Rhode Island American And Providence Gazette

MISCELLANY.

The following beautiful lines were written by Michael Bruce, a young Scotchman, who was born in a remote village in Kinross shire, and descended from parents remarkable for nothing but the innocence and simplicity of their lives. In the 21st year of his age he was seized with a consumption which put an end to his life:

Now Spring returns, but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.

Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined,
And count the silent moments as they pass—

The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest:
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.

Oft, morning dreams presage approaching fate;
And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true:
Led by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of wo;
I see the muddy wave and dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit and return no more.

Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound;
Where melancholy with dull silence reigns,
And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.

There let me wander at the close of eve,
When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes;
The world with all its busy follies leave,
And talk with wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,
When death shall shut these weary aching eyes;
Rest in the hope of an eternal day,
Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise!