And as for hate, to woman or to man
Her lip just pressing on her folded fan!
With pulse unquickened, with unreddened cheeks,
This cold no-bliss is all the bliss she seeks.
Close by her side her withered lord the while
With toothless visage tries an awkward smile;
So on some moral tombstone sculptors place
A death's-head grinning in a cherub's face.
Him Folly tempted in some weaker hour,
Just sunk again to sweeten new repose;
No tangled knowledge did the soul endure,
And this was wisdom, for the soul was pure.
Nor yet, for all the powers of boastful art,
Each deeper science, each sublimer part,
Did pride allow me, would I barter this,
The meek-eyed virtue, with her peaceful bliss.
Cease then to chase the meteor as it flies,
Be humbly happy, and be humbly wise.
(For long had Love been foiled, and lost his Toknowwhat nature meant, what Heaven allowed, power,)
To covet, in the crazy wane of life,
Imputed honour from a beauteous wife.
With the faint No, which love interprets Yes,
The nymph had doomed another suitor's bliss,
When this Antonio, like the god of old,
Came, saw, and conquered in a shower of gold;
Lemira's prudent phlegm had time to see
That six in jointure fairly doubles three.
Some venial errors to the sex allow;
All these are women:-Lucia, what art thou?
Thee, gentlest, wisest, nature formed to move
The wise to wonder, and the soft to love:
With all the prudence coldest natures know,
The warmth that bids a seraph's bosom glow,
Humility to learn, with skill to guide,
The blush of meekness, yet with virtue's pride;
Mild with each grace, with reason's strength to
Thy heart is woman's, but thy mind is more.
Yet ask the world, has Lucia ne'er a failing? And shall its railers burst for want of railing! Lucia, an angel, goddess, what you will,Sighs for a title, and is woman still.
How start my feelings from desires like these! How swells my wonder that a sound should please! With like surprise the world's gay sons would see Thin fancy charm, or musing sadness, me. How would they view me from their crowds retire, To feast on thought beside my evening fire! By nature formed to dwell on fancy's themes, With sacred faith I hear her wildest dreams; On all her clouds impress a livelier glow, And flush the painting of her gaudiest bow. Or sometimes, stung by virtue's broken rules, The pomp of villains, and the pride of fools, Grown sick of life, a wistful thought I cast Where thought had scarce begun to guide the past;
Too great for vice, too little to be proud,
With mirth to cheer, with temper ne'er forgot,
This may be ours--'twas Lentulus's lot.
Born in that middle state which gives to know
What greatness is, what greatness can't bestow;
With moderate wishes, but no cares that vex;
With knowledge just to guide, but not perplex;
That ne'er at truth's plain dictates took offence;
That ne'er in subtlety was lost to sense;
With taste that knew the pleasing path to strike,
Without the nice discernment of dislike;
Warm from his heart though virtue's zeal arose,
Compassion checked the flame, and spared her
foes,
With pious awe her jealous sense suppressed, And took the worst of seemings at the best; Even for the worst a brother's yearnings kept, And where his faith condemned, his nature wept.
Free from her proudest good, her direst harm,
He fled from fortune to an humble farm;
There shunned the crowd his virtue ne'er ap-
proved;
There saw the better few his virtue loved.
Oh, let me oft the blissful scene recall,
(While proud ambition's plumy visious fall,)
His barn when autumn's yellow bounty stored,
The modern patriarch o'er his festive board!
His festive board, which modest nature graced,
Nor tortured appetite, and called it Taste;
Where towered no plate, no saucy lacqueys
frowned,
But rosy children sat like cherubs round:
There, on the welcome guest, the wife, the child,
The friend, the husband, and the father smiled;
There, mildly jocund o'er the temperate bowl,
Free rose the mirth that poured his spotless soul;
And warm good nature roved where pleasure lies,
Betwixt the gaily mad and dully wise.
Such was his life; a life his death confessed,
Where truth sad brooding, like a white-plumcd That gave the saint to live, the man to rest.
O'er infant friendship, and o'er infant love;
The fairy tale by simple nurses told,
And memory rushing in the songs of old.
One hallowed satchel still recalls the boy,
The hallowed satchel draws a tear of joy!
Oh, golden days! that ne'er return again,
When life's full current ran without a stain;
Warm from the heart each pointed wish was led,
Without the cold conclusions of the head.
Some little cares, that fluttered as they rose
Heaven took him at an age that just bereft
His keener passions, but his reason left;
That just could feel the present as it passed,
Look o'er his former days, nor fear his last.
Oh, spare his grave, ye proud!--the moulder-
ing clod
No marble covers, but a simple sod;
Near where its withering arms the ancient yew
Leans to the east, and drops the hoary dew:
There on the sward I saw them rest his bier;
(By faith forbidden, starts one human tear,)
Some sons of virtue, now themselves forgot,
Walked, with a pausing step, the silent spot;
On Heaven their eyes they cast, their hopes relied,
Father, thy will be done!"-they said, and
sighed.
Oh that my verse a memory could give
To live for ages, that so pure could live!
Proud to attend on virtue's train alone,
Mark his untainted life,--and mend my own.
Then should no sigh my wounded bosom tear
For aught that fortune's glittering sons may wear;
But reason teach me that we idly roam
For bliss abroad, which she can find at home.
Placed where no spark of genius dares to rise,
Where dulness scarce unfolds her leaden eyes,
With all th' inextricable maze around,
Of Gothic jargon and unmeaning sound,
Virtue may teach to feel but half the chain,
And strew her roses o'er the barren plain.
Blessed if no crime its shameful wages bring,
Nor wealth be wafted on dishonour's wing;
Gay where I can, nor always loving mirth,
Not Fancy's quite, nor quite a son of Earth;
May I, what wisdom can, what weakness should,
Harmless at least, attempt a little good;
And, calmly noting where the pageants end,
Smile at the great, and venerate my friend.
Health to my frame; mine age hath pleasure in't.
As yet a boy, when fortune left me friendless,
His father took, and placed me near Alphonzo.
Our ages were alike, our tempers suited.
Perhaps I owed dependence; but too noble
To claim returns so mean, he gave me friendship,
And ever since we have been linked as brothers,
In war's worst danger have we stood abreast,
And, midst the good or ill of private life,
Our joys and griefs were common.
I have seen
His two brave sons, in valour's glorious cause,
Untimely fall together. Of his children
This darling daughter now alone remains,
And such this daughter as Alphonzo merits.
Her beauty charms all eyes; but that were little:
Compassion, sweetness, every tender grace
That melts in woman, these adorn Ruzalla.
Yet common observation gives its judgment
Short of her worth; for she is formed so gentle,
That she doth put her very virtues forth,
Like buds i' the spring, with fearful modesty.
Sav. I marvel much that qualities so rare
Should not have sounded louder on the tongue
Of praise or envy.
Per. She has 'scaped them both.
Here has she grown beneath a parent's eye,
Unsoiled by common notice; here Alphonzo
Throws off the rugged war, and smooths his soul
To all the soft affections of a father:
For seldom is he seen to haunt the city,
Or list him in the train of smiling courtiers;
His virtues are not made for scenes like those.
Sav. I have not been a lacquey of the court
When braver business called me; but report
Speaks doubly of the king. It speaks him open,
Generous, and brave; but rash and unrestrained
Per. Yet once again, Savedra, let me give thee In passion's or in pleasure's warm career.
A soldier's welcome to his native land.
Sar. I thank thee from my soul. The common
perils
We passed together, make this greeting warm.
How fares our noble chief, the brave Alphonzo?
Per. Even as the warrior should, whose days of
danger
Have decked his age in honours hardly purchased.
Scarce hath an hour elapsed since here, in safety,
He reached the ancient dwelling of his fathers.
Yon ivy'd turrets, beetling o'er the cliff,
Mark the rude grandeur of his warlike race.
Sar. Conduct my steps to find him.
Per. From the castle
His lovely daughter hither led our search:
For, ere we reached it, she forsook her chamber,
To taste the freshness of the breathing morn.
He left me here, and with an anxious haste
Pursues her steps.
Sue. When from my country's shore
Its service called me, she was scarcely past
The years of childhood; but Ruzalla's name
Hath often reached me.
Per. "Tis a sound that carries
His favourite minister, the Lord Alvarez,
Whose fiery spirit in the cause of pleasure
From early youth had mated with the king's,
Is said to mould his master to his will.
Per. "Tis as thou say'st. Impetuous as he is,
The youthful sovereign does but play a part,
Which this man dictates; like the fabled god
Ruler of storms, even in its wildest course,
He bends the monarch's passion as he lists.
Sav. And brooks Alphonzo well this minion's
sway?
Per. Be sure he does not. Who in Spain, that
loves
His country, can? Besides the general hate,
He held in early scorn the proud Alvarez,
For that his name, by favour only graced,
Bears not the stamp of generous ancestry;
And 'tis a weakness, you might note in him,
To fasten an hereditary claim
From noble lineage to a noble mind.
Sar. I have observed it.
Per. 'Tis most open in him.
Last of a long-ennobled race, that yields,
And scarcely yields, to royalty alone,
The purity and honour of his blood
Bear not the least impeachment unrevenged.
Though, in the gentle bearings of his nature,
Most gracious to his friends, and to the man
Whom fate hath placed below him, or whom
fortune
Hath tried with sorrows, mild and piteous;
Touch but this tender part, his family's honour,
And not the tigress, when her foaming chaps
Grind on the hunter's spear, hath deadlier fury.
Sue. Though he is somewhat sparing of com-
plaint,
Nor lets his great soul waste itself in words,
Yet have I marked him feel his services
But ill repaid. The conquest Afric witnessed
Has Spain forgot?
Per. Perhaps her monarch did;
Alphonzo's haughty spirit never stoops
To make the time his friend: warm in the right,
The voice of custom, or the rod of power,
He equally disdains to court or fear.
Hence, in the obsequious region of the palace,
He is not always welcome.-But he comes.
Alph. (To SAVEDRA). Thus let me clasp my soldier! (Embracing him). Thou hast speeded Beyond the steps of age, and overta'en me Somewhat before my hopes.
Sav. The storm that bore
Your vessel from its course, our voyage missed, And gave us vantage.
Alph. "Twas indeed a fierce one.
But dangers past will serve to furnish out
An old man's talk. Thou seest me now returned,
My term of service out, to claim from Spain
Some days of quiet, and a peaceful grave.
But I have placed Savedra in my post,
To turn the tide of battle from her shore,
And more than fill the void my age hath left.
Sae. If Spain shall mark Savedra's deeds with
praise,
"Twill be to think of him to whom she owes them.
Alphonzo's battles taught him how to fight;
Alphonzo's battles taught him how to conquer.
Alph. Of that no more.
First of my fellow-soldiers. Sae. On the coast
Of bleeding Afric, as your orders bore,
I left the troops commanded by Francisco.
The rest with me returned to find at home
Their country's recompense for ten years' service.
Before I left them, in our little camp
Had mirth and festival begun to reign.
Forth from their villages, with eager looks,
The wife, the children of the veteran, came
To meet a husband's and a father's smile;
While joyous bands, with rural minstrelsy,
Danced round our tents, or chorus'd loud and
long
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But the court luxuries have sometimes loaded
The chains that ruthless war itself made light.
When last a tawny file of Moorish captives
Had graced your conquest, by the king's com-
mand,
Alvarez, and some courtiers of his train,
Had them allotted for their private use,
Though Spain had prisoners languishing in Afric,
Whose freedom waited theirs.
Alph. Tis well remembered,
And shall be talked of. I have other wrongs To prologue that, but more of these hereafter Perez, attend Savedra to the castle,
And play the host for me. I'll join you soon, And bring a daughter's smiles to sweeten welcome. [Exeunt SAVEDRA and PEREZ, ALPHONZO alone.
The captives of our valour, won with blood! And shall they swell the train of this Alvarez, Fall on their knees to lift him to his stirrup,
Or toil to smooth his garden terraces?
By Heaven, they shall not.
[As he is going off he meets RUZALLA. Ruz. My father!
Alph. My Ruzalla! let me press thee
Thus to my heart, and weep its fondness o'er thee!
Even in the battle's front I thought on thee;
Midst all the hardships of a soldier's life,
The image of my darling crossed my fancy,
And smiled their force away. Oh! tell me, tell me,
All that my absence missed!-I cannot question--
This throbbing here-Thou hast been well, and
happy:
Hast not, my love?
Raz. Tranquillity and peace
Dwell in my native groves, nor e'er beyond
I strayed to lose them.
Alph. That was well.-Thou sighest;
But woman's very joy should still be tender,
As if it twinned with sorrow. We shall part
No more, my child; Alphonzo's toils are past;
Here shall he rest, his course of glory run,
And give his closing days to Heaven and thee.
Ruz. And shall we be so happy! Oh! my father!
Alph. Ay; wherefore should we not?
Ruz. I know not why.
To see thy safe return, to meet thee thus,
Has been Ruzalla's prayer. Yet now, methinks,
There is an ugly boding at my heart,
That weighs it down.
Alph. Think not so deeply on't.
"Tis not in augury to trouble virtue.
Thither I lead thee, in the hand that struck
Embattled Afric on her burning plains.
Forgive an old man's boasting-thou art his
pride too;
His fond exulting heart anticipates
The praise and wonder of his friends around thee.
Ruz. Oh! I deserve not praise; indeed I do not. I would shrink back, and hide from public notice, Within thy arms, if there thou wilt receive me, With all my errors, all my imperfections.
Alph. This modesty becomes thee; yet the
suffrage
Of worth and virtue may be fairly wished for.
There is indeed a shallow talking race,
Ruz. Oh! teach my feebler mind the strength Insects the sun of royal favour breeds,
of virtue.
Whose flattery you will hold but words of fashion,
You know not how much weakness hangs about Which courtesy must hear, but sense despise.
How little I am worthy of the fate
That gave me birth from such a sire as thou art.
Alph. I will not think so; be it thy father's praise
That he has better taught thee. There are fathers
Who treat their daughters as if nature formed
them
In some inferior mould, fit to obey,
But not to judge; to learn, if they have beauty,
The little arts that teach them how to charm;
Or, if they want it, in domestic office,
To creep this life, and aim at nothing further.
But thou hast learned the mind's exalted purpose,
To feel its powers divine, of thought and reason,
And use them as the immortal gifts of Heaven.
Ruz. Such have the less ons of a parent been.
I owe him more than nature's common debt,
And more than common duty should repay him.
Heaven knows-but feeling is not eloquent--
Silence shall better thank you.
I know thy love, my child, the only good
That I would husband life for. My brave boys
Fell ere their time, but fell in glory's lap;
And other fathers envied me their fall.
It was a soldier's.-All may do their duty,
Allow them the observance of civility,
But not an eye of favour; even the freedom
That innocence might take, must be denied them,
For busy tongues might talk on't; and in woman
The sense of right should ever go beyond
The right itself. Methinks my cautions wrong
thee;
But thou'rt the treasure of thy father's age,
And, like the miser trembling o'er his hoard,
He fears, he knows not why.
Ruz. Oh! speak not thus,
Nor add to all those debts of past indulgence,
That make a wretched bankrupt of Ruzalla.
Alph. My two brave boys have fallen for their
The name of MICHAEL BRUCE may be placed by the side of his countrymen John Finlay, Robert Nicoll, and David Gray, each of whom possessed poetical genius, and all of whom were cut off in "life's green spring." He was born at Kinnesswood, in the parish of Port moak, Kinross-shire, March 27, 1746. His father was a weaver in humble circumstances, but well known for his piety, integrity, and industry. He early discovered in Michael evidences of superior intelligence to that possessed by his other children, which, with his fondness for reading and quiet habits, determined him to educate his son for the ministry. In winter Michael attended the village school, and during the summer months was sent to herd cattle on the Lomond Hills. His education was retarded by this employment, but his training as a poet was benefited by solitary communing with nature amidst scenery that overlooked Lochleven and its castle. It is worthy of notice that in his early partiality for poetry he was encouraged by two judicious friends Mr. David Arnot and Mr. David Pearson, who praised his juvenile attempts at versification, and gave him the advantage of reading such books as Spenser and Shakspere, Milton and Pope.
In 1762 Bruce was sent to the University of Edinburgh, a portion of the expense being met by a small legacy left to him by a relative of his father's. During the summer vacations of his later sessions at college he taught a small school at Gairney Bridge, near Kinross, and afterwards one at Forrest Mill, near Alloa. It was here that he wrote his poem of "Lochleven," and also his exquisite "Elegy to Spring," one of the finest of all his productions; this, too, after he felt that he was soon to fall a victim to consumption, engendered, it is believed, chiefly by his confinement to the low-roofed and damp school-room at Forrest Mill. His " Elegy" was the last composition which he lived to finish.
"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," are four lines of the pathetic poem in which his premature death is foreshadowed. Ere the period arrived for returning to the university he became so weak that he was compelled to give up his employment at Forrest Mill, and return to the shelter of the parental roof. He felt that the hand of death was upon him, and prepared for the final conflict with the calmness and resignation of a Christian. Although from the first moment of his return to his humble home he was so reduced in strength as to be seldom able to walk out, he lingered through the winter, and was gladdened by the sight of the woods and fields again blooming in all the freshness of new life. He was cheerful to the last, and died July 6, 1767, aged twenty-one years and three months:
'Twas but a piece of childhood thrown away."
Bruce's Bible was found upon his pillow, marked down at Jer. xxii. 10: " Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him;" and this verse written on a blank leaf:
Tis very vain for me to boast
How small a price my Bible cost,
The day of judgment will make clear
Twas very cheap or very dear."
His death was a terrible blow to his poor and aged parents, who had struggled hard in their deep poverty to give the gifted child of their household an education befitting his genius. Soon after his death his poems, which are not numerous, were given to the world by his college friend John Logan, who speaks of his departed class mate in terms which do honour to the goodness of his heart. "Michael Bruce," he says, "lives now no more but in the remembrance of his friends. No less amiable as a man than valuable as a writer-endued
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