WILLIAM FALCONER.

1769.

The following little poem, by the author of "The Shipwreck," entitles him to a place in the present selection. Like Penrose, it seems to have been the fate of Falconer to recite, to the listening waves, the story of his love; to deplore his absence from the idol of his soul, without the certainty that he should ever be restored to her smiles, or her tears!

William Falconer, born about the year 1730, was a native of Scotland, and bred to the sea. His life, from childhood, a scene of hardship and peril, he had not attained his eighteenth year, when destined to encounter all the horrors of the Shipwreck he has described.—

"Though many a bitter storm, with peril fraught, In Neptune's school the wandering Stripling taught, Not twice nine summers yet matur'd his thought.

"So oft he bled by fortune's cruel dart,

It fell, at last, innoxious on his heart!

His mind, still shunning care, with secret hate,
In patient indolence resign'd to fate."

Undismayed by the recollection of the past, impelled by the hope of the future, in 1769 Falconer again committed himself to the fortune of the seas, embarking on board the Aurora, with the Indian Supervisors, to settle in the East. This ship is conjectured to have taken fire, and the crew to have perished in the conflagration. If MIRANDA cherished any remembrance of her poet, how frequently must she have

"wept the terrors of the fearful wave; Too oft, alas! the wandering lover's grave!"

THE SHIPWRECK, Canto 1.

A NYMPH of every charm possess'd
That native virtue gives,
Within my bosom, all-confess'd,
In bright idea lives.

For her my trembling numbers play
Along the pathless deep,

While, sadly social with my lay,
The winds in concert weep.

If beauty's sacred influence charms
The rage of adverse fate,
Say, why the pleasing soft alarms

Such cruel pangs create?

Since all her thoughts, by sense refin'd,
Unartful truth express,

Say, wherefore sense and truth are join'd
To give my soul distress?

If when her blooming lips I press,
Which vernal fragrance fills,
Through all my veins the sweet excess
In trembling motion thrills;

Say, whence this secret anguish grows,
Congenial with my joy ?

And why the touch, where pleasure glows,
Should vital peace destroy?

If when my Fair in melting song

Awakes the vocal lay,

Not all your notes, ye Phocian throng,

Such pleasing sounds convey;

Thus wrapt all o'er with fondest love,
Why heaves this broken sigh?
For then my blood forgets to move :
gaze, adore, and die.

Accept, my charming Maid, the strain.
Which you alone inspire;

To thee the dying strings complain,
That quiver on my lyre.

O! give this bleeding bosom ease,
That knows no joys but thee:
Teach me thy happy art to please,
Or deign to love like me!

JOHN LOGAN.

1770.

It is to be regretted that so little is known of the personal history of Logan, a poet of uncommon powers, the exquisite finish of whose amatory productions entitles him to particular consideration. Whosoever was the MARIA of his muse, he loved her with an energy of soul bordering on distraction. It is not possible to peruse the following stanzas, extracted from an ode to her, without being affected with emotions similar to those which must have agitated the mind of the poet !

"Gods! shall a sordid son of earth
Enfold a form of heavenly birth,
And ravish joys divine?
An angel bless unconscious arms?
The circle of surrender'd charms
Unhallow'd hands entwine?—

The absent day-the broken dream-
The vision wild-the sudden scream-
Tears, that unbidden flow!-

Ah! let no sense of griefs profound,
That beauteous bosom ever wound
With unavailing woe!

* * * * *

*

Howe'er the wind of fortune blows,
Or sadly-severing Fate dispose
Our everlasting doom;
Impressions never felt before,
And transports to return no more,
Will haunt me to the tomb !

My God! the pangs of nature past,
Will e'er a kind remembrance last
Of pleasures sadly sweet?

*

Can love assume a calmer name?
My eyes with friendship's angel-flame
An angel's beauty meet?

Ah! should that first of finer forms
Require, through life's impending storms,
A sympathy of soul;

The lov'd MARIA of the mind

Will send me, on the wings of wind,
To Indus or the Pole !"

John Logan was born about the year 1748, of respectable parents, at Toutra, in Mid Lothian. His education, begun in the country, was perfected at the university of Edinburgh. He distinguished himself as an historian, a poet, a critic, and a divine. Towards the close of his career, however, he became partially afflicted with insanity. He died in London, whither he had repaired in search of literary speculation, December 28, 1788.

MARIA, come! Now let us rove;
Now gather garlands in the grove,
Of every new-sprung flower;
We'll hear the warblings of the wood;
We'll trace the windings of the flood:
O come thou, fairer than the bud
Unfolding in a shower!

Fair as the lily of the vale,

That gives it's bosom to the gale,

And opens in the sun!

And sweeter than thy favourite dove,
The Venus of the vernal grove,
Announcing to the choirs of love

Their time of bliss begun!

Now, now thy Spring of life appears;
Fair in the morning of thy years,