IN connection with the brief life of this amiable young poet, it is unavoidable to take some notice of a claim that has been advanced in behalf of his authorship of the “Ode to the Cuckoo," | and several Scripture Paraphrases which his friend and fellow-student, John Logan, has published as his own compositions. But the few facts of his life may first be related without further reference to a controversy which it was possible and becoming to have conducted with feelings of gentleness and charity.

Michael Bruce, the fifth child of Alexander Bruce, weaver, Kinnesswood, a small village on the banks of Lochleven, in Kinross-shire, was born there on the 27th March 1746. His mother's name was Ann Bruce. He was delicate from his childhood, but appears to have been a precocious scholar, for at the age of fifteen he was sent to the University of Edinburgh.

In their laudable ambition to have their favourite son trained for the ministry, his parents devoted a small legacy, left by a relative, to the defraying of his college expenses.

During the vacation of 1765, he was appointed teacher of a rural school at Gairney Bridge, near Kinross. Having completed his four years' attendance at the university, he entered upon the study of divinity at the Hall of the Burghers, or Associate Synod, a section of Dissenters whose students were taught

by Professor Swanston at Kinross. During the vacation of 1766, he was appointed to teach a school at Forrest-mill, not far from Alloa; and while here, he caught a cold, either from the dampness of the school, or from having fallen into the Devon. The cold soon developed into a consumption, in a constitution originally weak. In a letter from here, he refers to his being engaged upon his poem of "Lochleven," of which he says, "I hope it will soon be finished, as I every week add two lines, blot out six, and alter eight. You shall hear the plan when I know it myself." Here he also composed his "Elegy on Spring," besides a prose sketch somewhat in the style of the "Vision of Myrza," which he sent to his correspondent. He remained at Forrest Hill at least till December 1766, but we are not informed when he finally left it; yet it was evidently from inability to continue at his post. For a few weeks only was he able to remain out of bed after his return home. His last work was the transcribing of his poems into a quarto book; and on the 5th July 1767, he died at the age of twentyone. A monument has been erected to his memory, through the exertions, and almost wholly at the expense, of Principal Baird.

In 1770, there was published, Poems on Several Occasions, by Michael Bruce, a small 12mo volume of 127 pp., without

editor's name, yet having a short bio, graphical preface, in which Bruce is referred to in terms of great admiration and affection. It is intimated in the preface that, "to make up a miscellany, some poems wrote by different authors are inserted." An advertisement in the Scots Magazine announces the price to be 2s. 6d., and that the impression was limited to 250 copies. The "Ode to the Cuckoo" is the last piece but one in the volume. There is no dispute about John Logan, Bruce's college-friend, being the editor, for the manuscripts of the poems were given him by Bruce's father; yet there is no satisfactory evidence of the date at which they were given, or of what they consisted.

In 1781, appeared Poems by the Rev. Mr Logan, one of the Ministers of Leith, and several of the poems that were published in the 1770 volume are here reprinted as the composition of Mr Logan, and among them the "Ode to the Cuckoo." Bruce's father died in 1772; and in 1782, some friends and admirers of the young poet in Stirling resolved to reprint the first edition of his poems. Logan took legal steps to stop the publication, but failed, from the fact of its not being entered in Stationers' Hall, and his not being able to show an assignation of the copyright, his own name not having appeared on the 1770 volume. It does not appear that this reprint was for the benefit of Bruce's mother, or that Logan's consent was asked to its publication; and without information on these points, he cannot be blamed for trying to prevent what he was entitled to hold an infringement of his rights.

The next edition was got up by Principal Baird, in 1796, with the object of benefiting Mrs Bruce, now in her 80th year. This too is a reprint of the 1770 edition, with some additions from MS. supplied by the poet's mother. Doubts as to Logan's authorship of the "Ode to the Cuckoo," and the other poems published as his own in 1781, appear to have been first mooted in connection with this reprint, and Dr Baird is said to have been possessed of a MS. of the Ode in Bruce's handwriting; yet Dr Anderson in his Collection of the British Poets, in 1795, assigns it to Logan, as he states in a correspondence with the friends of Bruce, on the authority of Dr Baird.

The next step in vindicating Bruce's claim was Dr MacKelvie's memoir and edition of Bruce's works in 1837, in which, nearly fifty years after Logan's death, we are asked, on the strength of indefinite traditional reports, to accept a theory, which of necessity assumes Logan, at the age of twenty-one, to have contemplated a scheme for making profit and fame at the expense of his fellowstudent and bosom friend. Than fame and profit there could be no other motives.

Nothing could be more inconsistent with either, than the style and price of the publication; nor can we suppose any amount of fame that could reasonably be supposed to attach to the authorship of so small a poem would be a strong motive to commit an odious crime by a young man whom Dr Blair recommended as the tutor of Sir John Sinclair. As to the profit, we know enough of publishing to believe in the probability of his having been

somewhat out of pocket by the venture. On this point Dr MacKelvie very candidly confesses that Dr Baird's edition of 1000 copies, at 3s. a copy, yielded a profit of only eight pounds; and yet he thinks Logan's issue of 250, at 2s. 6d., should have produced £20. Dr MacKelvie's book gave rise to a considerable amount of discussion, but does not seem to have converted the most experienced judges of such matters to his way of thinking. Dr Robert Chambers still held by Logan's authorship; and Dr David Laing wrote a paper on the subject in 1843, which, however, he did not publish; yet, when the works of Michael Bruce, with a memoir by the Rev. Alexander Grosart, appeared in 1865, he was constrained to print it with some additional matters of fact bearing on the question. Dr Laing's pamphlet is as little controversial as possible, and leaves the facts to make their own impression; a course which, had Mr Grosart followed, would have been more in keeping with that affectionate respect which every lover of his country's poetry must feel for the character of Michael Bruce, who certainly does not need that his fame should be augmented by delineating Logan in terms which their author would not dare to apply to any man living. The determination of the authorship of the "Ode to the Cuckoo" is of much less consequence than that the discussion of literary questions should not be conducted in language which would not be tolerated even in a presbytery meeting.

Dr MacKelvie's Life of Michael Bruce, which is the groundwork of all

but the most objectionable parts of Mr Grosart's book, is the work of an honest and painstaking, but nonjudicial and undiscriminating enthusiast, whose picture of Michael Bruce is that of a medieval saint, with few of the features, and none of the weaknesses, of common humanity; yet, in his zeal for Bruce, he does not condescend to gratuitous abuse of Logan; and it can hardly be doubted that he is desirous to treat him fairly, according to his convictions.

With Dr Laing's pamphlet, he may be said to supply the materials for judging the question of the authorship of the "Ode to the Cuckoo."

SIR JAMES THE ROSS.

Of all the Scottish northern chiefs

Of his high warlike name, The bravest was Sir James the Ross, A knight 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 the sword
Beneath his high command.

In bloody fight thrice had he stood
Against the English keen,
Ere two-and-twenty op'ning springs
This blooming youth had seen.

The fair Matilda dear he lov'd,
A maid of beauty rare,
Even Margret on the Scottish throne
Was never half so fair.

Lang had he woo'd, lang she refus'd, With seeming scorn and pride; Yet aft her eyes confess'd the love Her fearful words deny'd.

At last she bless'd his well-try'd faith,
Allow'd his tender claim;

She vow'd to him her virgin heart,
And own'd an equal flame.

Her father, Buchan's cruel lord,

Their passion disapprov'd,

And bade her wed Sir John the Graham,

And leave the youth she lov'd.

Ae night they met as they were wont,
Deep in a shady wood,
Where on the bank beside the burn
A blooming saugh-tree stood.
Conceal'd among the underwood
The crafty Donald lay,
The brother of Sir John the Graham,

To hear what they would say.

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

And bids me wed Sir John the Graham, So here must end our loves!

My father's will must be obey'd, Nought boots me to withstand ; Some fairer maid in beauty's bloom Shall bless thee with her hand.

Matilda soon shall be forgot,

And from thy mind defac'd; But may that happiness be thine

Which I can never taste.

What do I hear? Is this thy vow?
Sir James the Ross reply'd;
And will Matilda wed the Graham,
Tho' sworn to be my bride?

His sword shall sooner pierce my heart
Than reave me of thy charms !
Then clasp'd her to his beating breast,
Fast lock'd within his arms.

I spake to try thy love, she said,
I'll ne'er wed man but thee;
The grave shall be my bridal bed,
Ere Graham my husband be.

Take then, dear youth, this faithful kiss
In witness of my troth,

And every plague become my lot,
That day I break my oath.

They parted thus. The sun was set;
Up hasty Donald flies:

And turn thee, turn thee, beardless youth,
He loud insulting cries.

Soon turn'd about the fearless chief,
And soon his sword he drew,
For Donald's blade before his breast
Had pierc'd his tartans through.
This for my brother's slighted love,
His wrongs sit on my arm :
Three paces back the youth retir'd,
And sav'd himself frae harm.
Returning swift, his hand he rear'd
Frae Donald's head above,
And thro' the brains and crashing bones
His sharp-edged weapon drove.

He stagg'ring reel'd, then tumbled down,
A lump of breathless clay;

So fall my foes! quoth valiant Ross,
And stately strode away.

Thro' the green wood he quickly hy'd
Unto Lord Buchan's hall;
And at Matilda's window stood,

And thus began to call :

Art thou asleep, Matilda dear?
Awake, my love, awake;
Thy luckless lover calls on thee,
A long farewell to take.

For I have slain fierce Donald Graham,
His blood is on my sword;
And distant are my faithful men,
Nor can assist their lord.