Part 22 (1/2)
There let me wander at the shut of eve, When sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes; The world and all its busy follies leave, And talk with Wisdom where my Daphne lies.
There let me sleep, forgotten in the clay, When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes; Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.
He intimated his approaching death to another friend, in prose, as affecting as his poetry, and if possible, more instructive.
”A few mornings ago, as I was taking a walk on an eminence which commands a view of the Forth, with the vessels sailing along, I sat down, and taking out my Latin Bible, opened by accident, at a place in the Book of Job, chap, ix: 23, 'Now my days are pa.s.sed away as the swift s.h.i.+ps.' Shutting the book, I fell a musing on this affecting comparison. Whether the following happened to me in a dream or waking reverie I cannot tell, but I fancied myself on the bank of a river or sea, the opposite side of which was hid from view, being involved in clouds of mist. On the sh.o.r.e stood a mult.i.tude, which no man could number, waiting for pa.s.sage. I saw a great many s.h.i.+ps taking in pa.s.sengers, and several persons going about in the garb of pilots, offering their service. Being ignorant, and curious to know what all these things meant, I applied to a grave old man who stood by giving instructions to the departing pa.s.sengers. His name, I remember, was the GENIUS OF HUMAN LIFE. 'My son,' said he, 'you stand on the banks of the stream of TIME. All these people are bound for ETERNITY, that undiscovered country whence no traveller ever returns. The country is very large, and divided into two parts, the one is called the _Land of Glory_, the other the _Kingdom of Darkness_. The names of those in the garb of pilots, are _Religion_, _Virtue_, _Pleasure_. They who are so wise as to choose Religion for their guide, have a safe, though frequently a rough pa.s.sage; they are at last landed in the happy climes where sorrow and sighing forever flee away. They have likewise a secondary director, _Virtue_; but there is a spurious Virtue, who pretends to govern by himself; but the wretches who trust to him, as well as those who have Pleasure for their pilot, are either s.h.i.+pwrecked or are cast away on the Kingdom of Darkness. _But the vessel in which you must embark, approaches, and you must be gone._ Remember what depends upon your conduct.' No sooner had he left me, than I found myself surrounded by those pilots I mentioned before. Immediately I forgot all that the old man said to me, and seduced by the fair promises of Pleasure, chose him for my director. We weighed anchor with a fair gale, the sky serene, the sea calm. Innumerable little isles lifted their green heads around us, covered with trees in full blossom; dissolved in stupid mirth, we were carried on regardless of the past, of the future unmindful. On a sudden the sky was darkened, the winds roared, the seas raged; red rose the sand from the bottom of the deep.
The angel of the waters lifted up his voice. At that instant, a strong s.h.i.+p pa.s.sed by; I saw Religion at the helm. 'Come out from among these,'
he cried. I and a few others threw ourselves out into his s.h.i.+p. The wretches we left were now tossed on the swelling deep. The waters on every side poured, through the riven vessel. They cursed the Lord; when lo! a fiend rose from the deep, and in a voice like distant thunder, thus spoke:--'I am Abaddon, the first-born of death;--ye are my prey.
Open thou abyss to receive them!' As he thus spoke they sunk, and the waves closed over their heads. The storm was turned into a calm, and we heard a voice saying, 'Fear not, I am with you. When you pa.s.s through the waters they shall not overflow you.' Our hearts were filled with joy. I was engaged in discourse with one of my new companions, when one from the top of the mast cried out, 'Courage, my friends, I see the fair haven, the land that is yet afar off.' Looking up, I found it was a certain friend, who had mounted up for the benefit of contemplating the country before him. Upon seeing _you_, (the friend to whom he was writing,) I was so affected that I started and awaked. Farewell, my friend,--Farewell!”
See that fragile form, then, with the glowing spirit within, panting for freedom and its ”native skies,” borne along in the vessel of Religion, upon a calm and sunny sea. He looks aloft, and antic.i.p.ates with serene and joyful trust, his entrance into the port of everlasting peace. The vessel glides, with increasing velocity, her sails all set, and gleaming in the reflected radiance of the spirit-world. Now she enters the port, and nears that blessed sh.o.r.e,
”Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar.”
The few days which remained to Michael on earth, he spent in correcting his poem of the ”Last Judgment,” and in pluming his spirit for its upward flight. His bodily strength was exhausted, and he was obliged to keep his bed. His mind was meditative and hopeful, dwelling almost wholly upon various pa.s.sages of Holy Writ, which he would repeat and comment upon to his friends.
Mr. George Lawson, afterwards Dr. Lawson, professor of theology in the ”Secession Church,” being called to preach for a settlement in the neighborhood of Kinnesswood, hastened upon his arrival there, to see his friend Bruce. He found him in bed, with his countenance pale as death, while his eyes shone like lamps in a sepulchre. The poet was delighted to see him, and spoke with as much ease and freedom as if he had been in perfect health. Mr. Lawson remarked to him that he was glad to see him so cheerful. ”And why,” said he, ”should not a man be cheerful on the verge of heaven?” ”But,” said Mr. L., ”you look so emaciated. I am afraid you cannot last long.” ”You remind me,” he replied, ”of the story of the Irishman, who was told that his hovel was about to fall, and I answer with him, _Let it fall, it is not mine!_”
This cheerfulness continued during his illness, till his mother, one morning, announced to him, just as he was awaking out of sleep, that Mr.
Swanston was dead. He looked at her with a fixed stare, as if stunned by the intelligence. Upon recovering he satisfied himself as to the correctness of the statement, and was never afterwards seen to smile!
Still we do not attach much importance to this circ.u.mstance; for it often happens that when the countenance is cold and ghastly, the heart within is warm and serene. He lingered for a month, manifesting little interest in what was said or done around him, and on the 5th of July, calmly and imperceptibly fell asleep, aged twenty-one years and three months.
So fades a summer cloud away, So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So fades a wave along the sh.o.r.e.
Life's labor done, as sinks the clay, Light from its load the spirit flies, While heaven and earth combine to say, How bless'd the Christian when he dies!
His Bible was found upon his pillow, marked down at Jer. xxii: 10, ”Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him;” and on the blank leaf this homely but expressive verse was written:--
”'Tis very vain for me to boast, How small a price my Bible cost; The day of judgment will make clear, 'Twas very cheap or very dear.”
He was buried in the church-yard of Portmoak, in the very centre of the scenes hallowed and beautified by his muse. A monument has been erected to Bruce through the subscription of his friends, of which the following is the simple but appropriate inscription:
MICHAEL BRUCE, Born in 1747 at Kinnesswood, In the County of Kinross, Died at the age of twenty-one.
In this brief s.p.a.ce, Under the pressure of indigence and sickness, He displayed talents truly Poetical.
For his aged mother's and his own support He taught a school here.
The village was then skirted with old ash trees, The cottage in which he dwelt Was distinguished by a honeysuckle Which he had trained round its Lashed window.
Certain inhabitants of his native county, His admirers, Have erected this stone To mark the abode Of Genius and Virtue.
Bruce was designed for the service of the church. In this view, as well as with reference to the cultivation of his fine poetical talents, his death may be deemed a calamity. And yet, such a view of the case may fairly be questioned. For himself, is he not happier, in the bosom of his G.o.d; and for us, does he not, by means of his Christian life, his heroic death, his ethereal strains, embalmed in blessed memories of the past, preach more effectually than he could have done, even had he lived to occupy a material pulpit. ”Being dead he yet speaketh,” and speaketh with a power and pathos which can be reached only by the dead.
Had we room we might give many pleasant extracts from his poetry; but we must content ourselves with his ”Ode to the Cuckoo,” in our judgment one of the most beautiful and perfect little poems in any language.
TO THE CUCKOO.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!