Of civil rage, the hostile hand of war
Ravag'd the land, gave cities to the sword,
And all the country to devouring fire.
Then these fair forests and Elysian scenes,
In one great conflagration, flam'd to heav'n.
Barren and black, by swift degrees arose
A murish fen; and hence the labouring hind,
Digging for fuel, meets the mouldering trunks,
Of oaks, and branchy antlers of the deer.
Now sober Industry, illustrious pow'r! Hath rais'd the peaceful cottage, calm abode Of innocence and joy: now, sweating, guides The shining ploughshare; tames the stubborn soil; Leads the long drain along th' unfertile marsh ; Bids the bleak hill with vernal verdure bloom, The haunt of flocks; and clothes the barren heath With waving harvests, and the golden grain.
Fair from his hand behold the village rise,
In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees!
Above whose aged tops the joyful swains,
At even-tide, descending from the hill,
With eye enamour'd, mark the many wreaths
Of pillar'd smoke, high-curling to the clouds.
The streets resound with Labour's various voice,
Who whistles at his work. Gay on the green,
Young blooming boys, and girls with golden hair,
Trip nimble-footed, wanton in their play,
The village hope. All in a reverend row,
Their gray-haired grandsires, sitting in the sun,
Before the gate, and, leaning on the staff,
The well-remembered stories of their youth
Recount, and shake their aged locks with joy.
How fair a prospect rises to the eye,
Where Beauty vies in all her vernal forms,
Forever pleasant, and forever new!
Swells the exulting thought, expands the soul,
Drowning each ruder care: a blooming train
Of bright ideas rushes on the mind.
Imagination rouses at the scene;
And backward, through the gloom of ages past,
Beholds Arcadia, like a rural queen,
Encircled with her swains and rosy nymphs,
The mazy dance conducting on the green.
Nor yield to old Arcadia's blissful vales
Thine, gentle Leven! Green on either hand
Thy meadows spread, unbroken of the plough,
With beauty all their own. Thy fields rejoice
With all the riches of the golden year.
Fat on the plain, and mountain's sunny side,
Large droves of oxen, and the fleecy flocks,
Feed undisturb'd; and fill the echoing air
With music, grateful to the master's ear.
The traveller stops, and gazes round and round'
O'er all the scenes, that animate his heart
With mirth and music. Even the mendicant,
Bowbent with age, that on the old gray stone,
Sole sitting, suns him in the public way,
Feels his heart leap, and to himself he sings.
FROM AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN SPRING.
THUS have I walk'd along the dewy lawn;
My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn;
Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn,
And gather'd health from all the gales of morn.
And, even when Winter chill'd the aged year,
I wander'd lonely o'er the hoary plain:
Though frosty Boreas warn'd me to forbear,
Boreas, with all his tempests, warn'd in vain.
Then, sleep, my nights, and quiet bless'd my days;
I fear'd no loss, my mind was all my store;
No anxious wishes e'er disturb'd my ease;
Heav'n gave content and health-I ask'd 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 th' inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,
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 that 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 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 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.
Born 1748-Died 1788.
LOGAN was a native of Scotland, and was educated for the church at the University of Edinburgh. His sermons, published under the care of Dr Robertson, possess much excellence. His poetry is distinguished for its chaste and simple style, and contains some natural and pleasing touches of description. His Ode to the Cuckoo must always be admired. It obtained, when published, a testimony to its excellence which the highest genius might be proud to acknowledge. "Burke was so much pleased with it, that when he came to Edinburgh he made himself acquainted with its author." The moral tendency of his poems is pure, and in his hymns, elevated to devotion.
ODE 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 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.
ODE WRITTEN IN SPRING.
No longer hoary winter reigns,
No longer binds the streams in chains,
Or heaps with snow the meads;
Array'd with robe of rainbow-dye,
At last the spring appears on high,
And, smiling over earth and sky,
Her new creation leads.
The snows confess a warmer ray,
The loosen'd streamlet loves to stray,
And echo down the dale;
The hills uplift their summits green,
The vales more verdant spread between,
The cuckoo in the wood unseen
Coos ceaseless to the gale.
The rainbow arching woos the eye,
With all the colours of the sky,
With all the pride of spring;
Now heaven descends in sunny showers,
The sudden fields put on the flowers,
The green leaves wave upon the bowers,
And birds begin to sing.
The cattle wander in the wood,
And find the wanton verdant food,
Beside the well-known rills;
Blithe in the sun the shepherd swain,
Like Pan attunes the pastoral strain,
While many echoes send again
The music of the hills.
At eve, the primrose path along,
The milkmaid shortens with a song
Her solitary way;
She sees the fairies, with their queen,
Trip hand in hand the circled green,
And hears them raise at times unseen,
The ear-enchanting lay.
Maria, come! Now let us rove,
Now gather garlands in the grove,
Of every new-sprung flower;
We'll hear the warblings of the wood,
We'll trace the windings of the flood;
O come, thou fairer than the bud
Unfolding in a shower.
BURNS was born in a clay cottage near the town of Ayr. He was instructed in reading and English grammar, by a teacher named Murdoch, from the age of seven to nine. For a long time after this period, all that he learned consisted of a few lessons in arithmetic and writing, received during the winter evenings by the cottage fireside, from his father. At the age of thirteen, he was sent to the parish school, during a part of the summer, to learn penmanship. At the age of fourteen, he studied French a few weeks with his old master, and made a wonderful proficiency in that language. At the age of nineteen, he was instructed for a few months in land surveying, and this, with the mention of his very narrow circle of reading, makes up the whole history of his education.
The songs and superstitions of his native land formed the chief aliment of his genius. He learned a multitude of songs, from hearing them sung by his mother at her busy wheel in the cottage; and an old beldame taught him the tales and wonders of Scottish superstition. He declares that the song book was his Vade Mecum, for he pored over it " even when driving his cart or walking to labour."
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