SWEET maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight;
And, bid these arms thy neck infold;
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,

Than all the gems of Samarcand.

:

Boy! let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say :-
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay.

O! when these fair, perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display ;-
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest;
As Tartars seize their destin'd prey.

In vain with love our bosoms glow;
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms impart ?
Can cheeks, where living roses blow,
Where nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd gloss of art?

:

Speak not of fate :-ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flow'rs that round us bloom :·
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream:
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.

Beauty has such resistless power,
That ev'n the chaste Egyptian dame
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy;
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah, sweet maid! my counsel hear,-
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience render sage,)
While music charms the ravish'd ear;
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age.

What cruel answer have I heard!
And yet, by heaven, I love thee still :
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which naught but drops of honey sip?

Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,

Like orient pearls at random strung:
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say;
But O! far sweeter, if they please

The nymph for whom these notes are sung.

SONG.

SWEET as the rose that scents the gale,
Bright as the lily of the vale,

Yet with a heart like summer hail,
Marring each beauty thou bearest.

Beauty like thine, all nature thrills;
And when the moon her circle fills,
Pale she beholds those rounder hills,
Which on the breast thou wearest.

Where could those peerless flow'rets blow? Whence are the thorns that near them grow? Wound me, but smile, O lovely foe,

Smile on the heart thou tearest.

Sighing, I view that cypress waist,
Doom'd to afflict me till embrac'd;
Sighing, I view that eye too chaste,
Like the new blossom smiling.

Spreading thy toils with hands divine,
Softly thou wavest like a pine,
Darting thy shafts at hearts like mine,
Senses and soul beguiling.

See at thy feet no vulgar slave,
Frantic, with love's enchanting wave,
Thee, ere he seek the gloomy grave,
Thee, his blest idol styling.

JOHN LOGAN, the son of a Scottish farmer, was born in the parish of Fala, Mid Lothian, in 1748. He was educated for the Church, at the University of Edinburgh, and was appointed one of the ministers of South Leith, in 1773, having already obtained some reputation as a poet, and by his edition of the works of his friend and contemporary, Michael Bruce. In 1779 he delivered a series of lectures on the Philosophy of History; their merit was considered sufficient to justify him in becoming a candidate for the Professorship of Universal History, in the University; but the attempt unhappily failed. In 1781 he collected and published his poems; their success was such as to encourage him to attempt the production of a tragedy; he selected for his subject the Charter of Runnymede, and it was accepted at Covent Garden. The Lord Chamberlain, however, thought fit to prohibit the performance, under a groundless pretence that the Barons of King John were made to speak too freely of wrongs that still continued unredressed. Moreover, his parishioners took offence at his unclerical connexion with the stage. He resigned his charge and flung himself into the great vortex, London.

In London, he adopted literature as a profession; existed, in exceeding wretchedness, during three years; and died in December, 1788. "He perished," says Mr. D'Israeli, in his Calamities of Authors, "not of penury, but a broken heart." He had been disappointed in his hopes of fame; his ambition had led to naught; and he had become a prey to that melancholy which so frequently visits, in its severest form, those who are least fitted to contend against it. "Logan," observes the writer we have quoted, "had the disposition of a poetic spirit not cast in a common mould; with fancy he combined philosophy, and adorned philosophy with eloquence; while no student had formed a loftier feeling of the character of a man of letters:"He found that his favourite objects and his fondest hopes were barren and neglected; after the failure of his schemes of literary ambition, his periods of depression became more frequent and less under his control, and he was unhappily led to obtain temporary relief by resorting to the bottle:

"And what was difficult, and what was dire,
Yields to your prowess and superior stars;
The happiest you of all that ere were mad,
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last."

The claims of Logan to be admitted among the acknowledged poets of Great Britain are by no means large, if they are estimated only by the number of his produetions. It is, indeed, surprising that the encouragement his earlier efforts received did not lead to some of higher aim and more enduring character. A dozen miscellaneous poems-a few hymns, written with a view to amend the psalmody of the Scottish Church-his tragedy of "Runnymede," a work of no very sterling merit— and a collection of unfinished fragments-comprise the list of his contributions to our store of national wealth. Among his poems, however, there are some of exceeding beauty; they are characterized by strength, vigour in conception, and elegance of diction; frequently indeed he compresses his ideas so as to give a volume in a sentence, and startles the reader by the immensity of thought that follows in its train. The few subjects upon which he occupied his pen are well chosen; and whatever fault the Scottish Presbyters could find with the eccentricity of his conduct, they could urge none against the moral of his writings-they are worthy of the purest divine that ever undertook the sacred office.

His "Ode to the Cuckoo" is one of the sweetest poems in the language. Logan has been charged with having stolen this composition from the posthumous manuscripts of Bruce, the collecting and editing of which were committed to his care. His claim to it, however, is not only supported by internal evidence, but the charge was never advanced against him while he was alive to repel it. Among his other poems may be named the Odes to Spring, to Women, and to Men of Letters, and his pathetic ballad of "The Braes of Yarrow." His "Hymns" were failures, like all attempts to convert into rhyme the noble language of the Psalmist. To say that he has succeeded better than others have done, is saying very little. Those who are familiar with the original can never be satisfied with a copy.

"THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream! When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream! When now thy waves his body cover! For ever now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;

For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow !

"He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers;

He promised me a little page,

To 'squire me to his father's towers:

L L