CHILD of the potent spell and nimble eye, Young Faney, oft in rainbow vest array'd, Points to new scenes that in succession pass Across the wond'rous mirror that she bears, And bids thy unsated soul and wondering eye A wider range o'er all her prospects take; Lo, at her call, New Zealand's wastes arise! Casting their shadows far along the main, Whose brows, cloud-capp'd in joyless majesty, No human foot hath trod since time began; Here death-like silence ever-brooding dwells, Save when the watching sailor startled hears, Far from his native land at darksome night, The shrill-toned petrel, or the penguin's voice, That skim their trackless flight on lonely wing, Through the bleak regions of a nameless main: Here danger stalks, and drinks with glutted ear The wearied sailor's moan, and fruitless sigh, Who, as he slowly cuts his daring way, Affrighted drops his axe, and stops awhile, To hear the jarring echoes lengthen'd din, That fling from pathless cliffs their sullen sound: Oft here the fiend his grisly visage shows, His limbs, of giant form, in vesture clad Of drear collected ice and stiffen'd snow, The same he wore a thousand years ago, That thwarts the sunbeam, and endures the day. 'Tis thus, by Fancy shown, thou kenn'st entranced Long tangled woods, and ever stagnant lakes, That know no zephyr pure, or temperate gale, By baneful Tigris banks, where oft, they say, Thou, unappall'd, canst view astounding fear With thine and elfin Fancy's dreams well Safe in the lowly vale of letter'd ease, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT LEMNOS. On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright The cautious pilot, ten revolving years Great Pæon's son, unwonted erst to tears, Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light Of heaven he watch'd, and blamed its lingering flight: By day the sea-mew, screaming round his cave, Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave, And savage howlings chased his dreams by night. Hope still was his; in each low breeze that sigh'd Through his rude grot, he heard a coming oar: JOHN LOGAN. [Born, 1748. Died, 1788.] JOHN LOGAN was the son of a farmer, in the parish of Fala, and county of Mid-Lothian, Scotland. He was educated for the church, at the university of Edinburgh. There he contracted an intimacy with Dr. Robertson, who was then a student of his own standing; and he was indebted to that eminent character for many friendly offices in the course of his life. After finishing his theological studies, he lived for some time in the family of Mr. Sinclair, of Ulbster, as tutor to the late Sir John Sinclair. In his twenty-fifth year, he was ordained one of the ministers of Leith; and had a principal share in the scheme for revising the psalmody of the Scottish church, under the authority of the General Assembly. He contributed to this undertaking several scriptural translations, and paraphrases, of his own composition. About the same time, he delivered, during two successive seasons, in Edinburgh, Lectures on History, which were attended with so much approbation, that he was brought forward as a candidate for the Professorship of History in the university; but, as the chair had been always filled by one of the members of the faculty of advocates, the choice fell upon another competitor, who possessed that qualification. When disappointed in this object, he published the substance of his lectures in a work, entitled, "Elements of the Philosophy of History;" and, in a separate essay, "On the Manners of Asia." His poems, which had hitherto been only circulated in MS. or printed in a desultory manner, were collected and published in 1781. The favourable reception which they met with, encouraged him to attempt the composition of a tragedy, and he chose the charter of Runnymede for his subject. This innocent drama was sent to the manager of Covent Garden, by whom it was accepted, and even put into rehearsal; but, on some groundless rumour of its containing dangerous political matter, the Lord Chamberlain thought fit to prohibit its representation. It was, however, acted on the Edinburgh boards, and afterward published; though without exhibiting in its contents any thing calculated to agitate either poetical or political feelings. In the mean time our author unhappily drew on himself the displeasure of his parishioners.. His connection with the stage was deemed improper in a clergyman. His literary pursuits interfered with his pastoral diligence; and, what was worse, he was constitutionally subject to fits of depression, from which he took refuge in inebriety. Whatever his irregularities were, (for they have been differently described,) he was obliged to compound for them, by resigning his flock, and retiring upon a small annuity. He came to London, where his principal literary employments were, furnishing articles for the English Review, and writing in vindication of Warren Hastings. He died at the age of forty, at his lodgings, in Marlborough-street. His Sermons, which were published two years after his death, have obtained considerable popularity. His "Ode to the Cuckoo" is the most agreeable effusion of his fancy. Burke was so much pleased with it, that, when he came to Edinburgh, he made himself acquainted with its author. His claim to this piece has indeed been disputed by the relatives of Michael Bruce; and it is certain, that when Bruce's poems were sent to Logan, he published them intermixed with his own, without any marks to discriminate the respective authors.. He is further accused of having refused to restore the MSS. But as the charge of stealing the Cuckoo from Bruce was not brought against Logan in his life-time, it cannot, in charity, stand against his memory on the bare assertion of his accusers.* 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? [* Because some pieces which are printed among the remains of poor Michael Bruce, have been ascribed to Logan, Mr. Chalmers has not thought it proper to admit Bruce's poems into his collection.-SOUTHEY, Quar. Rev. vol. xi. p. 501.] 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 Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, Another Spring to hail. Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee! THE LOVERS. Har. 'Tis midnight dark: 'tis silence deep, My father's house is hush'd in sleep; In dreams the lover meets his bride, The mourner's voice is now suppress'd, The window's drawn, the ladder waits, The dog howls dismal in the heath, The night-struck man through flood and fire. The owlet screams ill-boding sounds, The spirit walks unholy rounds; Hen. I come, I come, my love! my life! And nature's dearest name, my wife! Long have I loved thee; long have sought: At last we meet to part no more! My lovely bride! my consort, come! Har. I fear to go-I dare not stay. Har. Still beats my bosom with alarms: I tremble while I'm in thy arms! What will impassion'd lovers do? What have I done-to follow you? I leave a father torn with fears; I leave a mother bathed in tears; A brother, girding on his sword, Against my life, against my lord. Now, without father, mother, friend, Hen. My Harriet, dissipate thy fears, And let a husband wipe thy tears; For ever join'd our fates combine, And I am yours, and you are mine. The fires the firmament that rend, On this devoted head descend, If e'er in thought from thee I rove, Or love thee less than now I love! Although our fathers have been foes, In union spring, in beauty blow. Har. My heart believes my love; but still My boding mind presages ill: For luckless ever was our love, Dark as the sky that hung above. While we embraced, we shook with fears, And with our kisses mingled tears; We met with murmurs and with sighs, An unforeseen and fatal hand Cross'd all the measures love had plann'd A demon started in the bower; If, like the past, the future run, Hen. Oh do not wound that gentle breast, Nor sink, with fancied ills opprest; For softness, sweetness, all, thou art, And love is virtue in thy heart. That bosom ne'er shall heave again But to the poet's tender strain; And never more these eyes o'erflow But for a hapless lover's woe. Long on the ocean tempest-tost, Har. My father's castle springs to sight; Ye towers that gave me to the light! O hills! O vales! where I have play'd; Ye woods, that wrap me in your shade! O scenes I've often wander'd o'er! O scenes I shall behold no more! I take a long, last, lingering view: Adieu! my native land, adieu! O father, mother, brother dear! Farewell, my friends, a long farewell, Till time shall toll the funeral knell. Hen. Thy friends, thy father's house resign; To higher thoughts, and happier life! They rise, the dear domestic hours! Connubial love has dearer names, Like cherubs new come from the skies, You clasp the husband in the son; ROBERT NUGENT, EARL NUGENT. [Born, 1709. Died, 1788.] ROBERT NUGENT was descended from the Nugents of Carlanstown, in the county of Westmeath, and was a younger son of Michael Nugent, by the daughter of Robert Lord Trimlestown. In the year 1741, he was elected member of parliament for St. Mawes, in Cornwall; and, becoming attached to the party of the Prince of Wales, was appointed in (1747) comptroller of his Royal Highness's household. On the death of the Prince he made his peace with the court, and was named successively a lord of the treasury, one of the vice-treasurers of Ireland, and a lord of trade. In 1767 he was created Baron Nugent and Viscount Clare, and subsequently Earl Nugent. He was thrice married. His second wife, with whom he acquired a large fortune, was sister and heiress to Secretary Craggs, the friend of Addison. His political character was neither independent nor eminent, except for such honours as the court could bestow; but we are told that in some instances he stood forth as an advocate for the interests of Ireland. His zeal for the manufactures of his native island induced him, on one occasion, to present the queen with a new-year's gift of Irish grogham, accompanied with a copy of verses; and it was wickedly alleged, that her majesty had returned her thanks to the noble author for both his pieces of stuff. A volume of his poems was published anonymously, by Dodsley, in 1739. Lord Orford remarks, that "he was one of those men of parts, whose dawn was the brightest moment of a long life. He was first known by a very spirited ode on his conversion from popery; yet he relapsed to the faith he had abjured. On the circum stance of his re-conversion it is uncharitable to lay much stress against his memory. There have been instances of it in men, whom either church would have been proud to appropriate. But it cannot be denied that his poem on Faith formed, at a late period of his life, an anti-climax to the first promise of his literary talents; and though he possessed abilities, and turned them to his private account, he rose to no public confidence as a statesman.* ODE TO WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ.† REMOTE from liberty and truth, Drank error's poison'd springs, Taught by dark creeds and mystic law, Wrapt up in reverential awe, I bow'd to priests and kings. Soon reason dawn'd, with troubled sight Too weak it shone to mark my way, Restless I roam'd, when from afar Thus cheer'd, and eager to pursue, Locke spreads the realms of day. Now warm'd with noble Sidney's page, Now wrapt in Plato's dream, But soon the beauteous vision flies; And hideous spectres now arise, Corruption's direful train: Vainly the pious artist's toil Of empire and of man. What though the good, the brave, the wise, To break the eternal doom! [* Goldsmith, who admitted his Epistle to a Lady among his Beauties of British Poetry, addressed his Haunch of Venison to him. "I am told," writes Mr. John Gray to Smollett, "that Dr. Goldsmith now generally lives with his countryman, Lord Clare, who has lost his only son Colonel Nugent." London, July 9, 1771. Europ. Mag. vol. xlv.] To swell some future tyrant's pride, Yet glorious is the great design, If crush'd beneath the sacred weight, Shall tell the patriot's name. ODE TO MANKIND. Is there, or do the schoolmen dream? To whom an uncontroll'd command, Then say, what signs this god proclaim? A throne his hallow'd shrine ? If service due from human kind, Superior virtue, wisdom, might, So reason must conclude: In thee, vast All! are these contain'd, The sceptre's thine, if such there be; ["Mr. Nugent," says Gray to Walpole, "sure did not write his own Ode. Mallet, it was universally believed, had trimmed and doctored it up."] [This very fine verse is quoted by Gibbon in his cha racter of Brutus,-an honour it deserves.] |