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,
As late in sullen march for prey he prowls,
The tawny lion sees his shadow'd form,
At silent midnight by the moon's pale gleam,
On the broad surface of the dark deep wave;
Here, parch'd at mid-day, oft the passenger
Invokes with lingering hope the tardy breeze,
And oft with, silent anguish thinks in vain
On Europe's milder air and silver springs.

Thou, unappall'd, canst view astounding fear
With ghastly visions wild, and train unbless'd
Of ashy fiends, at dead of murky night,
Who catch the fleeting soul, and slowly pace,
With visage dimly seen, and beckoning hand,
Of shadowy forms, that, ever on the wing,
Flit by the tedious couch of wan despair.
Methinks I hear him, with impatient tongue,
The lagging minutes chide, whilst sad he sits
And notes their secret lapse with shaking head.
See, see, with tearless glance they mark his fall,
And close his beamless eye, who, trembling, meets
A late repentance, and an early grave.

With thine and elfin Fancy's dreams well
pleased,

Safe in the lowly vale of letter'd ease,
From all the dull buffoonery of life,
Thy sacred influence grateful may I own;
Nor till old age shall lead me to my tomb,
Quit thee and all thy charms with many a tear.
On Omole, or cold Soracte's top,
Singing defiance to the threat'ning storm,
Thus the lone bird, in winter's rudest hour,
Hid in some cavern, shrouds its ruffled plumes,
And through the long, long night, regardless hears
The wild wind's keenest blast and dashing rain.

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:
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listen'd to the fancied roar
Of Etna's torrents, or the hoarser tide
That parts famed Trachis from th' Euboic
shore.

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
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual 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!

Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

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,
She sees her lover at her side;

The mourner's voice is now suppress'd,
A while the weary are at rest:
"Tis midnight dark; 'tis silence deep;
I only wake, and wake to weep.

The window's drawn, the ladder waits,
I spy no watchman at the gates;
No tread re-echoes through the hall,
No shadow moves along the wall.
I am alone. "Tis dreary night,
Oh come, thou partner of my flight!
Shield me from darkness, from alarms;
Oh take me trembling to thine arms!

The dog howls dismal in the heath,
The raven croaks the dirge of death;
Ah me! disaster's in the sound!
The terrors of the night are round;
A sad mischance my fears forebode,
The demon of the dark's abroad,
And lures, with apparition dire,

The night-struck man through flood and fire.

The owlet screams ill-boding sounds,

The spirit walks unholy rounds;
The wizard's hour eclipsing rolls;
The shades of hell usurp the poles:
The moon retires; the heaven departs,
From opening earth a spectre starts:
My spirit dies-Away my fears,
My love, my life, my lord appears!

Hen. I come, I come, my love! my life! And nature's dearest name, my wife!

Long have I loved thee; long have sought:
And dangers braved, and battles fought;
In this embrace our evils end;
From this our better days ascend;
The year of suffering now is o'er,

At last we meet to part no more!

My lovely bride! my consort, come!
The rapid chariot rolls thee home.

Har. I fear to go-I dare not stay.
Look back. I dare not look that way.
Hen. No evil ever shall betide
My love, while I am at her side.
Lo! thy protector and thy friend,
The arms that fold thee will defend.

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,
On thee my future days depend;
Wilt thou, for ever true to love,
A father, mother, brother prove?
O Henry!to thy arms I fall,
My friend! my husband! and my all!
Alas! what hazards may I run?
Shouldst thou forsake me-I'm undone.

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,
From hatred stronger love arose ;
From adverse briers that threat'ning stood,
And threw a horror o'er the wood,
Two lovely roses met on high,
Transplanted to a better sky;
And, grafted in one stock, they grow,

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,
And parted still with watery eyes.

An unforeseen and fatal hand

Cross'd all the measures love had plann'd
Intrusion marr'd the tender hour,

A demon started in the bower;

If, like the past, the future run,
And my dark day is but begun,
What clouds may hang above my head?
What tears may I have yet to shed?

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,
At last we gain the happy coast;
And safe recount upon the shore
Our sufferings past, and dangers o'er:
Past scenes; the woes we wept erewhile
Will make our future minutes smile:
When sudden joy from sorrow springs,
How the heart thrills through all its strings!

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!
O names still utter'd with a tear!
Upon whose knees I've sat and smiled,
Whose griefs my blandishments beguiled;
Whom I forsake in sorrows old,
Whom I shall never more behold!

Farewell, my friends, a long farewell, Till time shall toll the funeral knell.

Hen. Thy friends, thy father's house resign;
My friends, my house, my all is thine:
Awake, arise, my wedded wife,

To higher thoughts, and happier life!
For thee the marriage feast is spread,
For thee the virgins deck the bed;
The star of Venus shines above,
And all thy future life is love.

They rise, the dear domestic hours!
The May of love unfolds her flow'rs;
Youth, beauty, pleasure, spread the feast,
And friendship sits a constant guest;
In cheerful peace the morn ascends,
In wine and love the evening ends;
At distance grandeur sheds a ray,
To gild the evening of our day.

Connubial love has dearer names,
And finer ties, and sweeter claims,
Than e'er unwedded hearts can feel,
Than wedded hearts can e'er reveal;
Pure as the charities above,
Rise the sweet sympathies of love;
And closer cords than those of life
Unite the husband to the wife.

Like cherubs new come from the skies,
Henrys and Harriets round us rise;
And playing wanton in the hall,
With accent sweet their parents call;
To your fair images I run,

You clasp the husband in the son;
O how the mother's heart will bound;
O how the father's joy be crown'd!

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,
By fortune's crime, my early youth

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
I caught the glimpse of painful light,
Afflicted and afraid;

Too weak it shone to mark my way,
Enough to tempt my steps to stray
Along the dubious shade.

Restless I roam'd, when from afar
Lo, Hooker shines! the friendly star
Sends forth a steady ray.

Thus cheer'd, and eager to pursue,
I mount, till glorious to my view,

Locke spreads the realms of day.

Now warm'd with noble Sidney's page,
I pant with all the patriot's rage;

Now wrapt in Plato's dream,
With More and Harrington around
I tread fair Freedom's magic ground,
And trace the flatt'ring scheme.

But soon the beauteous vision flies; And hideous spectres now arise,

Corruption's direful train:
The partial judge perverting laws,
The priest forsaking virtue's cause,
And senates slaves to gain.

Vainly the pious artist's toil
Would rear to heaven a mortal pile,
On some immortal plan;
Within a sure, though varying date,
Confined, alas! is every state

Of empire and of man.

What though the good, the brave, the wise,
With adverse force undaunted rise,

To break the eternal doom!
Though Cato lived, though Tully spoke,
Though Brutus dealt the godlike stroke,
Yet perish'd fated Rome.‡

[* 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,
Good Fleury pours the golden tide
On Gallia's smiling shores;
Once more her fields shall thirst in vain
For wholesome streams of honest gain,
While rapine wastes her stores.

Yet glorious is the great design,
And such, O Pulteney! such is thine,
To prop a nation's frame:

If crush'd beneath the sacred weight,
The ruins of a falling state

Shall tell the patriot's name.

ODE TO MANKIND.

Is there, or do the schoolmen dream?
Is there on earth a power supreme,
The delegate of heaven,

To whom an uncontroll'd command,
In every realm o'er sea and land,
By special grace is given?

Then say, what signs this god proclaim?
Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame,

A throne his hallow'd shrine ?
The borrow'd pomp, the arm'd array,
Want, fear, and impotence, betray
Strange proofs of power divine!

If service due from human kind,
To men in slothful ease reclined,
Can form a sovereign's claim:
Hail, monarchs! ye, whom heaven ordains,
Our toil's unshared, to share our gains,
Ye idiots, blind and lame!

Superior virtue, wisdom, might,
Create and mark the ruler's right,

So reason must conclude:
Then thine it is, to whom belong
The wise, the virtuous, and the strong,
Thrice sacred multitude!

In thee, vast All! are these contain'd,
For thee are those, thy parts ordain'd,
So nature's systems roll:

The sceptre's thine, if such there be;
If none there is, then thou art free,
Great monarch! mighty whole!

["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.]