's muse, as a

'Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, The more than Michal of his bloom, The Abishag of his age!

The account of David's object—

'To further knowledge, silence vice, And plant perpetual paradise, When God had calmed the world.'

Of David's Sabbath—

''Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned, And heavenly melancholy tuned, To bless and bear the rest.'

One of David's themes—

'The multitudinous abyss, Where secrecy remains in bliss, And wisdom hides her skill.'

And, not to multiply instances to repletion, this stanza about gems—

'Of gems—their virtue and their price, Which, hid in earth from man's device, Their darts of lustre sheath; The jasper of the master's stamp, The topaz blazing like a lamp, Among the mines beneath.'

Incoherence and extravagance we find here and there; but it is not the flutter of weakness, it is the fury of power: from the very stumble of the rushing steed, sparks are kindled. And, even as Baretti, when he read the Rambler, in Italy, thought within himself, If such are the lighter productions of the English mind, what must be the grander and sterner efforts of its genius? and formed, consequently, a strong desire to visit that country; so might he have reasoned, If such poems as 'David' issue from England's very madhouses, what must be the writings of its saner and nobler poetic souls? and thus might he, from the parallax of a Smart, have been able to rise toward the ideal altitudes of a Shakspeare or a Milton. Indeed, there are portions of the 'Song to David,' which a Milton or a Shakspeare has never surpassed. The blaze of the meteor often eclipses the light of

'The loftiest star of unascended heaven, Pinnacled dim in the intense inane.'

SONG TO DAVID.

1 O thou, that sitt'st upon a throne, With harp of high, majestic tone, To praise the King of kings: And voice of heaven, ascending, swell, Which, while its deeper notes excel, Clear as a clarion rings:

2 To bless each valley, grove, and coast, And charm the cherubs to the post Of gratitude in throngs; To keep the days on Zion's Mount, And send the year to his account, With dances and with songs:

3 O servant of God's holiest charge, The minister of praise at large, Which thou mayst now receive; From thy blest mansion hail and hear, From topmost eminence appear To this the wreath I weave.

4 Great, valiant, pious, good, and clean, Sublime, contemplative, serene, Strong, constant, pleasant, wise! Bright effluence of exceeding grace; Best man! the swiftness and the race, The peril and the prize!

5 Great—from the lustre of his crown, From Samuel's horn, and God's renown, Which is the people's voice; For all the host, from rear to van, Applauded and embraced the man— The man of God's own choice.

6 Valiant—the word, and up he rose; The fight—he triumphed o'er the foes Whom God's just laws abhor; And, armed in gallant faith, he took Against the boaster, from the brook, The weapons of the war.

7 Pious—magnificent and grand, 'Twas he the famous temple planned, (The seraph in his soul:) Foremost to give the Lord his dues, Foremost to bless the welcome news, And foremost to condole.

8 Good—from Jehudah's genuine vein, From God's best nature, good in grain, His aspect and his heart: To pity, to forgive, to save, Witness En-gedi's conscious cave, And Shimei's blunted dart.

9 Clean—if perpetual prayer be pure, And love, which could itself inure To fasting and to fear— Clean in his gestures, hands, and feet, To smite the lyre, the dance complete, To play the sword and spear.

10 Sublime—invention ever young, Of vast conception, towering tongue, To God the eternal theme; Notes from yon exaltations caught, Unrivalled royalty of thought, O'er meaner strains supreme.

11 Contemplative—on God to fix His musings, and above the six The Sabbath-day he blessed; 'Twas then his thoughts self-conquest pruned, And heavenly melancholy tuned, To bless and bear the rest.

12 Serene—to sow the seeds of peace, Remembering when he watched the fleece, How sweetly Kidron purled— To further knowledge, silence vice, And plant perpetual paradise, When God had calmed the world.

13 Strong—in the Lord, who could defy Satan, and all his powers that lie In sempiternal night; And hell, and horror, and despair Were as the lion and the bear To his undaunted might.

14 Constant—in love to God, the Truth, Age, manhood, infancy, and youth; To Jonathan his friend Constant, beyond the verge of death; And Ziba, and Mephibosheth, His endless fame attend.

15 Pleasant—and various as the year; Man, soul, and angel without peer, Priest, champion, sage, and boy; In armour or in ephod clad, His pomp, his piety was glad; Majestic was his joy.

16 Wise—in recovery from his fall, Whence rose his eminence o'er all, Of all the most reviled; The light of Israel in his ways, Wise are his precepts, prayer, and praise, And counsel to his child.

17 His muse, bright angel of his verse, Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, For all the pangs that rage; Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, The more than Michal of his bloom, The Abishag of his age.

18 He sang of God—the mighty source Of all things—the stupendous force On which all strength depends; From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, All period, power, and enterprise Commences, reigns, and ends.

19 Angels—their ministry and meed, Which to and fro with blessings speed, Or with their citterns wait; Where Michael, with his millions, bows, Where dwells the seraph and his spouse, The cherub and her mate.

20 Of man—the semblance and effect Of God and love—the saint elect For infinite applause— To rule the land, and briny broad, To be laborious in his laud, And heroes in his cause.

21 The world—the clustering spheres he made, The glorious light, the soothing shade, Dale, champaign, grove, and hill; The multitudinous abyss, Where secrecy remains in bliss, And wisdom hides her skill.

22 Trees, plants, and flowers—of virtuous root; Gem yielding blossom, yielding fruit, Choice gums and precious balm; Bless ye the nosegay in the vale, And with the sweetness of the gale Enrich the thankful psalm.

23 Of fowl—even every beak and wing Which cheer the winter, hail the spring, That live in peace, or prey; They that make music, or that mock, The quail, the brave domestic cock, The raven, swan, and jay.

24 Of fishes—every size and shape, Which nature frames of light escape, Devouring man to shun: The shells are in the wealthy deep, The shoals upon the surface leap, And love the glancing sun.

25 Of beasts—the beaver plods his task; While the sleek tigers roll and bask, Nor yet the shades arouse; Her cave the mining coney scoops; Where o'er the mead the mountain stoops, The kids exult and browse.

26 Of gems—their virtue and their price, Which, hid in earth from man's device, Their darts of lustre sheath; The jasper of the master's stamp, The topaz blazing like a lamp, Among the mines beneath.

27 Blest was the tenderness he felt, When to his graceful harp he knelt, And did for audience call; When Satan with his hand he quelled, And in serene suspense he held The frantic throes of Saul.

28 His furious foes no more maligned As he such melody divined, And sense and soul detained; Now striking strong, now soothing soft, He sent the godly sounds aloft, Or in delight refrained.

29 When up to heaven his thoughts he piled, From fervent lips fair Michal smiled, As blush to blush she stood; And chose herself the queen, and gave Her utmost from her heart—'so brave, And plays his hymns so good.'

30 The pillars of the Lord are seven, Which stand from earth to topmost heaven; His wisdom drew the plan; His Word accomplished the design, From brightest gem to deepest mine, From Christ enthroned to man.

31 Alpha, the cause of causes, first In station, fountain, whence the burst Of light and blaze of day; Whence bold attempt, and brave advance, Have motion, life, and ordinance, And heaven itself its stay.

32 Gamma supports the glorious arch On which angelic legions march, And is with sapphires paved; Thence the fleet clouds are sent adrift, And thence the painted folds that lift The crimson veil, are waved.

33 Eta with living sculpture breathes, With verdant carvings, flowery wreathes Of never-wasting bloom; In strong relief his goodly base All instruments of labour grace, The trowel, spade, and loom.

34 Next Theta stands to the supreme— Who formed in number, sign, and scheme, The illustrious lights that are; And one addressed his saffron robe, And one, clad in a silver globe, Held rule with every star.

35 Iota's tuned to choral hymns Of those that fly, while he that swims In thankful safety lurks; And foot, and chapiter, and niche, The various histories enrich Of God's recorded works.

36 Sigma presents the social droves With him that solitary roves, And man of all the chief; Fair on whose face, and stately frame, Did God impress his hallowed name, For ocular belief.

37 Omega! greatest and the best, Stands sacred to the day of rest, For gratitude and thought; Which blessed the world upon his pole, And gave the universe his goal, And closed the infernal draught.

38 O David, scholar of the Lord! Such is thy science, whence reward, And infinite degree; O strength, O sweetness, lasting ripe! God's harp thy symbol, and thy type The lion and the bee!

39 There is but One who ne'er rebelled, But One by passion unimpelled, By pleasures unenticed; He from himself his semblance sent, Grand object of his own content, And saw the God in Christ.

40 Tell them, I Am, Jehovah said To Moses; while earth heard in dread, And, smitten to the heart, At once above, beneath, around, All nature, without voice or sound, Replied, O Lord, Thou Art.

41 Thou art—to give and to confirm, For each his talent and his term; All flesh thy bounties share: Thou shalt not call thy brother fool; The porches of the Christian school Are meekness, peace, and prayer.

42 Open and naked of offence, Man's made of mercy, soul, and sense: God armed the snail and wilk; Be good to him that pulls thy plough; Due food and care, due rest allow For her that yields thee milk.

43 Rise up before the hoary head, And God's benign commandment dread, Which says thou shalt not die: 'Not as I will, but as thou wilt,' Prayed He, whose conscience knew no guilt; With whose blessed pattern vie.

44 Use all thy passions!—love is thine, And joy and jealousy divine; Thine hope's eternal fort, And care thy leisure to disturb, With fear concupiscence to curb, And rapture to transport.

45 Act simply, as occasion asks; Put mellow wine in seasoned casks; Till not with ass and bull: Remember thy baptismal bond; Keep from commixtures foul and fond, Nor work thy flax with wool.

46 Distribute; pay the Lord his tithe, And make the widow's heart-strings blithe; Resort with those that weep: As you from all and each expect, For all and each thy love direct, And render as you reap.

47 The slander and its bearer spurn, And propagating praise sojourn To make thy welcome last; Turn from old Adam to the New: By hope futurity pursue: Look upwards to the past.

48 Control thine eye, salute success, Honour the wiser, happier bless, And for thy neighbour feel; Grutch not of mammon and his leaven, Work emulation up to heaven By knowledge and by zeal.

49 O David, highest in the list Of worthies, on God's ways insist, The genuine word repeat! Vain are the documents of men, And vain the flourish of the pen That keeps the fool's conceit.

50 Praise above all—for praise prevails; Heap up the measure, load the scales, And good to goodness add: The generous soul her Saviour aids, But peevish obloquy degrades; The Lord is great and glad.

51 For Adoration all the ranks Of angels yield eternal thanks, And David in the midst; With God's good poor, which, last and least In man's esteem, thou to thy feast, O blessed bridegroom, bidst.

52 For Adoration seasons change, And order, truth, and beauty range, Adjust, attract, and fill: The grass the polyanthus checks; And polished porphyry reflects, By the descending rill.

53 Rich almonds colour to the prime For Adoration; tendrils climb, And fruit-trees pledge their gems; And Ivis, with her gorgeous vest, Builds for her eggs her cunning nest, And bell-flowers bow their stems.

54 With vinous syrup cedars spout; From rocks pure honey gushing out, For Adoration springs: All scenes of painting crowd the map Of nature; to the mermaid's pap The scaled infant clings.

55 The spotted ounce and playsome cubs Run rustling 'mongst the flowering shrubs, And lizards feed the moss; For Adoration beasts embark, While waves upholding halcyon's ark No longer roar and toss.

56 While Israel sits beneath his fig, With coral root and amber sprig The weaned adventurer sports; Where to the palm the jasmine cleaves, For Adoration 'mong the leaves The gale his peace reports.

57 Increasing days their reign exalt, Nor in the pink and mottled vault The opposing spirits tilt; And by the coasting reader spied, The silverlings and crusions glide For Adoration gilt.

58 For Adoration ripening canes, And cocoa's purest milk detains The western pilgrim's staff; Where rain in clasping boughs enclosed, And vines with oranges disposed, Embower the social laugh.

59 Now labour his reward receives, For Adoration counts his sheaves To peace, her bounteous prince; The nect'rine his strong tint imbibes, And apples of ten thousand tribes, And quick peculiar quince.

60 The wealthy crops of whitening rice 'Mongst thyine woods and groves of spice, For Adoration grow; And, marshalled in the fenced land, The peaches and pomegranates stand, Where wild carnations blow.

61 The laurels with the winter strive; The crocus burnishes alive Upon the snow-clad earth: For Adoration myrtles stay To keep the garden from dismay, And bless the sight from dearth.

62 The pheasant shows his pompous neck; And ermine, jealous of a speck, With fear eludes offence: The sable, with his glossy pride, For Adoration is descried, Where frosts the waves condense.

63 The cheerful holly, pensive yew, And holy thorn, their trim renew; The squirrel hoards his nuts: All creatures batten o'er their stores, And careful nature all her doors For Adoration shuts.

64 For Adoration, David's Psalms Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; And he, who kneels and chants, Prevails his passions to control, Finds meat and medicine to the soul, Which for translation pants.

65 For Adoration, beyond match, The scholar bullfinch aims to catch The soft flute's ivory touch; And, careless, on the hazel spray The daring redbreast keeps at bay The damsel's greedy clutch.

66 For Adoration, in the skies, The Lord's philosopher espies The dog, the ram, and rose; The planets' ring, Orion's sword; Nor is his greatness less adored In the vile worm that glows.

67 For Adoration, on the strings The western breezes work their wings, The captive ear to soothe— Hark! 'tis a voice—how still, and small— That makes the cataracts to fall, Or bids the sea be smooth!

68 For Adoration, incense comes From bezoar, and Arabian gums, And from the civet's fur: But as for prayer, or e'er it faints, Far better is the breath of saints Than galbanum or myrrh.

69 For Adoration, from the down Of damsons to the anana's crown, God sends to tempt the taste; And while the luscious zest invites The sense, that in the scene delights, Commands desire be chaste.

70 For Adoration, all the paths Of grace are open, all the baths Of purity refresh; And all the rays of glory beam To deck the man of God's esteem, Who triumphs o'er the flesh.

71 For Adoration, in the dome Of Christ, the sparrows find a home; And on his olives perch: The swallow also dwells with thee, O man of God's humility, Within his Saviour's church.

72 Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, And drops upon the leafy limes; Sweet Hermon's fragrant air: Sweet is the lily's silver bell, And sweet the wakeful tapers' smell That watch for early prayer.

73 Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; Sweet when the lost arrive: Sweet the musician's ardour beats, While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, The choicest flowers to hive.

74 Sweeter, in all the strains of love, The language of thy turtle-dove, Paired to thy swelling chord; Sweeter, with every grace endued, The glory of thy gratitude, Respired unto the Lord.

75 Strong is the horse upon his speed; Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, Which makes at once his game: Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; Strong through the turbulent profound Shoots xiphias to his aim.

76 Strong is the lion—like a coal His eyeball—like a bastion's mole His chest against the foes: Strong the gier-eagle on his sail, Strong against tide the enormous whale Emerges as he goes.

77 But stronger still in earth and air, And in the sea the man of prayer, And far beneath the tide: And in the seat to faith assigned, Where ask is have, where seek is find, Where knock is open wide.

78 Beauteous the fleet before the gale; Beauteous the multitudes in mail, Ranked arms, and crested heads; Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild. Walk, water, meditated wild, And all the bloomy beds.

79 Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn, The virgin to her spouse: Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, When to the heaven of heavens they build Their heart-directed vows.

80 Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, The Shepherd King upon his knees, For his momentous trust; With wish of infinite conceit, For man, beast, mute, the small and great, And prostrate dust to dust.

81 Precious the bounteous widow's mite; And precious, for extreme delight, The largess from the churl: Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, And alba's blest imperial rays, And pure cerulean pearl.

82 Precious the penitential tear; And precious is the sigh sincere; Acceptable to God: And precious are the winning flowers, In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers, Bound on the hallowed sod.

83 More precious that diviner part Of David, even the Lord's own heart, Great, beautiful, and new: In all things where it was intent, In all extremes, in each event, Proof—answering true to true.

84 Glorious the sun in mid career; Glorious the assembled fires appear; Glorious the comet's train: Glorious the trumpet and alarm; Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm; Glorious the enraptured main:

85 Glorious the northern lights astream; Glorious the song, when God's the theme; Glorious the thunder's roar: Glorious hosannah from the den; Glorious the catholic amen; Glorious the martyr's gore:

86 Glorious—more glorious is the crown Of Him that brought salvation down, By meekness called thy Son; Thou that stupendous truth believed, And now the matchless deed's achieved, Determined, Dared, and Done.



THOMAS CHATTERTON.

The history of this 'marvellous boy' is familiar to all the readers of English poetry, and requires only a cursory treatment here. Thomas Chatterton was born in Bristol, November 20, 1752. His father, a teacher in the free-school there, had died before his birth, and he was sent to be educated at a charity-school. He first learned to read from a black- letter Bible. At the age of fourteen, he was put apprentice to an attorney; a situation which, however uncongenial, left him ample leisure for pursuing his private studies. In an unlucky hour, some evil genius seemed to have whispered to this extra-ordinary youth,—'Do not find or force, but forge thy way to renown; the other paths to the summit of the hill are worn and common-place; try a new and dangerous course, the rather as I forewarn thee that thy time is short.' When, accordingly, the new bridge at Bristol was finished in October 1768, Chatterton sent to a newspaper a fictitious account of the opening of the old bridge, alleging in a note that he had found the principal part of the description in an ancient MS. And having thus fairly begun to work the mint of forgery, it was amazing what a number of false coins he threw off, and with what perfect ease and mastery! Ancient poems, pretending to have been written four hundred and fifty years before; fragments of sermons on the Holy Spirit, dated from the fifteenth century; accounts of all the churches of Bristol as they had appeared three hundred years before; with drawings and descriptions of the castle—most of them professing to be drawn from the writings of 'ane gode prieste, Thomas Rowley'—issued in thick succession from this wonderful, and, to use the Shakspearean word in a twofold sense, 'forgetive' brain. He next ventured to send to Horace Walpole, who was employed on a History of British Painters, an account of eminent 'Carvellers and Peyneters,' who, according to him, once flourished in Bristol. These labours he plied in secret, and with the utmost enthusiasm. He used to write by the light of the moon, deeming that there was a special inspiration in the rays of that planet, and reminding one of poor Nat Lee inditing his insane tragedies in his asylum under the same weird lustre. On Sabbaths he was wont to stroll away into the country around Bristol, which is very beautiful, and to draw sketches of those objects which impressed his imagination. He often lay down on the meadows near St Mary's Redcliffe Church, admiring the ancient edifice; and some years ago we saw a chamber near the summit of that edifice where he used to sit and write, his 'eye in a fine frenzy rolling,' and where we could imagine him, when a moonless night fell, composing his wild Runic lays by the light of a candle burning in a human skull. It was actually in one of the rooms of this church that some ancient chests had been deposited, including one called the 'Coffre of Mr Canynge,' an eminent merchant in Bristol, who had rebuilt the church in the reign of Edward IV. This coffer had been broken up by public authority in 1727, and some valuable deeds had been taken out. Besides these, they contained various MSS., some of which Chatterton's father, whose uncle was sexton of the church, had carried off and used as covers to the copy-books of his scholars. This furnished a hint to Chatterton's inventive genius. He gave out that among these parchments he had found many productions of Mr Canynge's, and of the aforesaid Thomas Rowley's, a priest of the fifteenth century, and a friend of Canynge's. Chatterton had become a contributor to a periodical of the day called The Town and Country Magazine, and to it from time to time he sent these poems. A keen controversy arose as to their genuineness. Horace Walpole shewed some of them, which Chatterton had sent him, to Gray and Mason, who were deemed, justly, first-rate authorities on antiquarian matters, and who at once pronounced them forgeries. It is deeply to be regretted that these men, perceiving, as they must have done, the great merit of these productions, had not made more particular inquiries about them, and tried to help and save the poet. Walpole, to say the least of it, treated him coldly, telling him, when he had discovered the forgery, to attend to his own business, and keeping some of his MSS. in his hands, till an indignant letter from the author compelled him to restore them.

Chatterton now determined to go to London. His three years' apprenticeship had expired, and there was in Bristol no further field for his aspiring genius. He found instant employment among the booksellers, and procured an introduction to Beckford, the patriot mayor, who tried to get him engaged upon the Opposition side in politics. Our capricious and unprincipled poet, however, declared that he was a poor author that could not write on both sides; and although his leanings were to the popular party, yet on the death of Beckford he addressed a letter to Lord North in support of his administration. He had projected some large works, such as a History of England and a History of London, and wrote flaming letters to his mother and sisters about his prospects, enclosing them at the same time small remittances of money. But his bright hopes were soon overcast. Instead of a prominent political character, he found himself a mere bookseller's hack. To this his poverty no more than his will would consent, for though that was great it was equalled by his pride. His life in the country had been regular, although his religious principles were loose; but in town, misery drove him to intemperance, and intemperance, in its reaction, to remorse and a desperate tampering with the thought,

'There is one remedy for all.'

At last, after a vain attempt to obtain an appointment as a surgeon's mate to Africa, he made up his mind to suicide. A guinea had been sent him by a gentleman, which he declined. Mrs Angel, his landlady, knowing him to be in want, the day before his death offered him his dinner, but this also he spurned; and, on the 25th of August 1770, having first destroyed all his papers, he swallowed arsenic, and was found dead in his bed.

He was buried in a shell in the burial-place of Shoe-Lane Workhouse. He was aged seventeen years nine months and a few days. Alas for

'The sleepless soul that perished in his pride!'

Chatterton, had he lived, would, perhaps, have become a powerful poet, or a powerful character of some kind. But we must now view him chiefly as a prodigy. Some have treated his power as unnatural—resembling a huge hydrocephalic head, the magnitude of which implies disease, ultimate weakness, and early death. Others maintain that, apart from the extraordinary elements that undoubtedly characterised Chatterton, and constituted him a premature and prodigious birth intellectually, there was also in parts of his poems evidence of a healthy vigour which only needed favourable circumstances to develop into transcendent excellence. Hazlitt, holding with the one of these opinions, cries, 'If Chatterton had had a great work to do by living, he would have lived!' Others retort on the critic, 'On the same principle, why did Keats, whom you rate so high, perish so early?' The question altogether is nugatory, seeing it can never be settled. Suffice it that these songs and rhymes of Chatterton have great beauties, apart from the age and position of their author. There may at times be madness, but there is method in it. The flight of the rhapsody is ever upheld by the strength of the wing, and while the reading discovered is enormous for a boy, the depth of feeling exhibited is equally extraordinary; and the clear, firm judgment which did not characterise his conduct, forms the root and the trunk of much of his poetry. It was said of his eyes that it seemed as if fire rolled under them; and it rolls still, and shall ever roll, below many of his verses.

BRISTOWE TRAGEDY.

1 The feathered songster, chanticleer, Hath wound his bugle-horn, And told the early villager The coming of the morn.

2 King Edward saw the ruddy streaks Of light eclipse the gray, And heard the raven's croaking throat Proclaim the fated day.

3 'Thou'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the God That sits enthroned on high! Charles Bawdin and his fellows twain To-day shall surely die.'

4 Then with a jug of nappy ale His knights did on him wait; 'Go tell the traitor that to-day He leaves this mortal state.'

5 Sir Canterlone then bended low, With heart brimful of woe; He journeyed to the castle-gate, And to Sir Charles did go.

6 But when he came, his children twain, And eke his loving wife, With briny tears did wet the floor, For good Sir Charles' life.

7 'O good Sir Charles!' said Canterlone, 'Bad tidings I do bring.' 'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles; 'What says the traitor king?'

8 'I grieve to tell; before that sun Doth from the heaven fly, He hath upon his honour sworn, That thou shalt surely die.'

9 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; 'Of that I'm not afeard; What boots to live a little space? Thank Jesus, I'm prepared:

10 'But tell thy king, for mine he's not, I'd sooner die to-day Than live his slave, as many are, Though I should live for aye.'

11 Then Canterlone he did go out, To tell the mayor straight To get all things in readiness For good Sir Charles' fate.

12 Then Master Canynge sought the king, And fell down on his knee; 'I'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your Grace To move your clemency.'

13 'Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out; You have been much our friend; Whatever your request may be, We will to it attend.'

14 'My noble liege! all my request Is for a noble knight, Who, though perhaps he has done wrong, He thought it still was right:

15 'He has a spouse and children twain— All ruined are for aye, If that you are resolved to let Charles Bawdin die to-day.'

16 'Speak not of such a traitor vile,' The king in fury said; 'Before the evening star doth shine, Bawdin shall lose his head:

17 'Justice does loudly for him call, And he shall have his meed; Speak, Master Canynge! what thing else At present do you need?'

18 'My noble liege!' good Canynge said, 'Leave justice to our God, And lay the iron rule aside;— Be thine the olive rod.

19 'Was God to search our hearts and reins, The best were sinners great; Christ's vicar only knows no sin, In all this mortal state.

20 'Let mercy rule thine infant reign; 'Twill fix thy crown full sure; From race to race thy family All sovereigns shall endure:

21 'But if with blood and slaughter thou Begin thy infant reign, Thy crown upon thy children's brow Will never long remain.'

22 'Canynge, away! this traitor vile Has scorned my power and me; How canst thou then for such a man Entreat my clemency?'

23 'My noble liege! the truly brave Will valorous actions prize; Respect a brave and noble mind, Although in enemies.'

24 'Canynge, away! By God in heaven, That did me being give, I will not taste a bit of bread While this Sir Charles doth live.

25 'By Mary, and all saints in heaven, This sun shall be his last.'— Then Canynge dropped a briny tear, And from the presence passed.

26 With heart brimful of gnawing grief, He to Sir Charles did go, And sat him down upon a stool, And tears began to flow.

27 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; 'What boots it how or when? Death is the sure, the certain fate Of all us mortal men.

28 'Say why, my friend, thy honest soul Runs over at thine eye? Is it for my most welcome doom That thou dost child-like cry?'

29 Quoth godly Canynge, 'I do weep, That thou so soon must die, And leave thy sons and helpless wife; 'Tis this that wets mine eye.'

30 'Then dry the tears that out thine eye From godly fountains spring; Death I despise, and all the power Of Edward, traitor king.

31 'When through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resign my life, The God I serve will soon provide For both my sons and wife.

32 'Before I saw the lightsome sun, This was appointed me;— Shall mortal man repine or grudge What God ordains to be?

33 'How oft in battle have I stood, When thousands died around; When smoking streams of crimson blood Imbrued the fattened ground?

34 'How did I know that every dart, That cut the airy way, Might not find passage to my heart, And close mine eyes for aye?

35 'And shall I now from fear of death Look wan and be dismayed? No! from my heart fly childish fear, Be all the man displayed.

36 'Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend And guard thee and thy son, If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, Why, then his will be done.

37 'My honest friend, my fault has been To serve God and my prince; And that I no timeserver am, My death will soon convince.

38 'In London city was I born, Of parents of great note; My father did a noble arms Emblazon on his coat:

39 'I make no doubt that he is gone 'Where soon I hope to go; Where we for ever shall be blest, From out the reach of woe.

40 'He taught me justice and the laws With pity to unite; And likewise taught me how to know The wrong cause from the right:

41 'He taught me with a prudent hand To feed the hungry poor; Nor let my servants drive away The hungry from my door:

42 'And none can say but all my life I have his counsel kept, And summed the actions of each day Each night before I slept.

43 'I have a spouse; go ask of her If I denied her bed; I have a king, and none can lay Black treason on my head.

44 'In Lent, and on the holy eve, From flesh I did refrain; Why should I then appear dismayed To leave this world of pain?

45 'No, hapless Henry! I rejoice I shall not see thy death; Most willingly in thy just cause Do I resign my breath.

46 'O fickle people, ruined land! Thou wilt know peace no moe; While Richard's sons exalt themselves, Thy brooks with blood will flow.

47 'Say, were ye tired of godly peace, And godly Henry's reign, That you did change your easy days For those of blood and pain?

48 'What though I on a sledge be drawn, And mangled by a hind? I do defy the traitor's power,— He cannot harm my mind!

49 'What though uphoisted on a pole, My limbs shall rot in air, And no rich monument of brass Charles Bawdin's name shall bear?

50 'Yet in the holy book above, Which time can't eat away, There, with the servants of the Lord, My name shall live for aye.

51 'Then welcome death! for life eterne I leave this mortal life: Farewell, vain world! and all that's dear, My sons and loving wife!

52 'Now death as welcome to me comes As e'er the month of May; Nor would I even wish to live, With my dear wife to stay.'

53 Quoth Canynge, ''Tis a goodly thing To be prepared to die; And from this world of pain and grief To God in heaven to fly.'

54 And now the bell began to toll, And clarions to sound; Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet A-prancing on the ground:

55 And just before the officers His loving wife came in, Weeping unfeigned tears of woe, With loud and dismal din.

56 'Sweet Florence! now, I pray, forbear; In quiet let me die; Pray God that every Christian soul May look on death as I.

57 'Sweet Florence! why those briny tears? They wash my soul away, And almost make me wish for life, With thee, sweet dame, to stay.

58 ''Tis but a journey I shall go Unto the land of bliss; Now, as a proof of husband's love, Receive this holy kiss.'

59 Then Florence, faltering in her say, Trembling these words she spoke,— 'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! My heart is well-nigh broke.

60 'Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go Without thy loving wife? The cruel axe that cuts thy neck Shall also end my life.'

61 And now the officers came in To bring Sir Charles away, Who turned to his loving wife, And thus to her did say:

62 'I go to life, and not to death; Trust thou in God above, And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, And in their hearts him love:

63 'Teach them to run the noble race That I their father run; Florence! should death thee take—adieu!— Ye officers, lead on.'

64 Then Florence raved as any mad, And did her tresses tear;— 'Oh, stay, my husband, lord, and life!'— Sir Charles then dropped a tear;—

65 Till tired out with raving loud, She fell upon the floor: Sir Charles exerted all his might, And marched from out the door.

66 Upon a sledge he mounted then, With looks full brave and sweet; Looks that did show no more concern Than any in the street.

67 Before him went the council-men, In scarlet robes and gold, And tassels spangling in the sun, Much glorious to behold:

68 The friars of St Augustine next Appeared to the sight, All clad in homely russet weeds Of godly monkish plight:

69 In different parts a godly psalm Most sweetly they did chaunt; Behind their backs six minstrels came, Who tuned the strong bataunt.

70 Then five-and-twenty archers came; Each one the bow did bend, From rescue of King Henry's friends Sir Charles for to defend.

71 Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, Drawn on a cloth-laid sled By two black steeds, in trappings white, With plumes upon their head.

72 Behind him five-and-twenty more Of archers strong and stout, With bended bow each one in hand, Marched in goodly rout:

73 Saint James's friars marched next, Each one his part did chaunt; Behind their backs six minstrels came Who tuned the strong bataunt:

74 Then came the mayor and aldermen, In cloth of scarlet decked; And their attending men, each one Like eastern princes tricked:

75 And after them a multitude Of citizens did throng; The windows were all full of heads, As he did pass along.

76 And when he came to the high cross, Sir Charles did turn and say,— 'O Thou that savest man from sin, Wash my soul clean this day!'

77 At the great minster window sat The king in mickle state, To see Charles Bawdin go along To his most welcome fate.

78 Soon as the sledge drew nigh enough That Edward he might hear, The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, And thus his words declare:

79 'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! Exposed to infamy; But be assured, disloyal man! I'm greater now than thee.

80 'By foul proceedings, murder, blood, Thou wearest now a crown; And hast appointed me to die, By power not thine own.

81 'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; I have been dead till now, And soon shall live to wear a crown For ever on my brow:

82 'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years Shall rule this fickle land, To let them know how wide the rule 'Twixt king and tyrant hand:

83 'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! Shall fall on thy own head'—— From out of hearing of the king Departed then the sled.

84 King Edward's soul rushed to his face, He turned his head away, And to his brother Gloucester He thus did speak and say:

85 'To him that so much dreaded death No ghastly terrors bring, Behold the man! he spake the truth, He's greater than a king!'

86 'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; 'And may each of our foes Bend down their necks to bloody axe, And feed the carrion crows!'

87 And now the horses gently drew Sir Charles up the high hill; The axe did glisten in the sun, His precious blood to spill.

88 Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, As up a gilded car Of victory, by valorous chiefs, Gained in the bloody war:

89 And to the people he did say,— 'Behold, you see me die, For serving loyally my king, My king most rightfully.

90 'As long as Edward rules this land, No quiet you will know; Your sons and husbands shall be slain, And brooks with blood shall flow.

91 'You leave your good and lawful king When in adversity; Like me unto the true cause stick, And for the true cause die.'

92 Then he with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to God did make, Beseeching him unto himself His parting soul to take.

93 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head Most seemly on the block; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke:

94 And out the blood began to flow, And round the scaffold twine; And tears, enough to wash't away, Did flow from each man's eyne.

95 The bloody axe his body fair Into four quarters cut; And every part, likewise his head, Upon a pole was put.

96 One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, One on the minster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour:

97 The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle; His head was placed on the high cross, In high street most nobile.

98 Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate;— God prosper long our king, And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, In heaven God's mercy sing!



MINSTREL'S SONG.

1 O! sing unto my roundelay, O! drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holy-day, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

2 Black his cryne[1] as the winter night, White his rode[2] as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

3 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabour, cudgel stout; O! he lies by the willow-tree: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

4 Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briared dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the night-mares as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

5 See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

6 Here upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren flowers be laid, Not one holy saint to save All the celness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

7 With my hands I'll dent[3] the briars Round his holy corse to gree;[4] Ouphant[5] fairy, light your fires— Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

8 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my hearte's-blood away; Life and all its goods I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

9 Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[6] Bear me to your lethal tide. 'I die! I come! my true love waits!' Thus the damsel spake, and died.

[1] 'Cryne:' hair. [2] 'Rode:' complexion. [3] 'Dent:' fix. [4] 'Gree:' grow. [5] 'Ouphant:' elfish. [6] 'Reytes:' water-flags.

THE STORY OF WILLIAM CANYNGE.

1 Anent a brooklet as I lay reclined, Listening to hear the water glide along, Minding how thorough the green meads it twined, Whilst the caves responsed its muttering song, At distant rising Avon to he sped, Amenged[1] with rising hills did show its head;

2 Engarlanded with crowns of osier-weeds And wraytes[2] of alders of a bercie scent, And sticking out with cloud-agested reeds, The hoary Avon showed dire semblament, Whilst blatant Severn, from Sabrina cleped, Boars flemie o'er the sandes that she heaped.

3 These eyne-gears swithin[3] bringeth to my thought Of hardy champions knowen to the flood, How on the banks thereof brave Aelle fought, Aelle descended from Merce kingly blood, Warder of Bristol town and castle stede, Who ever and anon made Danes to bleed.

4 Methought such doughty men must have a sprite Dight in the armour brace that Michael bore, When he with Satan, king of Hell, did fight, And earth was drenched in a sea of gore; Or, soon as they did see the worlde's light, Fate had wrote down, 'This man is born to fight.'

5 Aelle, I said, or else my mind did say, Why is thy actions left so spare in story? Were I to dispone, there should liven aye, In earth and heaven's rolls thy tale of glory; Thy acts so doughty should for aye abide, And by their test all after acts be tried.

6 Next holy Wareburghus filled my mind, As fair a saint as any town can boast, Or be the earth with light or mirk ywrynde,[4] I see his image walking through the coast: Fitz-Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twenty moe, In vision 'fore my fantasy did go.

7 Thus all my wandering faitour[5] thinking strayed, And each digne[6] builder dequaced on my mind, When from the distant stream arose a maid, Whose gentle tresses moved not to the wind; Like to the silver moon in frosty night, The damoiselle did come so blithe and sweet.

8 No broidered mantle of a scarlet hue, No shoe-pikes plaited o'er with riband gear, No costly robes of woaden blue, Nought of a dress, but beauty did she wear; Naked she was, and looked sweet of youth, All did bewrayen that her name was Truth.

9 The easy ringlets of her nut-brown hair What ne a man should see did sweetly hide, Which on her milk-white bodykin so fair Did show like brown streams fouling the white tide, Or veins of brown hue in a marble cuarr,[7] Which by the traveller is kenned from far.

10 Astounded mickle there I silent lay, Still scauncing wondrous at the walking sight; My senses forgard,[8] nor could run away, But was not forstraught[9] when she did alight Anigh to me, dressed up in naked view, Which might in some lascivious thoughts abrew.

11 But I did not once think of wanton thought; For well I minded what by vow I hete, And in my pocket had a crochee[10] brought; Which in the blossom would such sins anete; I looked with eyes as pure as angels do, And did the every thought of foul eschew.

12 With sweet semblate, and an angel's grace, She 'gan to lecture from her gentle breast; For Truth's own wordes is her minde's face, False oratories she did aye detest: Sweetness was in each word she did ywreene, Though she strove not to make that sweetness seen.

13 She said, 'My manner of appearing here My name and slighted myndruch may thee tell; I'm Truth, that did descend from heaven-were, Goulers and courtiers do not know me well; Thy inmost thoughts, thy labouring brain I saw, And from thy gentle dream will thee adawe.[11]

14 Full many champions, and men of lore, Painters and carvellers[12] have gained good name, But there's a Canynge to increase the store, A Canynge who shall buy up all their fame. Take thou my power, and see in child and man What true nobility in Canynge ran.'

15 As when a bordelier[13] on easy bed, Tired with the labours maynt[14] of sultry day, In sleepe's bosom lays his weary head, So, senses sunk to rest, my body lay; Eftsoons my sprite, from earthly bands untied, Emerged in flanched air with Truth aside.

16 Straight was I carried back to times of yore, Whilst Canynge swathed yet in fleshly bed, And saw all actions which had been before, And all the scroll of fate unravelled; And when the fate-marked babe had come to sight, I saw him eager gasping after light.

17 In all his shepen gambols and child's play, In every merry-making, fair, or wake, I knew a purple light of wisdom's ray; He eat down learning with a wastle cake. As wise as any of the aldermen, He'd wit enough to make a mayor at ten.

18 As the dulce[15] downy barbe began to gre, So was the well thighte texture of his lore Each day enheedynge mockler[16] for to be, Great in his counsel for the days he bore. All tongues, all carols did unto him sing, Wond'ring at one so wise, and yet so ying.[17]

19 Increasing in the years of mortal life, And hasting to his journey unto heaven, He thought it proper for to choose a wife, And use the sexes for the purpose given. He then was youth of comely semelikede, And he had made a maiden's heart to bleed.

20 He had a father (Jesus rest his soul!) Who loved money, as his cherished joy; He had a brother (happy man be's dole!) In mind and body his own father's boy: What then could Canynge wishen as a part To give to her who had made exchange of heart?

21 But lands and castle tenures, gold and bighes,[18] And hoards of silver rusted in the ent,[19] Canynge and his fair sweet did that despise, To change of truly love was their content; They lived together in a house adigne,[20] Of good sendaument commily and fine.

22 But soon his brother and his sire did die, And left to William states and renting-rolls, And at his will his brother John supply. He gave a chauntry to redeem their souls; And put his brother into such a trade, That he Lord Mayor of London town was made.

23 Eftsoons his morning turned to gloomy night; His dame, his second self, gave up her breath, Seeking for eterne life and endless light, And slew good Canynge; sad mistake of Death! So have I seen a flower in summer-time Trod down and broke and wither in its prime.

24 Near Redcliff Church (oh, work of hand of Heaven! Where Canynge showeth as an instrument) Was to my bismarde eyesight newly given; 'Tis past to blazon it to good content. You that would fain the festive building see Repair to Redcliff, and contented be.

25 I saw the myndbruch of his notte soul When Edward menaced a second wife; I saw what Pheryons in his mind did roll: Now fixed from second dames, a priest for life, This is the man of men, the vision spoke; Then bell for even-song my senses woke.

[1] 'Amenged:' mixed. [2] 'Wraytes:' flags. [3] 'Swithin:' quickly. [4] 'Ywrynde:' covered. [5] 'Faitour:' vagrant. [6] 'Digne:' worthy. [7] 'Cuarr:' quarry. [8] 'Forgard:' lose. [9] 'Forstraught:' distracted. [10] 'A crochee:' a cross. [11] 'Adawe:' awake. [12] 'Carvellers:' sculptors. [13] 'A bordelier:' a cottager. [14] 'Maynt:' many. [15] 'Dulce:' sweet. [16] 'Mockler:' more. [17] 'Ying:' young. [18] 'Bighes:' jewels. [19] 'Ent:' bag. [20] 'Adigne:' worthy.

KENRICK.

TRANSLATED FROM THE SAXON.

When winter yelled through the leafless grove; when the black waves rode over the roaring winds, and the dark-brown clouds hid the face of the sun; when the silver brook stood still, and snow environed the top of the lofty mountain; when the flowers appeared not in the blasted fields, and the boughs of the leafless trees bent with the loads of ice; when the howling of the wolf affrighted the darkly glimmering light of the western sky; Kenrick, terrible as the tempest, young as the snake of the valley, strong as the mountain of the slain; his armour shining like the stars in the dark night, when the moon is veiled in sable, and the blasting winds howl over the wide plain; his shield like the black rock, prepared himself for war.

Ceolwolf of the high mountain, who viewed the first rays of the morning star, swift as the flying deer, strong as the young oak, fierce as an evening wolf, drew his sword; glittering like the blue vapours in the valley of Horso; terrible as the red lightning, bursting from the dark-brown clouds; his swift bark rode over the foaming waves, like the wind in the tempest; the arches fell at his blow, and he wrapped the towers in flames: he followed Kenrick, like a wolf roaming for prey.

Centwin of the vale arose, he seized the massy spear; terrible was his voice, great was his strength; he hurled the rocks into the sea, and broke the strong oaks of the forest. Slow in the race as the minutes of impatience. His spear, like the fury of a thunderbolt, swept down whole armies; his enemies melted before him, like the stones of hail at the approach of the sun.

Awake, O Eldulph! thou that sleepest on the white mountain, with the fairest of women. No more pursue the dark-brown wolf: arise from the mossy bank of the falling waters; let thy garments be stained in blood, and the streams of life discolour thy girdle; let thy flowing hair be hid in a helmet, and thy beauteous countenance be writhed into terror.

Egward, keeper of the barks, arise like the roaring waves of the sea: pursue the black companies of the enemy.

Ye Saxons, who live in the air and glide over the stars, act like yourselves.

Like the murmuring voice of the Severn, swelled with rain, the Saxons moved along; like a blazing star the sword of Kenrick shone among the Britons; Tenyan bled at his feet; like the red lightning of heaven he burnt up the ranks of his enemy.

Centwin raged like a wild boar. Tatward sported in blood; armies melted at his stroke. Eldulph was a flaming vapour; destruction sat upon his sword. Ceolwolf was drenched in gore, but fell like a rock before the sword of Mervin.

Egward pursued the slayer of his friend; the blood of Mervin smoked on his hand.

Like the rage of a tempest was the noise of the battle; like the roaring of the torrent, gushing from the brow of the lofty mountain.

The Britons fled, like a black cloud dropping hail, flying before the howling winds.

Ye virgins! arise and welcome back the pursuers; deck their brows with chaplets of jewels; spread the branches of the oak beneath their feet. Kenrick is returned from the war, the clotted gore hangs terrible upon his crooked sword, like the noxious vapours on the black rock; his knees are red with the gore of the foe.

Ye sons of the song, sound the instruments of music; ye virgins, dance around him.

Costan of the lake, arise, take thy harp from the willow, sing the praise of Kenrick, to the sweet sound of the white waves sinking to the foundation of the black rock.

Rejoice, O ye Saxons! Kenrick is victorious.

FEBRUARY, AN ELEGY.

1 Begin, my muse, the imitative lay, Aeonian doxies, sound the thrumming string; Attempt no number of the plaintive Gray; Let me like midnight cats, or Collins, sing.

2 If in the trammels of the doleful line, The bounding hail or drilling rain descend; Come, brooding Melancholy, power divine, And every unformed mass of words amend.

3 Now the rough Goat withdraws his curling horns, And the cold Waterer twirls his circling mop: Swift sudden anguish darts through altering corns, And the spruce mercer trembles in his shop.

4 Now infant authors, maddening for renown, Extend the plume, and hum about the stage, Procure a benefit, amuse the town, And proudly glitter in a title-page.

5 Now, wrapped in ninefold fur, his squeamish Grace Defies the fury of the howling storm; And whilst the tempest whistles round his face, Exults to find his mantled carcase warm.

6 Now rumbling coaches furious drive along, Full of the majesty of city dames, Whose jewels, sparkling in the gaudy throng, Raise strange emotions and invidious flames.

7 Now Merit, happy in the calm of place, To mortals as a Highlander appears, And conscious of the excellence of lace, With spreading frogs and gleaming spangles glares:

8 Whilst Envy, on a tripod seated nigh, In form a shoe-boy, daubs the valued fruit, And darting lightnings from his vengeful eye, Raves about Wilkes, and politics, and Bute.

9 Now Barry, taller than a grenadier, Dwindles into a stripling of eighteen; Or sabled in Othello breaks the ear, Exerts his voice, and totters to the scene.

10 Now Foote, a looking-glass for all mankind, Applies his wax to personal defects; But leaves untouched the image of the mind;— His art no mental quality reflects.

11 Now Drury's potent king extorts applause, And pit, box, gallery, echo, 'How divine!' Whilst, versed in all the drama's mystic laws, His graceful action saves the wooden line.

12 Now—but what further can the muses sing? Now dropping particles of water fall; Now vapours riding on the north wind's wing, With transitory darkness shadows all.

13 Alas! how joyless the descriptive theme, When sorrow on the writer's quiet preys; And like a mouse in Cheshire cheese supreme, Devours the substance of the lessening bays.

14 Come, February, lend thy darkest sky, There teach the wintered muse with clouds to soar: Come, February, lift the number high; Let the sharp strain like wind through alleys roar.

15 Ye channels, wandering through the spacious street, In hollow murmurs roll the dirt along, With inundations wet the sabled feet, Whilst gouts, responsive, join the elegiac song.

16 Ye damsels fair, whose silver voices shrill Sound through meandering folds of Echo's horn; Let the sweet cry of liberty be still, No more let smoking cakes awake the morn.

17 O Winter! put away thy snowy pride; O Spring! neglect the cowslip and the bell; O Summer! throw thy pears and plums aside; O Autumn! bid the grape with poison swell.

18 The pensioned muse of Johnson is no more! Drowned in a butt of wine his genius lies. Earth! Ocean! Heaven! the wondrous loss deplore, The dregs of nature with her glory dies.

19 What iron Stoic can suppress the tear! What sour reviewer read with vacant eye! What bard but decks his literary bier!— Alas! I cannot sing—I howl—I cry!



LORD LYTTELTON.

Dr Johnson said once of Chesterfield, 'I thought him a lord among wits, but I find him to be only a wit among lords.' And so we may say of Lord Lyttelton, 'He is a poet among lords, if not a lord among poets.' He was the son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton, of Hagley in Worcestershire, and was born in 1709. He went to Eton and Oxford, where he distinguished himself. Having gone the usual grand tour, he entered Parliament, and became an opponent of Sir Robert Walpole. He was made secretary to the Prince of Wales, and was in this capacity useful to Mallett and Thomson. In 1741, he married Lucy Fortescue, of Devonshire, who died five years afterwards. Lyttelton grieved sincerely for her, and wrote his affecting 'Monody' on the subject. When his party triumphed, he was created a Lord of the Treasury, and afterwards Chancellor of the Exchequer, with a peerage. He employed much of his leisure in literary composition, writing a good little book on the Conversion of St Paul, a laboured History of Henry II., and some verses, including the stanza in the 'Castle of Indolence' describing Thomson—

'A bard there dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,' &c.—

and a very spirited prologue to Thomson's 'Coriolanus,' which was written after that author's death, and says of him,

—'His chaste muse employed her heaven-taught lyre None but the noblest passions to inspire: Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, One line which, dying he could wish to blot.'

Lyttelton himself died August 22, 1773, aged sixty-four. His History is now little read. It took him, it is said, thirty years to write it, and he employed another man to point it—a fact recalling what is told of Macaulay, that he sent the first volume of his 'History of England' to Lord Jeffrey, who overlooked the punctuation and criticised the style. Of a series of Dialogues issued by this writer, Dr Johnson remarked, with his usual pointed severity, 'Here is a man telling the world what the world had all his life been telling him.' His 'Monody' expresses real grief in an artificial style, but has some stanzas as natural in the expression as they are pathetic in the feeling.

FROM THE 'MONODY.'

At length escaped from every human eye, From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, I now may give my burdened heart relief, And pour forth all my stores of grief; Of grief surpassing every other woe, Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love Can on the ennobled mind bestow, Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our gross desires, inelegant and low.

* * * * *

In vain I look around O'er all the well-known ground, My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; Where oft we used to walk, Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer sun go down the sky; Nor by yon fountain's side, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: In all the wide-stretched prospect's ample bound No more my mournful eye Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.

* * * * *

Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns By your delighted mother's side: Who now your infant steps shall guide? Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care To every virtue would have formed your youth, And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of truth? O loss beyond repair! O wretched father! left alone, To weep their dire misfortune and thy own: How shall thy weakened mind, oppressed with woe, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Perform the duties that you doubly owe! Now she, alas! is gone, From folly and from vice their helpless age to save?

* * * * *

O best of wives! O dearer far to me Than when thy virgin charms Were yielded to my arms: How can my soul endure the loss of thee? How in the world, to me a desert grown, Abandoned and alone, Without my sweet companion can I live? Without thy lovely smile, The dear reward of every virtuous toil, What pleasures now can palled ambition give? Even the delightful sense of well-earned praise, Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise.

For my distracted mind What succour can I find? On whom for consolation shall I call? Support me, every friend; Your kind assistance lend, To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. Alas! each friend of mine, My dear departed love, so much was thine, That none has any comfort to bestow. My books, the best relief In every other grief, Are now with your idea saddened all: Each favourite author we together read My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead.

We were the happiest pair of human kind; The rolling year its varying course performed, And back returned again; Another and another smiling came, And saw our happiness unchanged remain: Still in her golden chain Harmonious concord did our wishes bind: Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. O fatal, fatal stroke, That all this pleasing fabric love had raised Of rare felicity, On which even wanton vice with envy gazed, And every scheme of bliss our hearts had formed, With soothing hope, for many a future day, In one sad moment broke!— Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay; Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign, Or against his supreme decree With impious grief complain; That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Was his most righteous will—and be that will obeyed.



JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

We know very little of the history of this pleasing poet. He was born in 1729, the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin. At the age of seventeen he wrote a farce; entitled 'Love in a Mist,' and shortly after came to Britain as an actor. He was for a long time a performer in Digges' company in Edinburgh, and subsequently resided in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Here he seems to have fallen into distressed circumstances, and was supported by a benevolent printer, at whose house he died in 1773. His poetry is distinguished by a charming simplicity. This characterises 'Kate of Aberdeen,' given below, and also his 'Content: a Pastoral,' in which he says allegorically—

'Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek, So simple yet sweet were her charms! I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek, And locked the dear maid in my arms.

'Now jocund together we tend a few sheep, And if, by yon prattler, the stream, Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep, Her image still softens my dream.'

MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN.

1 The silver moon's enamoured beam Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go, balmy sleep, (Tis where you've seldom been,) May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

2 Upon the green the virgins wait, In rosy chaplets gay, Till Morn unbar her golden gate, And give the promised May. Methinks I hear the maids declare, The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen.

3 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid I love: And see—the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

4 Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Where midnight fairies rove, Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, Or tune the reed to love: For see the rosy May draws nigh; She claims a virgin queen! And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.



ROBERT FERGUSSON.

This unfortunate Scottish bard was born in Edinburgh on the 17th (some say the 5th) of October 1751. His father, who had been an accountant to the British Linen Company's Bank, died early, leaving a widow and four children. Robert spent six years at the grammar schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, went for a short period to Edinburgh College, and then, having obtained a bursary, to St Andrews, where he continued till his seven- teenth year. He was at first designed for the ministry of the Scottish Church. He distinguished himself at college for his mathematical knowledge, and became a favourite of Dr Wilkie, Professor of Natural Philosophy, on whose death he wrote an elegy. He early discovered a passion for poetry, and collected materials for a tragedy on the subject of Sir William Wallace, which he never finished. He once thought of studying medicine, but had neither patience nor funds for the needful preliminary studies. He went away to reside with a rich uncle, named John Forbes, in the north, near Aberdeen. This person, however, and poor Fergusson unfortunately quarrelled; and, after residing some months in his house, he left it in disgust, and with a few shillings in his pocket proceeded southwards. He travelled on foot, and such was the effect of his vexation and fatigue, that when he reached his mother's house he fell into a severe fit of illness.

He became, on his recovery, a copying-clerk in a solicitor's, and afterwards in a sheriff-clerk's office, and began to contribute to Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine. We remember in boyhood reading some odd volumes of this production, the general matter in which was inconceivably poor, relieved only by Fergusson's racy little Scottish poems. His evenings were spent chiefly in the tavern, amidst the gay and dissipated youth of the metropolis, to whom he was the 'wit, songster, and mimic.' That his convivial powers were extraordinary, is proved by the fact of one of his contemporaries, who survived to be a correspondent of Burns, doubting if even he equalled the fascination of Fergusson's converse. Dissipation gradually stole in upon him, in spite of resolutions dictated by remorse. In 1773, he collected his poems into a volume, which was warmly received, but brought him, it is believed, little pecuniary benefit. At last, under the pressure of poverty, toil, and intemperance, his reason gave way, and he was by a stratagem removed to an asylum. Here, when he found himself and became aware of his situation, he uttered a dismal shriek, and cast a wild and startled look around his cell. The history of his confinement was very similar to that of Nat Lee and Christopher Smart. For instance, a story is told of him which is an exact duplicate of one recorded of Lee. He was writing by the light of the moon, when a thin cloud crossed its disk. 'Jupiter, snuff the moon,' roared the impatient poet. The cloud thickened, and entirely darkened the light. 'Thou stupid god,' he exclaimed, 'thou hast snuffed it out.' By and by he became calmer, and had some affecting interviews with his mother and sister. A removal to his mother's house was even contemplated, but his constitution was exhausted, and on the 16th of October 1774, poor Fergusson breathed his last. It is interesting to know that the New Testament was his favourite companion in his cell. A little after his death arrived a letter from an old friend, a Mr Burnet, who had made a fortune in the East Indies, wishing him to come out to India, and enclosing a remittance of L100 to defray the expenses of the journey.

Thus in his twenty-fourth year perished Robert Fergusson. He was buried in the Canongate churchyard, where Burns afterwards erected a monument to his memory, with an inscription which is familiar to most of our readers.

Burns in one of his poems attributes to Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He was certainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 'pairts' rather than high genius seems to express his calibre, he can hardly be said to sing, and he never soars. His best poems, such as 'The Farmer's Ingle,' are just lively daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him—there is nothing ideal or lofty in any of them. His 'ingle-bleeze' burns low compared to that which in 'The Cottar's Saturday Night' springs up aloft to heaven, like the tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, too, with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch- man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough, to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay.

THE FARMER'S INGLE.

Et multo imprimis hilarans couvivia Baccho, Ante locum, si frigus erit.—VIRG.

1 Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;[1] Whan Batio ca's his owsen[2] to the byre; Whan Thrasher John, sair dung,[3] his barn-door steeks,[4] An' lusty lasses at the dightin'[5] tire; What bangs fu' leal[6] the e'enin's coming cauld, An' gars[7] snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain; Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld, Nor fley'd[8] wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain.

2 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, Wi' divots theekit[9] frae the weet an' drift, Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley[10] fill, An' gar their thickening smeek[11] salute the lift. The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find, Whan he out owre the hallan[12] flings his een, That ilka turn is handled to his mind; That a' his housie looks sae cosh[13] an' clean; For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean.

3 Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require A heartsome meltith,[14] an' refreshin' synd[15] O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire: Sair wark an' poortith downa[16] weel be joined. Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle[17] reeks; I' the far nook the bowie[18] briskly reams; The readied kail[19]stands by the chimley cheeks, An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams, Whilk than the daintiest kitchen[20]nicer seems.

4 Frae this, lat gentler gabs[21] a lesson lear: Wad they to labouring lend an eident[22]hand, They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare, Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day; At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound; Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,[23] Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound.

5 On siccan food has mony a doughty deed By Caledonia's ancestors been done; By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed In brulzies[24]frae the dawn to set o' sun. 'Twas this that braced their gardies[25] stiff an' strang; That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird[26] alang; Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays; For near our crest their heads they dought na raise.

6 The couthy cracks[27] begin whan supper's owre; The cheering bicker[28] gars them glibly gash[29] O' Simmer's showery blinks, an Winter's sour, Whase floods did erst their mailins' produce hash.[30] 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide.

7 The fient a cheep[31]'s amang the bairnies now; For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane: Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou, Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen.[32] In rangles[33] round, before the ingle's low, Frae gudame's[34] mouth auld-warld tales they hear, O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:[35] O' ghaists, that wine[36] in glen an kirkyard drear, Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear!

8 For weel she trows that fiends an' fairies be Sent frae the deil to fleetch[37] us to our ill; That kye hae tint[38] their milk wi' evil ee; An' corn been scowder'd[39] on the glowin' kiln. O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; Wi' eild[40] our idle fancies a' return, And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly[41] fear; The mind's aye cradled whan the grave is near.

9 Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave; Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays; Her e'enin stent[42] reels she as weel's the lave.[43] On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw, Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;[44] Careless though death should mak the feast her foy.[45]

10 In its auld lerroch[46] yet the deas[47] remains, Where the gudeman aft streeks[48] him at his ease; A warm and canny lean for weary banes O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas. Round him will baudrins[49] an' the collie come, To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee, To him wha kindly flings them mony a crumb O' kebbuck[50] whang'd, an' dainty fadge[51] to prie;[52] This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee.

11 Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak: What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till; How big a birn[53] maun lie on bassie's[54] back, For meal an' mu'ter[55] to the thirlin' mill. Neist, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids Glower through the byre, an' see the hawkies[56] bound; Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids,[57] An' ca' the laiglen's[58] treasure on the ground; Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

12 Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,[59] Their joints to slack frae industry a while; The leaden god fa's heavy on their een, An hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil: The cruizy,[60] too, can only blink and bleer; The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow; Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, Upo' the cod[61] to clear their drumly pow,[62] Till waukened by the dawnin's ruddy glow.

13 Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! Lang may his sock[63] and cou'ter turn the gleyb,[64] An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear! May Scotia's simmers aye look gay an' green; Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed! May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,[65] Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed; An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed!

[1] 'Keeks:' peeps. [2] 'Owsen:' oxen. [3] 'Sair dung:' fatigued. [4] 'Steeks:' shuts. [5] 'Dightin':' winnowing. [6] 'What bangs fu' leal:' what shuts out most comfortably. [7] 'Gars:' makes. [8] 'Fley'd:' frightened. [9] 'Wi' divots theekit:' thatched with turf. [10] 'Chimley:' chimney. [11] 'Smeek:' smoke. [12] 'Hallan:' the inner wall of a cottage. [13] 'Cosh:' comfortable. [14] 'Meltith:' meal. [15] 'Synd:' drink. [16] 'Downa:' should not. [17] 'Girdle:' a flat iron for toasting cakes. [18] 'Bowie:' beer-barrel. [19] 'Kail:' broth with greens. [20] 'Kitchen:' anything eaten with bread. [21] 'Gabs:' palates. [22] 'Eident:' assidious. [23] 'Spae:' fortell. [24] 'Brulzies:' contests. [25] 'Gardies:' arms. [26] 'Yird:' earth. [27] 'Cracks:' pleasant talk. [28] 'Bicker:' the cup. [29] 'gash:' debat. [30] 'Their mailins' produce hash:' destroy the produce of their farms. [31] 'The fient a cheep:' not a whimper. [32] 'Maen:' moan. [33] 'Rangles:' circles. [34] 'Gudame's:' grandame. [35] 'Wirrikow:' scare-crow. [36] 'Win:' abide. [37] 'Fleetch:' entice. [38] 'Tint:' lost. [39] 'Scowder'd:' scorched. [40] 'Eild:' age. [41] 'Bairnly:' childish. [42] 'Stent:' task. [43] 'Lave:' the rest. [44] 'Oy:' grand child. [45] 'Her foy:' her farewell entertainment. [46] 'Lerroch:'corner. [47] 'Deas:' bench. [48] 'Streeks:' stretches. [49] 'Baudrins:' the cat. [50] 'Kebbuck:' cheese. [51] 'Fadge:' loaf. [52] 'To prie:' to taste. [53] 'Birn:' burden. [54] 'Bassie:' the horse. [55] 'Mu'ter:' the miller's perquisite. [56] 'Hawkies:'cows. [57] 'Tids:' fits. [58] 'The laiglen: 'the milk-pail. [59] 'To green:' to long. [60] 'The cruizy:' the lamp. [61] 'Cod:' pillow. [62] 'Drumly pow:' thick heads. [63] 'Sock:' ploughshare. [64] 'Gleyb:' soil. [65] 'Bien: 'comfortable.



DR WALTER HARTE.

Campbell, in his 'Specimens,' devotes a large portion of space to Dr Walter Harte, and has quoted profusely from a poem of his entitled 'Eulogius.' We may give some of the best lines here:—

'This spot for dwelling fit Eulogius chose, And in a month a decent homestall rose, Something between a cottage and a cell; Yet virtue here could sleep, and peace could dwell.

'The site was neither granted him nor given; 'Twas Nature's, and the ground-rent due to Heaven.

Wife he had none, nor had he love to spare,— An aged mother wanted all his care. They thanked their Maker for a pittance sent, Supped on a turnip, slept upon content.'

Again, of a neighbouring matron, who died leaving Eulogius money—

'This matron, whitened with good works and age, Approached the Sabbath of her pilgrimage; Her spirit to himself the Almighty drew, Breathed on the alembic, and exhaled the dew.'