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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.

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

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.

Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws;

Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind;

Thus heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty course, And left the wondering multitude behind.

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.
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.
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.

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.

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.

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:

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 in peace with them at rest.
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.

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.

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.

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 with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

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.

JOHN LOGAN, the friend and college companion of Bruce, was born at Soutra, in the parish of Fala, Mid-Lothian, in 1748. His father, a small farmer, educated him for the church, and, after he had obtained a license to preach, he distinguished himself so much by his pulpit eloquence, that he was appointed one of the ministers of South Leith. He afterwards read, in Edinburgh, a course of lectures on the Philosophy of History, the substance of which he published in 1781, and the following year he gave to the public one of his lectures entire, on the Government of Asia. The same year he published his poems, which were well received; and, in 1783, he produced a tragedy called Runnimede, founded on the signing of Magna Charta. This play was condemned in London, but it was performed with great success in Edinburgh. Logan's parishioners were' opposed to such an exercise of his talents, and unfortunately he had lapsed into irregular and dissipated habits. The consequence was, that, on receiving a small annuity, he resigned his charge, proceeded to London, and there died of a broken heart, in December, 1788.

Among Logan's manuscripts was found several unfinished tragedies, thirty lectures on Roman history, portions of a periodical work, and a collection of sermons, from which two volumes were selected and published by his executors. The sermons are warm and passionate, full of piety and fervor, and must have been highly impressive when delivered. Of his poetical productions the best are, the verses on a Visit to the Country in Autumn, the half-dramatic poem of The Lovers, the ballad stanzas on the Braes of Yarrow, the Address to the Cuckoo, and the Complaint of Nature. The language of these poems is select and poetical, and a vein of tenderness and moral sentiment pervades the whole. The last two follow :

TO THE CUCKOO.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!

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Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

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

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,

Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No Winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

COMPLAINT OF NATURE.

Few are thy days and full of woe,
O man of woman born!

Thy doom is written, dust thou art,
And shall to dust return.

Determined are the days that fly
Successive o'er thy head;

The numbered hour is on the wing
That lays thee with the dead.

Alas! the little day of life

Is shorter than a span;

Yet black with thousand hidden ills

To miserable man.

Gay is thy morning, flattering hope

Thy sprightly step attends;

But soon the tempest howls behind
And the dark night descends.

Before its splendid hour the cloud
Comes o'er the beam of light;

A pilgrim in a weary land,

Man tarries but a night.

Behold! sad emblem of thy state,
The flowers that paint the field;
Or trees that crown the mountain's brow,
And boughs and blossoms yield.

When chill the blast of Winter blows,
Away the Summer flies,

The flowers resign their sunny robes,
And all their beauty dies.

Nipt by the year, the forest fades;

And shaking to the wind,

The leaves toss to and fro, and streak

The wilderness behind.

The Winter past, reviving flowers

Anew shall paint the plain,

The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, And flourish green again.

But man departs this earthly scene,

Ah! never to return!

No second Spring shall e'er revive
The ashes of the urn.

The inexorable doors of death
What hand can e'er unfold?
Who from the cerements of the tomb
Can raise the human mould?

The mighty flood that rolls along
Its torrent to the main,

The waters lost can ne'er recall
From that abyss again.

The days, the years, the ages, dark
Descending down to night,

Can never, never be redeemed

Back to the gates of light.

So man departs the living scene,

To night's perpetual gloom;

The voice of morning ne'er shall break

The slumbers of the tomb.

Where are our fathers! Whither gone

The mighty men of old?

'The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, In sacred books enrolled?

Gone to the resting-place of man,

The everlasting home,

Where ages past have gone before,
Where future ages come.'

Thus nature poured the wail of woe,

And urged her earnest cry;

Her voice, in agony extreme,
Ascended to the sky.

The Almighty heard: then from his throne
In majesty he rose;

And from the Heaven, that opened wide,
His voice in mercy flows.

When mortal man resigns his breath,

And falls a clod of clay,

The soul immortal wings its flight

To never-setting day.

Prepared of old for wicked men

The bed of torment lies;
The just shall enter into bliss
Immortal in the skies!

ROBERT BURNS, the Shakspeare of Scotland, according to Professor Wilson, was born in the parish of Alloway, near Ayr, on the twenty-fifth of January, 1759. His father, a poor farmer, was a man of sterling worth and intelligence, and gave his son the best education he could afford. Robert was taught English well, in the parish school, and by the time he was ten or eleven years of age, he was a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles.' He also learned to write, had a fortnight's instruction in French, and was one summer-quarter at land-surveying. All this, however, was a small foundation on which to erect the miracles of genius! His library, at this time, consisted of the Spectator, Pope's Works, Allan Ramsay's Poems, and a collection of English Songs. To these, in the twenty-third year of his age, he added the poems of Thomson and of Shenstone, and the works of Sterne and of Mackenzie, with the writings of a few other standard authors. As he could not enjoy the advantages of a liberal education, it is scarcely to be regretted that his library was so small; for what books he had he read and studied thoroughly-his attention was not distracted by a multitude of volumes-and his mind grew up with original and robust vigor.

It is impossible to contemplate the character of Burns at this period of his life, without a strong feeling of admiration and respect. His laborious and cheerful exertions to support, by peasant labor, his aged and infirm parents, his manly integrity of character, and his warm and true heart, elevate him, in our conceptions, almost as much as the native force and beauty of his poetry. Toiling on from day to day 'like a galley-slave,' he yet grasped at every opportunity to acquire knowledge from both men and books, with a heart beating with warm and generous emotions, a strong and clear understanding, and a spirit abhorring all meanness, insincerity, and oppression, Burns, in his early days, might have furnished the subject for a great and instructive moral poem.

From childhood Burns, according to his own account, had been in the habit of making verses;' but it was not until 1786, that he ventured to appear before the public as an author. In that year he issued, from the obscure press of Kilmarnock, his first volume; and its influence was imme

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