Lochleven--Escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle--Michael
Bruce--Sketch of his Life--Boyhood--College
Life--Poetry--"Lochleven"--Sickness--"Ode to Spring"--Death--"Ode
to the Cuckoo."
Pursuing our journey southward, next day finds us on the banks of
Lochleven, distinguished not so much from the beauty of its situation,
as from its poetic and historical associations. It is adorned with four
small islands, the principal of which are St. Serf's Isle near the east
end, so called from its having been the site of a priory dedicated to
St. Serf, and another near the shore on the west side, which immediately
attracts the eye, from its containing the picturesque ruins of Lochleven
Castle, in which Mary, Queen of Scots, was confined, and from which she
made her wonderful escape. Here, also, Patrick Graham, Archbishop of St.
Andrews, and grandson of Robert the Third, was imprisoned, in
consequence of a generous attempt to reform the profligate lives of the
Catholic clergy. In this place he died, and was buried in the monastery
of St. Serf. The keys of the castle, thrown into the lake at the time of
Queen Mary's flight, have recently been found by a young man belonging
to Kinross, and are now in the possession of the Earl of Morton.
The castle, with its massive tower yet standing, looks dismal enough,
but how much it is beautified by the fine old trees and shrubbery which
encircle it, and the mellow light which mantles its hoary sides!
"Gothic the pile, and high the solid walls,
With warlike ramparts, and the strong defence
Of jutting battlements: an age's toil!
No more its arches echo to the noise
Of joy and festive mirth. No more the glance
Of blazing taper through its window beams,
And quivers on the undulating wave;
But naked stand the melancholy walls,
Lash'd by the wint'ry tempest, cold and bleak
That whistles mournful through the empty halls
And piecemeal crumble down the towers to dust."
This description is by Michael Bruce, whose early promise and premature
death have awakened so much sympathy among all classes in Scotland. He
was born in the vicinity of Lochleven, and has written a poem of
considerable merit descriptive of the lake and surrounding scenery. His
"Ode to Spring," and especially his "Ode to the Cuckoo," now universally
acknowledged to be his, are among the most beautiful poems in the
English language. He was born at Kinnesswood, parish of Portmoak, on the
27th of March, 1746. By going round to the north-east bank of the lake,
we shall find this village, insignificant in itself, but sweetly
situated on the south-west declivity of the Lomond hills. Ascending a
narrow lane, we reach, near its centre, the house in which Bruce was
born. It consists of two stories, with a thatched roof. Michael's
parents were very poor, and occupied only the upper part of the house,
which served them at once for a workshop and dwelling. "A true nestling
place of genius," exclaims his biographer, quoting the words of
Washington Irving respecting the birth-place of Shakspeare, "which
delights to hatch its offspring in bye corners." Mean as it is, an
angelic soul has been here, and a charm lingers upon its homely walls.
Dr. Huie of Edinburgh has given the following touching account of a
visit which he paid to this place, in company with one of Bruce's old
friends. "On returning," says he, "from Portmoak church-yard, where
Bruce is buried, I attended my venerable guide to the lowly dwelling
where the parents of the poet resided. We first entered the garden:
'This,' said Mr. B. 'was a spot of much interest to Michael. Here he
used alternately to work and to meditate. There stood a row of trees
which he particularly cherished, but they are now cut down,' added the
good old man, and as he said this, he sighed. 'Here again,' said he,
'was a bank of soft grass on which Michael was accustomed to recline
after he became too weak to walk; and here his father would sit beside
him in the evening, and read to amuse him.' We next entered the house. I
experienced an involuntary feeling of awe when I found myself in the
humble abode, where neglected worth and talents had pined away and died.
The little square windows cast but a feeble light over the apartment,
and the sombre shades of evening, for the sun had now set, were
strikingly in unison with the scene. 'There,' said my conductor, 'auld
Saunders used to sit at his loom. In that corner stood the bed where the
auld couple slept, in this the bed which was occupied by Michael, and in
which he died,' The good old man's eyes filled as he spoke. I found it
necessary to wipe my own. I was not ashamed of my tears. They were a
tribute to departed genius, and there was nothing unmanly in their
flow."
Saunders Bruce, as he was called, the father of Michael, had eight
children, and as the business of weaving has always been a poor one in
Scotland, it was with extreme difficulty that he was enabled to give
Michael a suitable education, though early perceiving in him the seeds
of genius. Saunders was a pious thoughtful man, universally respected,
and a sort of village chronicle. He is supposed to be referred to in the
poem of Lochleven, in the lines commencing,--
"I knew an aged swain whose hoary head
Was bent with years, the village chronicle," etc.
Of his mother we have no means of forming a judgment, and suspect that
her character was not particularly marked. It is his father to whom
Michael himself, and the friends that knew him, chiefly refer in
connection with his early studies and pursuits. Some indeed have
intimated that the stern orthodoxy of the old man was called into
requisition to repress the youthful aspirings of his son, particularly
in the matter of books, but of this not the slightest evidence can be
adduced.
He succeeded in procuring copies of Shakspeare, Pope, Milton, Fontenelle
and Young, all of which he devoured with avidity and delight. The
Scriptures he read at home and at school, and thus became familiar with
the magnificent images and thrilling conceptions of oriental
inspiration.
Michael was a great favorite at school, and made rapid progress in his
studies. But he was frequently called away from school, partly by
sickness, to which he was subject at an early age, and partly by his
fathers straitened circumstances. On this latter account he was employed
for a time as a shepherd, on the Lomond hills, which rise in verdant
beauty behind his native village. This, however, was rather a benefit
than an injury to his mind as well as body. His poem of "Lochleven" is
made up of reminiscences of the romantic scenes with which at that time
he became familiar:--
"Where he could trace the cowslip-covered bank
Of Leven, and the landscape measure round."
"The late proprietor of the upper Kinneston, a small estate upon the
south-west declivity of the Lomond hills, used to relate with much
feeling, the amusing stories told him, and the strange questions put to
him by Michael when herding his father's cattle, and how he would offer
his services to carry the boys' meals to the hill, for the sake of
having half an hour's conversation with this interesting youth."[158]
While his progress in learning was much interrupted in this way, his
mind was advancing, nevertheless, by communion with nature and his own
individual heart. Besides, his frequent absence from school was
compensated by the prosecution of his studies on the hillside, or by his
father's ingle, so that when he returned to school, it took him but a
few days to reach the top of his class. Though modest, and even shy, he
had great influence with his school-fellows. Somehow they regarded him
as a sort of superior being, and his word among them was law. This,
doubtless, arose from the originality of his character, which developed
itself at a very early age.
[Footnote 158: Memoir of Bruce, by Dr. Mackelvie, to which I am chiefly
indebted for the facts of which the accompanying sketch is composed.]
"Silent when glad, affectionate though shy,
And now his look was most demurely sad,
And now he laughed aloud, and none knew why,
And neighbors stared and sighed, and bless'd the lad;
Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad."
BEATTIE'S MINSTREL.
The same deference, it is said, was paid him at home. Indeed, he was the
pet of the family, and all vied to make Michael comfortable and happy, a
homage to genius and worth infinitely more precious than the plaudits of
the world.
While attending school, he formed some interesting friendships,
particularly with William Arnot, a peculiarly amiable young man, who
died in early life, and to whom Bruce makes a touching reference in
"Lochleven." Through the son he became acquainted with the father, a
wise and liberal man, who greatly assisted Michael in his studies, and
gave him the free use of his library. It is to him the following
description refers.
"How blest the man, who, in these peaceful plains,
Ploughs his paternal field; far from the noise,
The care and bustle of a busy world!
All in the sacred, sweet, sequestered vale
Of solitude, the secret primrose path
Of rural life he dwells; and with him dwells
Peace and content, twins of the sylvan shade,
And all the graces of the golden age.
Such is Agricola, the wise, the good;
By nature formed for the calm retreat,
The silent path of life. Learned, but not fraught
With self-importance, as the starched fool
Who challenges respect by solemn face,
By studied accent, and high-sounding phrase,
Enamored of the shade, but not morose,
Politeness, raised in courts by frigid rules
With him spontaneous grows. Not books alone,
But man his study, and the better part;
To tread the ways of virtue, and to act
The various scenes of life with God's applause.
Deep in the bottom of the flowery vale,
With blooming sallows, and the leafy twine
Of verdant alders fenced, his dwelling stands
Complete in rural elegance. The door
By which the poor or pilgrim never passed
Still open, speaks the master's bounteous heart.
Then, O how sweet! amid the fragrant shrubs,
At evening cool to sit; while, on their boughs
The nested songsters twitter o'er their young;
And the hoarse low of folded cattle breaks
The silence, wafted o'er the sleeping lakes,
Whose waters glow beneath the purple tinge
Of western cloud; while converse sweet deceives
The stealing foot of time!"
He found an opportunity of acquiring the Latin language and preparing
for college, with a Mr. Dun, who, for the sake of his son, formed a
class of boys, of which Michael was decidedly the best scholar, as all
acknowledged.
But he was of a slender make, and gave early indications of pulmonary
consumption. 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
Ross," and some of his pastorals originated.
After he had left school, and saw no way of pursuing his studies, a
relative left him the sum of two hundred merks Scots, about sixty
dollars, when it was resolved forthwith that Michael should repair to
Edinburgh University. Mr. Arnot encouraged him in this enterprise, and
promised some assistance, in the shape of provisions and so forth.
Accordingly he set out for the metropolis, and entered college. But he
was often subjected to severe privations. Some of his fellow students
who suspected his poverty were willing to share their meals with him,
but he could not bear the thought of being fed out of pity, and whenever
he imagined the invitation to proceed from this feeling he uniformly
declined it. He was high-spirited; and yet he was truly pious. Indeed,
he had devoted himself to Heaven in his boyhood, and never swerved from
the high principles of Christian integrity.
At college Bruce became acquainted with several young men who
subsequently acquired distinction. Dr. Lawson and the Rev. John Logan
were his fellow students and warmly attached friends. His relations with
Logan subsequently became involved, much to the discredit of the latter,
who is suspected of having dealt ungenerously with his friend's poems,
which, after the death of Bruce, were committed to his care. He is
charged particularly with purloining the "Ode to the Cuckoo," and
publishing it as his own. Logan was a singular man--an orator of a high
order, an accomplished scholar, and an elegant poet. Some of his poems,
particularly his "Visit to the Country in Autumn," "The Braes of
Yarrow," "The Lament of Nature," and other odes and hymns, are beautiful
and finished productions. Some of his discourses, preached at Leith,
though not profound, are eloquent and effective. But he was imperfectly
imbued with the high principles which he endeavored to recommend to
others, and he has greatly tarnished his fair fame by the use which he
is supposed to have made of the labors of Bruce. It is probable,
however, that the "Ode to the Cuckoo" was only drafted by Bruce, and
subsequently polished into its present state of perfection by the
classic pen of Logan.
The companion to whom, of all others, Bruce became the most attached at
college, was Mr. William Dryburgh, from Dysart. Like Bruce, he was
possessed of piety and genius, and like him, too, suffered from
pulmonary disease, and died in early life. Both had a presentiment that
they were destined to a premature grave. And this, with their bright
hope of a blessed immortality, was the frequent subject of their
conversations. Dryburgh died in his eighteenth year, and Bruce followed
him in less than a year after. How keenly he felt this separation may be
gathered from the following letter to a friend, written on receiving the
intelligence of Dryburgh's death:--
"I have not many friends, but I love them well. Death has been among the
few I have. Poor Dryburgh!--but he is happy. I expected to have been his
companion through life, and that we should have stepped into the grave
together; but Heaven has seen meet to dispose of him otherwise. What
think you of this world? I think it very little worth. You and I have
not a great deal to make us fond of it; and yet I would not exchange my
condition with any unfeeling fool in the universe, if I were to have his
dull hard heart into the bargain. Farewell, my rival in immortal hope!
My companion, I trust, for eternity! Though far distant, I take thee to
my heart; souls suffer no separation from the obstruction of matter, or
distance of place. Oceans may roll between us, and climates interpose in
vain--the whole material creation is no bar to the winged mind.
Farewell! through boundless ages, fare thee well! May'st thou shine when
the sun is darkened. May'st thou live and triumph when time expires! It
is at least possible that we meet no more in this foreign land, in this
gloomy apartment of the universe of God. But there is a better world in
which we may meet to part no more. Adieu."
But the grief of a true poet embodies itself in verse. The following
lines, on the death of Dryburgh, were found among Bruce's papers.
Alas! we fondly thought that heaven designed
His bright example mankind to improve;
All they should be was pictured in his mind,
His thoughts were virtue, and his heart was love.
Calm as the summer sun's unruffled face,
He looked unmoved on life's precarious game,
And smiled at mortals toiling in the chase
Of empty phantoms, opulence and fame.
Steady he followed virtue's onward path,
Inflexible to error's devious way,
And firm at last, in hope and fixed faith
Through death's dark vale he trod without dismay.
Whence then these sighs? And whence this falling tear
In sad remembrance of his merit just?
Still must I mourn! for he to me was dear
And still is dear, though buried in the dust.
Bruce's father made great efforts, by means of saving and borrowing, to
assist his son during his college course, and Mr. Arnot continued to
send him occasional supplies from his farm and dairy. But he was sadly
straitened in the matter of books. The following letter upon this
subject is characteristic and striking.
"Edinburgh, Nov. 27, 1764.--I daily meet with proofs that money is a
necessary evil. When in an auction, I often say to myself, how happy
should I be if I had money to purchase such a book! How well should my
library be furnished, 'nisi obstat res angusta domi,'
'My lot forbids, nor circumscribes alone
My growing virtues, but my crimes confines.'
Whether any virtues would have accompanied me in a more elevated station
is uncertain, but that a number of vices of which my sphere is
incapable, would have been its attendants, is unquestionable. The
Supreme Wisdom has seen this meet, and the Supreme Wisdom cannot err."
The annual session in the colleges of Scotland lasts only from six to
eight months, and thus leaves considerable time for relaxation and
private study, or for other occupations necessary to recruit the
students' exhausted finances. At the end of each of these terms, Michael
returned home, much exhausted by his application to study. His system,
however, soon recovered its wonted energy in the congenial scenes of his
boyhood, and the kind attentions of the proprietor of Portmoak. Still he
was seldom in perfect health, and often complained of headache and
depression of spirits. Most of his time during the summer months, the
season of vacation, was spent either in reading or in writing poetry.
During his last session at College, Michael accepted a proposal to teach
a small school at Gairney Bridge, which lies on a small stream running
into Lochleven. He finished his collegiate studies honorably, having
distinguished himself chiefly in _rhetoric_ and _belles lettres_. At
Gairney Bridge he had some thirty or forty pupils under his care, whom
he governed entirely without the rod, then pretty thoroughly used in
Scotland. But the compensation was a mere trifle, not exceeding more
than sixty or seventy dollars a year.
It was in this place that he wrote several of his poems, and became
deeply attached to a beautiful young woman in the neighborhood, to whom,
however, he never declared his passion.
About this time he joined the church in Kinross, under the pastoral care
of the Rev. Mr. Swanston, recently appointed professor of Theology in
the United Secession Church. This learned and amiable man conceived a
strong attachment for Michael, and ever treated him with the greatest
consideration and kindness. Subsequently he engaged to teach a school at
Forest Mill, a dreary sort of place, with miserable school
accommodations. His health too, was declining. While fording the Devon
on horseback, the horse stumbled and immersed him in the stream, a
circumstance which greatly aggravated his consumptive tendency. Moreover
he was disappointed in his school, and his health and spirits rapidly
declined. In a letter to Mr. Arnot, he says, "I expected to be happy
here, but I am not. The easiest part of my life is past. I sometimes
compare my condition with that of others, and imagine if I was in theirs
it would be well. But is not everybody thus! Perhaps he whom I envy
thinks he would be glad to change with me, and yet neither would be
better for the change. Since it is so, let us, my friend, moderate our
hopes and fears, resign ourselves to the will of Him who doeth all
things well, and who hath assured us that he careth for us.
'Si res sola potest facere et servare beatum
Hoc primus repetas opus, hoc postremus omittas.'
"Things are not very well in the world, but they are pretty well. They
might have been worse, and such as they are may please us who have but a
few short days to use them. This scene of affairs, though a very
perplexed, is a very short one, and in a little while all will be
cleared up. Let us endeavor to please God, our fellow creatures and
ourselves. In such a course of life we shall be as happy as we can
expect in such a world as this. Thus you, who cultivate your farm with
your own hands, and I who teach a dozen blockheads for bread, may be
happier than he, who having more than he can use, tortures his brain to
invent some new methods of killing himself with the superfluity." In
this letter, worthy of Cowper or of Foster, we see a brave spirit
struggling with the direst misfortunes, poverty and disease, and
overcoming both by the silent might of a believing spirit.
Another thing which greatly afflicted Bruce at Forest Mill, was the
total want of agreeable scenery, and it was only by an effort of memory
and imagination that he could, in some measure make up this deficiency,
by recalling the delightful scenery of his early home. To this
combination of unfavorable circumstances he touchingly refers in the
poem of Lochleven, which was actually produced under their influence, as
a means of relaxation and enjoyment.
"Thus sang the youth amid unfertile wilds,
And nameless deserts, unpoetic ground!
Far from his friends he strayed, recording thus
The dear remembrance of his native fields,
To cheer the tedious night, while slow disease
Preyed on his pining vitals, and the blasts
Of dark December shook his humble cot."
"Lochleven" is his longest, and in most respects, his most beautiful
poem. It has defects, obvious enough to a critical eye, but its general
excellence strikes every reader. Its descriptions and delineations are
natural and striking, its imagery is simple and poetical, and its
measure sweet and melodious. Nearly the whole of it has been "used up,"
in beautiful extracts by different writers of distinction.
But the composition of this poem seems to have been too much for Bruce's
shattered frame; for he was compelled almost immediately to relinquish
his school. He had just strength to walk home to Kinnesswood, a
distance of nearly twenty miles, resting only a short time at Turf-hills
on the way. Though nowhere on earth could he be happier than in the
humble cottage of his parents, it was yet the worst place in the world
for his disease. "The vapors rising from the lake," says his biographer,
"particularly in spring, keep the atmosphere constantly in a state of
moisture, whilst in the mornings and evenings the eastern haars, as the
fogs which come up from the sea are called by the inhabitants, come
rolling down the hills, and hang suspended over Kinnesswood like a
dripping curtain."
He had expected, in the quiet of his father's home and in the vicinity
of his dear Lochleven, a restoration of health; but in this hope he was
disappointed. The mark of death was upon him. The heart of the beauteous
tree was poisoned by disease, and all its leaves faded and fell to the
ground. It was under the consciousness of this fact, that he wrote his
beautiful and affecting "Ode to Spring," which he sent to a dear friend
to apprise him of his approaching dissolution. The following are its
concluding stanzas.
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 wo;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly sleep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more.
Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the church-yard'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 laborer's eyes;
The world and all its busy follies leave,
And talk with Wisdom where my Daphne 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.
He intimated his approaching death to another friend, in prose, as
affecting as his poetry, and if possible, more instructive.
"A few mornings ago, as I was taking a walk on an eminence which
commands a view of the Forth, with the vessels sailing along, I sat
down, and taking out my Latin Bible, opened by accident, at a place in
the Book of Job, chap, ix: 23, 'Now my days are passed away as the swift
ships.' Shutting the book, I fell a musing on this affecting
comparison. Whether the following happened to me in a dream or waking
reverie I cannot tell, but I fancied myself on the bank of a river or
sea, the opposite side of which was hid from view, being involved in
clouds of mist. On the shore stood a multitude, which no man could
number, waiting for passage. I saw a great many ships taking in
passengers, and several persons going about in the garb of pilots,
offering their service. Being ignorant, and curious to know what all
these things meant, I applied to a grave old man who stood by giving
instructions to the departing passengers. His name, I remember, was the
GENIUS OF HUMAN LIFE. 'My son,' said he, 'you stand on the banks of the
stream of TIME. All these people are bound for ETERNITY, that
undiscovered country whence no traveller ever returns. The country is
very large, and divided into two parts, the one is called the _Land of
Glory_, the other the _Kingdom of Darkness_. The names of those in the
garb of pilots, are _Religion_, _Virtue_, _Pleasure_. They who are so
wise as to choose Religion for their guide, have a safe, though
frequently a rough passage; they are at last landed in the happy climes
where sorrow and sighing forever flee away. They have likewise a
secondary director, _Virtue_; but there is a spurious Virtue, who
pretends to govern by himself; but the wretches who trust to him, as
well as those who have Pleasure for their pilot, are either shipwrecked
or are cast away on the Kingdom of Darkness. _But the vessel in which
you must embark, approaches, and you must be gone._ Remember what
depends upon your conduct.' No sooner had he left me, than I found
myself surrounded by those pilots I mentioned before. Immediately I
forgot all that the old man said to me, and seduced by the fair promises
of Pleasure, chose him for my director. We weighed anchor with a fair
gale, the sky serene, the sea calm. Innumerable little isles lifted
their green heads around us, covered with trees in full blossom;
dissolved in stupid mirth, we were carried on regardless of the past, of
the future unmindful. On a sudden the sky was darkened, the winds
roared, the seas raged; red rose the sand from the bottom of the deep.
The angel of the waters lifted up his voice. At that instant, a strong
ship passed by; I saw Religion at the helm. 'Come out from among these,'
he cried. I and a few others threw ourselves out into his ship. The
wretches we left were now tossed on the swelling deep. The waters on
every side poured, through the riven vessel. They cursed the Lord; when
lo! a fiend rose from the deep, and in a voice like distant thunder,
thus spoke:--'I am Abaddon, the first-born of death;--ye are my prey.
Open thou abyss to receive them!' As he thus spoke they sunk, and the
waves closed over their heads. The storm was turned into a calm, and we
heard a voice saying, 'Fear not, I am with you. When you pass through
the waters they shall not overflow you.' Our hearts were filled with
joy. I was engaged in discourse with one of my new companions, when one
from the top of the mast cried out, 'Courage, my friends, I see the
fair haven, the land that is yet afar off.' Looking up, I found it was a
certain friend, who had mounted up for the benefit of contemplating the
country before him. Upon seeing _you_, (the friend to whom he was
writing,) I was so affected that I started and awaked. Farewell, my
friend,--Farewell!"
See that fragile form, then, with the glowing spirit within, panting for
freedom and its "native skies," borne along in the vessel of Religion,
upon a calm and sunny sea. He looks aloft, and anticipates with serene
and joyful trust, his entrance into the port of everlasting peace. The
vessel glides, with increasing velocity, her sails all set, and gleaming
in the reflected radiance of the spirit-world. Now she enters the port,
and nears that blessed shore,
"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar."
The few days which remained to Michael on earth, he spent in correcting
his poem of the "Last Judgment," and in pluming his spirit for its
upward flight. His bodily strength was exhausted, and he was obliged to
keep his bed. His mind was meditative and hopeful, dwelling almost
wholly upon various passages of Holy Writ, which he would repeat and
comment upon to his friends.
Mr. George Lawson, afterwards Dr. Lawson, professor of theology in the
"Secession Church," being called to preach for a settlement in the
neighborhood of Kinnesswood, hastened upon his arrival there, to see his
friend Bruce. He found him in bed, with his countenance pale as death,
while his eyes shone like lamps in a sepulchre. The poet was delighted
to see him, and spoke with as much ease and freedom as if he had been in
perfect health. Mr. Lawson remarked to him that he was glad to see him
so cheerful. "And why," said he, "should not a man be cheerful on the
verge of heaven?" "But," said Mr. L., "you look so emaciated. I am
afraid you cannot last long." "You remind me," he replied, "of the story
of the Irishman, who was told that his hovel was about to fall, and I
answer with him, _Let it fall, it is not mine!_"
This cheerfulness continued during his illness, till his mother, one
morning, announced to him, just as he was awaking out of sleep, that Mr.
Swanston was dead. He looked at her with a fixed stare, as if stunned by
the intelligence. Upon recovering he satisfied himself as to the
correctness of the statement, and was never afterwards seen to smile!
Still we do not attach much importance to this circumstance; for it
often happens that when the countenance is cold and ghastly, the heart
within is warm and serene. He lingered for a month, manifesting little
interest in what was said or done around him, and on the 5th of July,
calmly and imperceptibly fell asleep, aged twenty-one years and three
months.
So fades a summer cloud away,
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er,
So gently shuts the eye of day,
So fades a wave along the shore.
Life's labor done, as sinks the clay,
Light from its load the spirit flies,
While heaven and earth combine to say,
How bless'd the Christian when he dies!
His Bible was found upon his pillow, marked down at Jer. xxii: 10, "Weep
ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him;" and on the blank leaf this
homely but expressive verse was written:--
"'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."
He was buried in the church-yard of Portmoak, in the very centre of the
scenes hallowed and beautified by his muse. A monument has been erected
to Bruce through the subscription of his friends, of which the following
is the simple but appropriate inscription:
MICHAEL BRUCE,
Born in 1747 at Kinnesswood,
In the County of Kinross,
Died at the age of twenty-one.
In this brief space,
Under the pressure of indigence and sickness,
He displayed talents truly
Poetical.
For his aged mother's and his own support
He taught a school here.
The village was then skirted with old ash trees,
The cottage in which he dwelt
Was distinguished by a honeysuckle
Which he had trained round its
Lashed window.
Certain inhabitants of his native county,
His admirers,
Have erected this stone
To mark the abode
Of
Genius and Virtue.
Bruce was designed for the service of the church. In this view, as well
as with reference to the cultivation of his fine poetical talents, his
death may be deemed a calamity. And yet, such a view of the case may
fairly be questioned. For himself, is he not happier, in the bosom of
his God; and for us, does he not, by means of his Christian life, his
heroic death, his ethereal strains, embalmed in blessed memories of the
past, preach more effectually than he could have done, even had he lived
to occupy a material pulpit. "Being dead he yet speaketh," and speaketh
with a power and pathos which can be reached only by the dead.
Had we room we might give many pleasant extracts from his poetry; but we
must content ourselves with his "Ode to the Cuckoo," in our judgment one
of the most beautiful and perfect little poems in any language.
TO THE CUCKOO.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
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 schoolboy wandering through the wood,
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts the new voice of spring to hear,[159]
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy local vale,
Another 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.
[Footnote 159: In his own copy Bruce had written, "Starts thy curious
voice to hear;" _curious_ is a Scotticism, being equivalent to
_strange_. This Logan probably altered to save the quantity. But the
original expression is preferred by good judges, as more natural and
poetical. "It marks the unusual resemblance of the note of the cuckoo to
the human _voice_ the cause of the _start_ and _imitation_ which
follow."]