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!