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JOHN LOGAN.

1748—1788.

JOHN LOGAN was born at Soutra, in the parish of Fala, Mid Lothian. His father, a small farmer, educated him for the church, and, after he had obtained a license to preach, he distinguished himself so much for pulpit eloquence, that he was appointed one of the ministers of South Leith. He published some poems in 1781, which were well received, and in 1783 he produced the tragedy of Runnimede, founded on the signing of the Magna Charta. His parishoners were opposed to such an exercise of his talents, and unfortunately Logan had lapsed into irregular and dissipated habits. The consequence was, that he resigned his charge on receiving a small annuity, and proceeded to London, where he resided till his death, in 1788. One act in Logan's life casts a shade over his literary character, we refer to his editorial supervision of the poems of his friend Michael Bruce. He left out several pieces by Bruce, and, as he states in his preface, “to make up a miscellany," poems by different authors were inserted. Many of these he claimed, and published afterwards as his own. With respect to the best of the disputed pieces, "The Ode to the Cuckoo," whose "magical stanzas of picture, melody and sentiment," as D'Israeli calls them, have been so much admired, we think there is sufficient evidence to show that it was written by Bruce. It is unfavorable for the case of Logan that he retained some of the manuscripts of Bruce, and his conduct through the whole affair was careless and unsatisfactory.

That Logan was a man of genius, both his published sermons, which have been exceedingly popular, and his poems, sufficiently tes tify.

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"THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream! When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream! When now thy waves his body cover! Forever now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.

"He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers;

He promised me a little page,

To squire me to his father's towers;
He promised me a wedding-ring,—
The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;-
Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas! his watery grave, in Yarrow!

"Sweet were his words when last we met, My passion I as freely told him! Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought

That I should never more behold him!

Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;

Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,

And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow!

"His mother from the window look'd,

With all the longing of a mother;

His little sister weeping walk'd

The green-wood path to meet her brother; They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough;

They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow!

"No longer from thy window look,

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!

No longer walk, thou lovely maid!

Alas! thou hast no more a brother!

No longer seek him east or west,

And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark,

He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

"The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow; I'll seek thy body in the stream,

And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow." The tear did never leave her cheek,

No other youth became her marrow;

She found his body in the stream,

And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

THE PRAYER OF JACO B.

O GOD of Bethel! by whose hand
Thy people still are fed;

Who through this weary pilgrimage

Hast all our fathers led:

Our vows, our pray'rs, we now present

Before thy throne of grace:

God of our fathers! be the God

Of their succeeding race.

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