several hymns and paraphrases corresponding with those in the Assembly's selection. These too have been claimed as being Bruce's; but on such untenable grounds, that, before Mr Grosart's advent, no editor of Bruce's works felt warranted in inserting them.

It appears, from a letter by Logan to Dr Carlyle, that he had doubts about the success of his poems, and was anxious to obtain the opinions of judges before committing himself. As to the profits, he says, "If I can pay the expenses of my jaunt [to London] by this publication, I shall be very well pleased." This year also he published the substance of a course of lectures on the Philosophy of History, which he delivered in Edinburgh; and, on account of their favourable reception, he became a candidate for the chair of history in the University of Edinburgh. He was unsuccessful however, for Mr Fraser Tytler (Lord Woodhouselee) was selected for the appointment.

In 1783, Logan wrote Runnamede, a tragedy founded on Magna Charta, which was accepted by the manager of Covent Garden Theatre, but was prohibited from appearing by the Lord Chancellor, on the ground of the subject being political. But worse for the author than its stoppage was the effect upon his congregation; for, coupled with the fact of his having contracted irregular and indulgent habits, it led to his having to resign his charge in 1786, with an annuity out of the stipend. He then went to reside in London, and devoted himself entirely to literature. He became a contributor to the English Review, and wrote a defence of Warren Hastings,

for which the publisher was prosecuted. This trial gave occasion for one of Erskine's most famous speeches, and the publisher was unanimously acquitted by the jury.

Logan did not long survive his removal to London, for he died in December 1788.

It is not our province to defend Logan's character as a man, or as a poet, from legitimate criticism, and we have already indicated our opinion of his blunder in reference to Bruce's poems; but we are only doing our duty in using the right which all literary men are entitled to exercise against the use of unfair weapons, in giving expression to our indignation at an attack of which the following is but a single sample :-

"In the course of my literary researches I have been brought pretty near to Logan, by his own letters, by letters of contemporaries, by anecdotes, and other data, and know not that a more false life has ever been lived the worst of all falsity, moreover, seeing it is a serving the devil while wearing Christ's livery. It may be needful, some day, to reveal all, though personally I should prefer silence, save only where Bruce's claims come in for defence."-Note to Grosart's Works of Michael Bruce, p. 108. Edinburgh, 1865.

Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: his sister's eyes were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of carborne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp, with Ullin; the song of mourning rose.

Ryno. The wind and the rain are over : calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood? as a wave on the lonely shore ?

Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice, for the inhabitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the plain. But thou shalt fall like Morar; and the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in the hall unstrung.

Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the hill; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was as a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

Narrow is thy dwelling now; dark the place of thine abode. With three steps

I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar, thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

Who on his staff is this? who is this, whose head is white with age, whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in battle; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's fame; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar, weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more shall he awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! But the field shall see thee no more; nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. But the song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee; they shall hear of the fallen Morar.

The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why bursts the sigh of Armin, he said? Is there a cause to mourn? The song comes, with its music, to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist, that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is

groves,

Still pictured in my mind!
Oh! sacred scene of youthful loves,
Whose image lives behind!
While sad I ponder on the past,
The joys that must no longer last;

The wild flower strown on summer's bier,

The dying music of the grove,
And the last elegies of love,

Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear!

Alas! the hospitable hall

Where youth and friendship play'd, Wide to the winds a ruin'd wall

Projects a death-like shade!

The charm is vanish'd from the vales; No voice with virgin whispers hails

A stranger to his native bowers:

No more Arcadian mountains bloom, Nor Enna valleys breathe perfume,

May summer soon o'ercast; And cruel fate's untimely wind

All human beauty blast!

The wrath of Nature smites our bowers,
And promis'd fruits, and cherish'd flowers,
The hopes of life in embryo sweeps;
Pale o'er the ruins of his prime,
And desolate before his time,

In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps!

Relentless power! whose fated stroke
O'er wretched man prevails;
Ha! love's eternal chain is broke,

And friendship's covenant fails! Upbraiding forms! a moment's easeO memory! how shall I appease

The bleeding shade, the unlaid ghost? What charm can bind the gushing eye? What voice console the incessant sigh, And everlasting longings for the lost?

flowers.

Companions of the youthful scene,

Endear'd from earliest days!
With whom I sported on the green,
Or roved the woodland maze !
Long exiled from your native clime,
Or by the thunder-stroke of time

Snatch'd to the shadows of despair;
I hear your voices in the wind,
Your forms in every walk I find,

I stretch my arms; ye vanish into a !

My steps, when innocent and young,
These fairy paths pursued ;
And, wandering o'er the wild, I sung
My fancies to the wood.

I mourn'd the linnet-lover's fate,
Or turtle from her murder'd mate,

Condemn'd the widow'd hours to wail.
Or, while the mournful vision rose,
I sought to weep for imaged woes,
Nor real life believed a tragic tale!

That hides me in its gloom,

While lost in melancholy mood

I muse upon the tomb.

Their chequer'd leaves the branches shed; Whirling in eddies o'er my head,

They sadly sigh that winter's near: The warning voice I hear behind That shakes the wood without a wind, And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year.

Nor will I court Lethean streams,
The sorrowing sense to steep;
Nor drink oblivion of the themes
On which I love to weep.
Belated oft by fabled rill,
Which nightly o'er the hallow'd hill
Aerial music seems to mourn,
I'll listen autumn's closing strain ;
Then woo the walks of youth again,
And pour my sorrows o'er the untimely
urn!

look on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children. Half-viewless, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you speak in pity? They do not regard their father. I am sad, O Carmor, nor small is my cause of woe!

Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, and the tales of other times. The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona! the first among a thousand bards. But age is now on my tongue; and my soul has failed. I hear sometimes the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails in my mind: I hear the call of years. They say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard❘ shall raise his fame. Roll on, ye darkbrown years, for ye bring no joy on your course. Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest; my voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a seasurrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there, and the distant mariner sees the waving trees.

CARTHON. [Specimen.]

its white head in the breeze. The thistle is there alone, and sheds its aged beard. Two stones, half sunk in the ground, show their heads of moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the place, for he beholds the grey ghost that guards it, for the mighty lie, O Malvina, in the narrow plain of the rock.

A tale of the times of old! the deeds of days of other years!

Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands around him? The sunbeam pours its bright stream before him; and his hair meets the wind of his hills. His face is settled from war. He is calm as the evening beam, that looks from the cloud of the west, on Cona's silent vale. Who is it but Comhal's son, the king of mighty deeds! He beholds his hills with joy, and bids a thousand voices rise. have fled over your fields, ye sons of the distant land! The king of the world sits in his hall, and hears of his people's flight. He lifts his red eye of pride, and takes his father's sword. "Ye have fled over your fields, sons of the distant land!"

Ye

The murmur of thy streams, O Lora, brings back the memory of the past. The sound of thy woods, Garmallar, is lovely in mine ear. Dost thou not behold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath? Three aged firs bend from its face; green is the narrow plain at its feet; there the flower of the mountain grows, and shakes

behold, he comes from the hill, like a steed in his strength, who finds his companions in the breeze; and tosses his bright mane in the wind. Blest be the soul of Clessammor, why so long from Selma?"

"Returns the chief," said Clessammor, "in the midst of his fame? Such was the renown of Comhal in the battles of his

youth. Often did we pass over Carun to the land of the strangers; our swords returned, not unstained with blood: nor did the kings of the world rejoice. Why do I remember the battles of my youth? My hair is mixed with grey. My hand forgets to bend the bow; and I lift a lighter spear. O that my joy would return, as when I first beheld the maid; the whitebosomed daughter of strangers, Moina, with the dark-blue eyes!"

"Tell," said the mighty Fingal, "the tale of thy youthful days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessammor. Mournful are thy thoughts, alone, on the banks of the roaring Lora. Let us hear the sorrow of thy youth, and the darkness of thy days.

"It was in the days of peace," replied the great Clessammor, "I came, in my bounding ship, to Balclutha's walls of towers. The wind had roared behind my sails, and Clutha's streams received my dark-bosomed vessel. Three days I remained in Reuthamir's halls, and saw that beam of light, his daughter. The joy of the shell went round, and the aged hero gave the fair. Her breasts were like foam on the wave, and her eyes like stars of light: her hair was dark as the raven's wing her soul was generous and mild. My love for Moina was great and my heart poured forth in joy.

"The son of a stranger came; a chief who loved the white-bosomed Moina. His words were mighty in the hall, and he often half unsheathed his sword. Where, he said, is the mighty Comhal, the restless wanderer of the heath? Comes he, with his host, to Balclutha, since Clessammor is so bold? My soul, I replied, O warrior! burns in a light of its own. I stand without fear in the midst of thousands, though the valiant are distant far. Stranger! thy words are

mighty, for Clessammor is alone. But my sword trembles by my side, and longs to glitter in my hand. Speak no more of Comhal, son of the winding Clutha !". "The strength of his pride arose. We fought; he fell beneath my sword. The banks of Clutha heard his fall, and a thousand spears glittered around. I fought; the strangers prevailed: I plunged into the stream of Clutha. My white sails rose over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue sea. Moina came to the shore, and rolled the red eye of her tears: her dark hair flew on the wind; and I heard her cries. Often did I turn my ship; but the winds of the east prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I seen nor Moina of the dark-brown hair. She fell on Balclutha; for I have seen her ghost. I knew her as she came through the dusky night, along the murmur of Lora: she was like the new moon seen through the gathered mist: when the sky pours down its flaky snow, and the world is silent and dark."

"

Raise, ye bards," said the mighty Fingal, "the praise of unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with your songs, to our hills; that she may rest with the fair of Morven, the sunbeams of other days, and the delight of heroes of old. I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook, there, its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers! They have but fallen before