MICHAEL BRUCE.

1746—1767.

MICHAEL BRUCE, a young Scottish poet of rich promise, was born at Kineswood, in Kinross-shire. His father was an humble tradesman—a weaver, who was burdened with a family of eight children, of whom the poet was the fifth. The dreariest poverty and obscurity hung over the infancy of the poet. 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. His education was retarded by this employment; but his training as a poet was benefited by solitary communion with nature, amidst. scenery that overlooked Lochleven and its fine old ruined castle. At the age of fifteen he was left a legacy of eleven pounds, which was piously devoted to his education, and with which he proceeded to Edinburgh, and was enrolled as a student of the University. Here he was soon distinguished for proficiency in his studies, and for his taste for poetry. Having been three sessions at college, supported by his parents and kind friends, Bruce engaged in teaching school, for which service he received about eleven pounds per annum! His school-room was lowroofed 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 health and spirits. A pulmonary complaint settled on him, and he was forced to return to his father's cottage, which he never again left. With death full in his view, he wrote his Elegy to Spring, the finest of all his productions. He displayed the utmost cheerfulness to the last. After his death, his Bible, found

beneath his pillow, was marked at Jer. xxii. 10, "Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him."

The author of the "Genius of Scotland," Rev. R. Turnbull, says of him: "In his personal appearance he is said to have resembled Shelley; having yellowish curling hair, a long neck and narrow chest, skin white and shining, and his cheeks 'tinged with red rather than ruddy.' He was 'early smitten with the love of song,' and began occasionally to write verses. Possessed of a fine musical ear, he was impatient to get hold of all sorts of old ballads and songs; and while the other children of the village or school were amusing themselves with play, or spending their money on trash, he was poring with delighted eyes over Chevy Chase,' or 'The Flowers of the Forest.' When he had made himself familiar with the music and sentiments of these ballads, he would endeavor to supply his lack of novelty with verses of his own.' It is in this way, probably, that his fine ballad of Sir James the Rose,' and some of his pastorals, originated."

Of all the Scottish northern chiefs,
Of high and warlike name,

The bravest was Sir James the Rose,

A knicht of meikle fame.

His growth was as the tufted fir,

That crowns the mountain's brow;

And, waving o'er his shoulders broad,

His locks of yellow flew.

The chieftain of the brave clan Ross,

A firm undaunted band;

Five hundred warriors drew their sword,

Beneath his high command.

In bloody fight thrice had he stood,
Against the English keen,

Ere two and twenty opening springs
This blooming youth had seen.

The fair Matilda dear he loved,

A maid of beauty rare;

Ev'n Margaret on the Scottish throne

Was never half so fair.

Lang had he wooed, lang she refused,
With seeming scorn and pride;
Yet aft her eyes confessed the love
Her fearful words denied.

At last she blessed his well-tried faith,
Allowed his tender claim:

She vowed to him her virgin heart,
And owned an equal flame.

Her father, Buchan's cruel lord,

Their passion disapproved;

And bade her wed Sir John the Graeme,

And leave the youth she loved.

Ae nicht they met, as they were wont,

Deep in a shady wood,

Where, on a bank beside a burn,

A blooming saugh-tree stood.

Concealed among the underwood,
The crafty Donald lay,

The brother of Sir John the Graeme;
To hear what they would say.

When thus the maid began: "My sire Your passion disapproves,

And bids me wed Sir John the Graeme;

So here must end our loves.

"My father's will must be obeyed;
Nocht boots me to withstand;

Some fairer maid, in beauty's bloom,
Must bless thee with her hand.

"Matilda soon shall be forgot,

And from thy mind effaced:

But may that happiness be thine,
Which I can never taste."

"What do I hear? Is this thy vow?"

Sir James the Rose replied:

"And will Matilda wed the Graeme,

Though sworn to be my bride?