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?
Ruz. 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.
But 'tis a privilege not all enjoy
To die in doing it.
Ruz. Should not Ruzalla
Then comfort thee for all?
Alph. I know thou wilt, my child. Here have
I seen thee
Grow up and flourish, with the sweets of nature,
To bless thy father's eye, and glad his heart.
But now the world expects thee; and thy virtues
Shall show thee worthy of thy father's name.
To-day I lead thee to Rodriguez' court.
Ruz. Rodriguez!
Alph. Wherefore startst thou at the sound?
Ruz. Did I?
Alph. Why, yes; but know, Alphonzo's race
May look on kings unmoved. Thy gallant fathers
Fought in their cause, and propped their trem-
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
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 lessons 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 Portmoak, 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.
"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
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 produc- | numerous, were given to the world by his coltions; 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.
lege 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
with good nature and good sense-humane, | tion of the ode under his name; the fact of friendly, benevolent-he loved his friends, and his having shown it in MS. to several friends was beloved by them with a degree of ardour before its publication, and declared it to be that is only experienced in the era of youth his own composition; and that during his and innocence." But unfortunately Logan whole life his claim to be the author was not did not prove so scrupulously just to the lite- disputed. On the other hand, in favour of rary fame of his friend, as he was liberal in Bruce, there is the oral testimony of his relapraise of his personal character; for in prepar- tions and friends that they always understood ing the volume of Bruce's poems he mingled him to be the author; and the written evidence with them some of his own, and never gave of Dr. Davidson, professor of natural and civil any explanation by which these might be dis- history, Aberdeen, that he saw a copy of the tinguished. In 1797 a new edition, includ- ode in the possession of a friend of Bruce, that ing several of Bruce's unpublished poems, was it was in his handwriting, and was signed issued by subscription, under the superintend- Michael Bruce, and below it was written these ence of the venerable Principal Baird, for the words "You will think I might have been benefit of the poet's mother, then in her nine- better employed than writing about a gowk” tieth year. In 1837 a complete edition was Anglice, cuckoo. published, with an interesting memoir of the author from original sources by the Rev. W. Mackelvie, in which ample reparation is made to the injured shade of Michael Bruce for any neglect or injustice done to his poetical fame by his early friend Logan. Still another edition of his poetical works has recently appeared, accompanied by a memoir of the "inheritor of unfulfilled renown," by the Rev. A. B. Grosart. With respect to the disputed authorship of the immortal lyric the "Ode to the Cuckoo" ("Magical stanzas," says D'Israeli, "of picture, melody, and sentiment!" and which Edmund Burke admired so much that on visiting Edinburgh he sought out Logan to compliment him), the evidence may be thus stated:In favour of Logan, there is the open publica
In 1812 a handsome obelisk was erected over Bruce's grave in Portmoak Churchyard, bearing the simple inscription-" MICHAEL BRUCE, born March 27, 1746. Died July 6, 1767." The epitaph written by a child of song for himself, one who died young, and, like Bruce, of consumption, might fitly be applied to the author of "Lochleven,” the Ode to the Cuckoo," and the deeply pathetic “Elegy'
"Below lies one whose name was traced in sand,-
He died not knowing what it was to live;
Died while the first sweet consciousness of manhood
And maiden thought electrified his soul;
Faint beatings in the calyx of the rose.
Bewildered reader, pass without a sigh
In a proud sorrow! There is life with God,
In other kingdom of a sweeter air;
In Eden every flower is blown.
Hail, native land! where on the flow'ry banks
Of Leven, Beauty ever-blooming dwells;
A wreath of roses, dropping with the dews
Of morning, circles her ambrosial locks
Loose-waving o'er her shoulders; where she treads,
Attendant on her steps, the blushing Spring
1 Though the poem on Lochleven contains little more than six hundred lines it is astonishing with what a variety of landscapes it is decorated; these are for the most part touched with a spirited pencil, and not seldom discover considerable originality, both in conception and execution; they are not mere copies of still life, but abound in the expression of human passions and feelings, and excite the most permanent and pleasant emotions.-Dr. Nathan Drake.
And Summer wait, to raise the various flow'rs
Beneath her footsteps; while the cheerful birds
Carol their joy, and hail her as she comes,
Inspiring vernal love and vernal joy.
Attend, Agricola, who to the noise
Of public life preferr'st the calmer scenes
Of solitude, and sweet domestic bliss,
Joys all thine own! attend thy poet's strain,
Who triumphs in thy friendship, while he paints
The past'ral mountains, the poetic streams,
Where raptur'd Contemplation leads thy walk,
While silent Evening on the plain descends.
Between two mountains, whose o'erwhelming
tops,
Tinkles amusive. From the mountain's top,
Around me spread, I see the goodly scene!
Inclosures green, that promise to the swain
The future harvest; many-colour'd meads;
Irriguous vales, where cattle low, and sheep
That whiten half the hills; sweet rural farms
Oft interspers'd, the seats of past'ral love
And innocence; with many a spiry dome
Sacred to heav'n, around whose hallow'd walls
Our fathers slumber in the narrow house.
Gay, beauteous villas, bosom'd in the woods,
Like constellations in the starry sky,
Complete the scene. The vales, the vocal hills,
The woods, the waters, and the heart of man,
Send out a gen'ral song; 'tis beauty all
To poet's eye, and music to his ear.
Nor is the shepherd silent on his hill,
His flocks around; nor school-boys, as they creep,
Slow-paced, tow'rds school; intent, with oaten
pipe,
They wake by turns wild music on the way.
Behold the man of sorrows hail the light! New risen from the bed of pain, where late, Toss'd to and fro upon a couch of thorns,
In youth and beauty, his unbidden tongue
Pours native harmony, and sings to Heav'n.
In ancient times, as ancient bards have sung,
This was a forest. Here the mountain-oak
Hung o'er the craggy cliff, while from its top
The eagle mark'd his prey; the stately ash
Rear'd high his nervous stature, while below
The twining alders darken'd all the scene.
Safe in the shade, the tenants of the wood
Assembled, bird and beast. The turtle-dove
Coo'd, amorous, all the livelong summer's day.
Lover of men, the piteous redbreast, plain'd,
Sole-sitting on the bough. Blythe on the bush
The blackbird, sweetest of the woodland choir,
Warbled his liquid lay; to shepherd swain
Mellifluous music, as his master's flock,
With his fair mistress and his faithful dog,
He tended in the vale: while leverets round,
In sportive races, through the forest flew
With feet of wind; and, vent'ring from the rock,
The snow-white coney sought his ev'ning meal.
Here, too, the poet, as inspir'd at eve
He roam'd the dusky wood, or fabled brook
That piece-meal printed ruins in the rock,
Beheld the blue-eyed Sisters of the stream,
And heard the wild note of the fairy throng
That charm'd the Queen of heav'n, as round the
tree
Time-hallow'd, hand in hand they led the dance,
With sky-blue mantles glitt'ring in her beam.
Low by the lake, as yet without a name,
Fair bosom'd in the bottom of the vale,
Arose a cottage, green with ancient turf,
Half hid in hoary trees, and from the north
Fenc'd by a wood, but open to the sun.
Here dwelt a peasant, rev'rend with the locks
Of age, yet youth was ruddy on his cheek;
His farm his only care; his sole delight
To tend his daughter, beautiful and young,
To watch her paths, to fill her lap with flow'rs,
To see her spread into the bloom of years,
The perfect picture of her mother's youth.
His age's hope, the apple of his eye,
Belov'd of Heav'n, his fair Levina grew
In youth and grace, the Naiad of the vale.
Fresh as the flow'r amid the sunny show'rs
Of May, and blyther than the bird of dawn,
Both roses' bloom gave beauty to her cheek,
Soft-temper'd with a smile. The light of heav'n
And innocence illum'd her virgin eye,
Lucid and lovely as the morning star.
Her breast was fairer than the vernal bloom
He wak'd the long dark night, and wish'd for Of valley-lily, op'ning in a show'r;
Soon as he feels the quick'ning beam of heav'n,
And balmy breath of May, among the fields
And flow'rs he takes his morning walk: his heart
Beats with new life; his eye is bright and blithe;
Health strews her roses o'er his cheek; renew'd
Fair as the morn, and beautiful as May,
The glory of the year, when first she comes
Array'd, all-beauteous, with the robes of heav'n,
And breathing summer breezes; from her locks
Shakes genial dews, and from her lap the flow'rs.
Thus beautiful she look'd; yet something more,
And better far than beauty, in her looks
Appear'd: the maiden blush of modesty;
The smile of cheerfulness, and sweet content;
Health's freshest rose, the sunshine of the soul;
Each height'ning each, diffus'd o'er all her form
A nameless grace, the beauty of the mind.
Thus finish'd fair above her peers, she drew
The eyes of all the village, and inflam'd
The rival shepherds of the neighb'ring dale,
Who laid the spoils of summer at her feet,
And made the woods enamour'd of her name.
But pure as buds before they blow, and still
A virgin in her heart, she knew not love;
But all alone, amid her garden fair,
From morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve,
She spent her days; her pleasing task to tend
The flow'rs; to lave them from the water-spring;
To ope the buds with her enamour'd breath,
Rank the gay tribes, and rear them in the sun.
In youth the index of maturer years,
Left by her school-companions at their play,
She'd often wander in the wood, or roam
The wilderness, in quest of curious flow'r,
Or nest of bird unknown, till eve approach'd,
And hem'd her in the shade. To obvious swain,
Or woodman chanting in the greenwood glin,
She'd bring the beauteous spoils, and ask their
Thus ply'd assiduous her delightful task,
Day after day, till ev'ry herb she nam'd
'Twas on a summer's day, when early show'rs
Had wak'd the various vegetable race
To life and beauty, fair Levina stray'd.
Far in the blooming wilderness she stray'd
To gather herbs, and the fair race of flow'rs,
That nature's hand creative pours at will,
Beauty unbounded! over earth's green lap,
Gay without number, in the day of rain.
O'er valleys gay, o'er hillocks green she walk'd,
Sweet as the season, and at times awak'd
The echoes of the vale, with native notes
Of heart-felt joy, in numbers heav'nly sweet;
Sweet as th' hosannahs of a form of light,
A sweet-tongu'd seraph in the bow'rs of bliss.
Her, as she halted on a green hill-top,
A quiver'd hunter spied. Her flowing locks,
In golden ringlets glitt'ring to the sun,
Upon her bosom play'd. Her mantle green,
Like thine, O nature! to her rosy cheek
Lent beauty new; as from the verdant leaf
The rose-bud blushes with a deeper bloom,
Amid the walks of May. The stranger's eye
Was caught as with ethereal presence. Oft
He look'd to heav'n, and oft he met her eye
In all the silent eloquence of love;
Then, wak'd from wonder, with a smile began:
"Fair wanderer of the wood! what heav'nly
pow'r,
Or providence, conducts thy wand'ring steps
To this wild forest, from thy native seat
That paints the robe of spring, and knew the voice And parents, happy in a child so fair?
Of every warbler in the vernal wood.
Her garden stretch'd along the river-side,
High up a sunny bank: on either side,
A hedge forbade the vagrant foot; above,
An ancient forest screen'd the green recess.
Transplanted here by her creative hand,
Each herb of nature, full of fragrant sweets,
That scents the breath of summer; every flow'r,
Pride of the plain, that blooms on festal days
In shepherd's garland, and adorns the year,
In beauteous clusters flourish'd; nature's work,
And order, finish'd by the hand of art.
Here gowans, natives of the village green,
To daisies grew.
The lilies of the field
Put on the robe they neither sew'd nor spun.
Sweet-smelling shrubs and cheerful spreading
trees,
Unfrequent scatter'd, as by nature's hand,
Shaded the flowers, and to her Eden drew
The earliest concerts of the spring, and all
The various music of the vocal year:
Retreat romantic! Thus from early youth
Her life she led; one summer's day, serene
And fair, without a cloud: like poet's dream
Of vernal landscapes, of Elysian vales,
And islands of the blest; where, hand in hand,
Eternal spring and autumn rule the year,
And love and joy lead on immortal youth.
A shepherdess, or virgin of the vale,
Thy dress bespeaks; but thy majestic mien,
And eye, bright as the morning-star, confess
Superior birth and beauty, born to rule:
As from the stormy cloud of night, that veils
Her virgin orb, appears the Queen of heav'n,
And with full beauty gilds the face of night.
Whom shall I call the fairest of her sex,
And charmer of my soul? In yonder vale,
Come, let us crop the roses of the brook,
And wildings of the wood: soft under shade,
Let us recline by mossy fountain side,
While the wood suffers in the beam of noon.
I'll bring my love the choice of all the shades;
First-fruits; the apple ruddy from the rock;
And clust'ring nuts, that burnish in the beam.
O wilt thou bless my dwelling, and become
The owner of these fields? I'll give thee all
That I possess, and all thou seest is mine."
|