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desired him to observe, that he was only the distributor of the bread that belonged to the poor, and that it was absolutely necessary that he should dispose of his dog. 'Ah, sir,' exclaimed the poor man, weeping, 'and if I lose my dog, who is there then to love me?' The good pastor, melting into tears, took his purse, and giving it to him, "take this, sir," said he; "this is mine—this I can give."
Poor Edwin was no vulgar boy: Song was his favorite and first pursuit; The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand, And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute, His infant muse, though artless, was not mute.
In the periodical paper entitled The Mirror is an elegant essay on the character and genius of Michael Bruce, a young poet of considerable ability, who was descended from parents remarkable for nothing but the innocence and simplicity of their lives, and who in the twenty-first year of his age perished under that scourge of our isle, pulmonary consumption.
In the year 1787 travelling through the western Highlands of Scotland, and returning to Edinburgh by Loch Leven and North Ferry, I rode by the house, situated about three miles from Kinross, where this ingenious youth was born. "I never look on his dwelling," says the author of the Mirror, " a small thatched house distinguished from the cottages of the other inhabitants only by a sashed window at the end, instead of a lattice, fringed with a honey-suckle plant, which the poor youth had trained around it;—I never find myself in that spot, but I stop my horse involuntarily; and looking on the window, which the honey suckle has now almost covered, in the dream of the moment, I picture out a figure for the gentle tenant of the mansion; I wish, and my heart swells while I do so, that he were alive, and that I were a great man to have the luxury of visiting him there, and bidding him be happy."
These natural and pleasing ideas possessed my mind at the time I passed his door, which I did not do without checking my horse to indulge the tribute of a sigh. The concluding lines of his beautifully descriptive poem on Loch Leven, which was finished under the pressure of mortal disease, and at a distance from his native cottage, instantly occurred to my memory.
Thus sang the youth, amid unfertile fields
Loch Leven, the subject of Mr. Bruce's Poem, is a beautiful fresh water Lake near twelve miles in circumference, on the side next Kinross bounded by a plain occupied by open groves, on the other side by mountains. About the centre of the lake are two islands, one of which, called St. Serf's isle, has not less than forty acres of excellent pasturage, and was formerly the seat of the ancient priory of Loch Leven dedicated to St. Servanus. On the other, which contains not above an acre of ground, stand the pictoresque ruins of the castle of the Douglasses. Here was confined the beautiful but unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, a circumstance which, from the association of idea, throws an air of interesting melancholy around, and adds much to the effect of the scene.
From this place however, she at length escaped through the assistance of George
Douglas, a youth of eighteen, who had been
Confusion ran through the castle. Hasty lights were seen passing and repassing at every window; and