On the green furze, clothed o'er with golden blooms While o'er the wild his broken notes resound While the sun journeys down the western sky, Now is the time for those who wisdom love, 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, My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn; Then, sleep my nights. and quiet blessed my days; Now, Spring returns: but not to me returns 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, And count the silent moments as they pass: The winged moments, whose unstaying speed And bid the realms of light and life adieu. I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe; Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! 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: 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! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, What time the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet The school-boy, wandering through the wood 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! COMPLAINT OF NATURE. Few are thy days and full of woe, Thy doom is written, dust thou art, Determined are the days that fly The numbered hour is on the wing 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 Before its splendid hour the cloud A pilgrim in a weary land, Man tarries but a night. The Almighty heard: then from his throne 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; 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 |