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 afterwards published; though without exhibiting in its contents anything calculated to agitate either poetical or political feelings.

In the meantime our author unhappily drew on himself the displeasure of his parishioners. His connexion 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 farther 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?

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!

O 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,

O come, thou partner of my flight!
Shield me from darkness, from alarms;
O take me trembling to thine arms!

[* 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.]

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 briars 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. O 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. second wife, with whom he acquired a large fortune, was sister and heiress to Secretary Craggs, the friend of Addison.

His

factures of his native island induced him, on one occasion, to present the Queen with a newyear's gift of Irish grogram, 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 which he had abjured. On the circumstance 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

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.

[* 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 a Mr. John Gray to Smollett, "that Dr. Goldsmith now generally lives with his countryman,

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.

Lord Clare, who has lost his only son Colonel Nugent."
-London, July 9, 1771. Europ. Mag. vol. xlv.]

[ "Mr. Nugent," says Gray to Walpole, "sure did not write his own Ode. Mallet, it was universally believed, had trimmed and doctored it up."]