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THE HERMIT.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove:
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began:
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

'Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall:
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away:
Full quickly they pass-but they never return.

Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguished her crescent displays;
But lately I marked, when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again;
But man's faded glory what change shall renew?
Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;

I mourn, but ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew:
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save.

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn!
O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave!

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,
That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;

My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

'O pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried,

Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee;

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free!'

And darkness and doubt are now flying away,

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.

So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.

See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!

On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'

JAMES MACPHERSON, whose fame rests entirely upon his translation of the poems of Ossian, was born at Kingussie, a village near Perth, in 1738. Being intended for the church he received the necessary education at Aberdeen; but immediately after he left the university he took charge of the school at Ruthven, near his native place, whence he, however, soon removed, to become tutor in the family of Mr. Graham, of Balgowan. While attending his pupil, afterwards Lord Lynedoch, at the spa of Moffat, he became acquainted with Home, the author of ' Douglas,' to whom he showed what he represented as the translations of some fragments of ancient Gaelic poetry, which he said was still floating in the Highlands. He stated that it was one of the favorite amusements of his countrymen to listen to the tales and compositions of their ancient bards; and he described these fragments as full of pathos and poetical imagery. This statement was so plausible that the patronage of Dr. Blair, Lord Kames, and others, was immediately secured, and Macpherson published a small volume of sixty pages, entitled Fragments of Ancient Poetry; translated from the Gaelic or Erse Language. The publication attracted universal attention; and a subscription was immediately made to enable Macpherson to make a tour of the Highlands to collect other pieces. His journey proved so highly successful that, in 1772, he presented to the world Fingal, an Ancient Epic Poem, in Six Books; and in the following year Temora, another epic poem, in eight books. The success of these publications was immense; but the merits of the works were so fully investigated when we were examining the early poetry of the Island, that any farther notice of them would here be superfluous.

From these translations Macpherson is represented to have realized no less than twelve hundred pounds. In 1764, he accompanied Governor Johnston to Pensacola, as his secretary; but having quarrelled with his patron, he returned to England, settled in London, and became one of the literary supporters of the administration. He published some historical works, was a copious pamphleteer, and, in 1773, sent forth a translation of the Iliad, in the same style of poetical prose, as Ossian. This last performance was a complete failure, and served only as a source of ridicule and personal opprobrium to the translator. As a politician Macpherson was more successful; and a pamphlet of his in defence of American taxation, and another on the opposition in parliament, in 1779, were much applauded. He now obtained a seat in parliament as representative for the borough of Camelford; but with all his ambition and political zeal, it does not appear that he ever attempted to speak in the House of Commons. In 1789, having realized a handsome fortune, he purchased the property of Raitts, in his native parish, changed the name to the more euphonious and sounding one of Belleville, and built upon it a splendid residence, in the style of an Italian villa, in which he hoped to spend an old age of ease and dignity. He enjoyed his splendor, however, for but a brief period; as his death occurred on the seventeenth of February, 1796.

When Macpherson had not the original poems of Ossian to depend upon, he was but a very indifferent poet. Besides the works already mentioned, he produced, in early life, an heroic poem, in six cantos, entitled The Highlander, which is so miserable a production, as to be entirely beneath criticism. He also published several minor pieces, of which the following alone exhibits any poetical fancy :—

:

THE CAVE.

The wind is up, the field is bare,
Some hermit lead me to his cell,

Where Contemplation, lonely fair,

With blessed Content has chose to dwell,

Behold! it opens to my sight,

Dark in the rock, beside the flood;

Dry fern around obstructs the light;
The winds above it move the wood.

Reflected in the lake, I see

The downward mountains and the skies,
The flying bird, the waving tree,

The goats that on the hill arise.

The gray-cloaked herd drives on the cow;
The slow-paced fowler walks the heath;

A freckled pointer scours the brow;
A musing shepherd stands beneath.

Curved o'er the ruin of an oak,

The woodman lifts his axe on high;
The hills re-echo to the stroke;
I see I see the shivers fly!

Some rural maid, with apron full,
Brings fuel to the homely flame;

I see the smoky columns roll,

And, through the chinky hut, the beam.

Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss,

Two well-met hunters talk at ease;

Three panting dogs beside repose;

One bleeding deer is stretched on grass.

A lake at distance spreads to sight,
Skirted with shady forests round;
In midst, an island's rocky height
Sustains a ruin, once renowned.

One tree bends o'er the naked walls;
Two broad-winged eagles hover nigh;
By intervals a fragment falls,

As blows the blast along the sky.

The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide
With labouring oars along the flood;

An angler, bending o'er the tide,

Hangs from the boat the insidious wood.

Beside the flood, beneath the rocks,

On grassy bank, two lovers lean;
Bend on each other amorous looks,
And seem to laugh and kiss between.

The wind is rustling in the oak;

They seem to hear the tread of feet;
They start, they rise, look round the rock;
Again they smile, again they meet.

But see! the gray mist from the lake
Ascends upon the shady hills;

Dark storms the murmuring forests shake,
Rain beats around a hundred rills,

To Damon's homely hut I fly;

I see it smoking on the plain;

When storms are past and fair the sky,
I'll often seek my cave again.

MICHAEL BRUCE, a young and lamented Scottish poet, of rich promise, was the son of an humble weaver, and was born at Kinnesswood, in the county of Kinross, on the twenty-seventh of March, 1746. The dreariest poverty and obscurity hung over the poet's infancy, but his father was a good and pious man, and trained all his children to a knowledge of their letters, and a deep sense of religious duty. In the summer months Michael was put out to herd cattle; and though his education was retarded by this employment, his training, as a poet, was greatly benefitted; as it afforded him an opportunity of communion with nature, amidst scenery that overlooked Lochleven and its fine old ruined castle. When he had arrived at the age of fifteen, he was judged fit for college; and as a relation of his father died just at this period, and left him a legacy of about eleven hundred pounds sterling, the old man piously devoted it to the education of his favorite son. The poet, accordingly, proceeded to Edinburgh, and was enrolled a student of the university. Here he soon became distinguished for his proficiency in general learning, and for his excellence in poetry.

Having been three sessions at college, supported by his parents and some kind friends and neighbors, Bruce engaged to teach a school at Gairney Bridge, where he received, for his labors, about eleven pounds per annum! He afterwards removed to Forest Hill, near Alloa, and there taught for some time with no better success. His school-room was low-roofed and damp, and the poor youth, confined for five or six hours a-day in this unwholesome atmosphere, depressed by poverty and disappointment, soon lost both health and spirits. He wrote his poem of Lochleven at Forest Hill, but was at length forced to return to his father's cottage, which he never after left. A pulmonary complaint had settled on him, and he was in the last stage of consumption. With death full in view, he wrote his Ode to Spring, by far

the finest of his productions. He was pious and cheerful to the last, and died on the fifth of July, 1767, aged twenty-one years and three months. His Bible was found upon his pillow, turned down at the twenty-second chapter and tenth verse of Jeremiah, 'Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him.' So innocent a life could not, indeed, be contemplated without pleasure; but its premature termination must have been a heavy blow to his aged parents, who had struggled in their poverty to nurture his youthful genius.

The poems of Bruce have all the marks of youth upon them—a style only half-formed and immature, and resemblances to other poets, so close and frequent, that the reader is constantly falling upon some familiar image or expression. Had he, however, lived to mature age, it is probable he would have taken a high stand amongst Scottish poets; for he possessed the requisite enthusiasm, fancy, and love of nature, and there was also a moral beauty in his life and character, that must have infused itself into his works. We subjoin this 'Elegy' as the best of his productions :-

ODE TO SPRING.

'Tis past the iron 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.
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.

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.

Loosed from the bands 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.

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.

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.

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.

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