Michael Bruce

Anonymous, "On Michael Bruce, the Scots Poet" Scots Magazine 57 (December 1795) 773.

How oft relenting to the vernal ray,
When trembling Nature tends the landscape gay;
New Winter from the pole with ruffian storms,
The spring and all its lovely scenes deforms,
Blasts the untimely blossoms of the bowers,
And sweeps the infant family of flowers.
Ah! Daphnis, such the killing blast of time,
That marr'd the golden primrose of thy prime,
Thy vernal bloom, to one short hour confin'd,
And ever cast in shades the morning of thy mind.
O'er thy lone couch, no love devoted train,
Hung to diffuse the lenitives of pain.
No soothing accent hush'd thy mourning cries,
No friendly features met thy dying eyes;
Far from thy friends, from each connection dear,
No form congenial sheds the tender tear.
'Twas thine, the orphan of despair to groan,
Left in the dreary wilderness alone.
Ah! will the Muses not protect their son,
Nor shield their fav'rite, till his race be run;
Will no kind patron his protection lend,
And in the poet recognize the friend;
On learning's rising honours build his own,
Proud to adopt the children of renown.
In vain I call their aid, no patron find,
Nor wit nor beauty ever found a friend.