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.