THE MULBERRY TREE.

A TALE.

For London's rich city, two Staffordshire swains, Hight Johnson, hight Garrick, forsaking their [by his tomb Reach'd Shakspeare's own Stratford, where flows An Avon, as proudly as Tiber by Rome.

plains,

Now Garrick, (sweet imp too of Nature was he) Would climb and would eat from his Mulberry-tree; Yet as Johnson, less frolic, was taller, was older, He reach'd the first boughs by the help of his shoulder;

[weather, Where, shelter'd fron famine, from bailiffs, and Bards, critics, and players, sat crowded together; Who devour'd in their reach, all the fruit they could

meet,

The good, bad, indifferent, the bitter and sweet:
But Garrick climb'd high to a plentiful crop,
Then, heavens! what vagaries he play'd on the top!
How, now on the loose twigs, and now on the tight,
He stood on his head, and then bolted upright!
All features, all shapes, and all passions he tried;
He danc'd and he strutted, he laugh'd and he
cried,
[side!
He presented his face, and he show'd his back-
The noble, the vulgar, flock'd round him to see
What feats he perform'd in the Mulberry-tree;
He repeated the pastime, then open'd to speak,
But Johnson below mutter'd strophes of Greek,

While Garrick proclaim'd-" such a plant never

grew,

So foster'd by sunshine, by soil, and by dew.
The palm-trees of Delos, Phænicia's sweet grove,
The oaks of Dodona, though hallow'd by Jove,
With all that antiquity shows to surpass us,
Compar'd to this tree, were mere shrubs of Par-
[laid,
Not the beeches of Mantua, where Tityrus was
Not all Vallombrosa produc'd such a shade;
That the myrtles of France, like the birch of the
schools,

nassus.

Were fit only for rods to whip Genius to rules; That to Stratford's old Mulberry, fairest and best, The Cedars of Eden must bow their proud crest! Then the fruit-like the loaf in the Tub's pleasant Tale,* [aleThat was fish, flesh, and custard, good claret, and It compris'd every flavour, was all, and was each, Was grape, and was pine-apple, nectarine and [told, Nay he swore, and his audience believ'd what he That under his touch it grew apples of gold— Now he paus'd!-then recounted its virtues again'Twas a wood for all use, bottom, top, bark, and grain :

peach;

It would saw into seats for an audience in full pits,
Into benches for judges, episcopal pulpits;
Into chairs for philosophers, thrones too for kings,
Serve the highest of purposes, lowest of things;
Make brooms to mount witches, make May-poles
for May-days,

And boxes, and ink-stands, for wits and the ladies."
The Tale of a Tub, by Swift. See Section IV.

His speech pleas'd the vulgar, it pleas'd their

superiors,

By Johnson stopt short,-who his mighty posteriors Applied to the trunk-like a Sampson, his haunches Shook the roots, shook the summit, shook stem, and shook branches! [showers, All was tremor and shock !-now descended in Wither'd leaves, wither'd limbs, blighted fruits, blighted flowers!

The fragments drew critics, bards, players along, Who held by weak branches, and let go the strong; E'en Garrick had dropt with a bough that was

rotten,

But he leapt to a sound, and the slip was forgotten.
Now the plant's close recesses lay open to day,
While Johnson exclaim'd, stalking stately away,
"Here's rubbish enough, till my homeward return,
For children to gather, old women to burn;
Not practis'd to labour, my sides are too sore,
Till another fit season, to shake you down more.
What future materials for pruning, and cropping,
And cleaning, and gleaning, and lopping, and top-
ping!

Yet mistake me not, rabble! this tree 's a good tree,
Does honour, dame Nature, to Britain and thee;
And the fruit on the top,-take its merits in brief,
Makes a noble desert, where the dinner's roast-
beef!"

THE LIFE

OF

MICHAEL BRUCE.

MICHAEL BRUCE was born in the parish of Kinnesswood, in Kinross-shire, Scotland. His father was by trade a weaver, who, out of his scanty earnings, had the merit of affording his son an edu cation at the grammar-school of Kinross, and at the university of Edinburgh. Michael was delicate from his childhood, but showed an early disposition for study, and a turn for poetry, which was encouraged by some of his neighbours lending him a few of the most popular English poets. The humblest individuals who have befriended genius deserve to be gratefully mentioned. The first encouragers to whom Bruce showed his poetical productions were a Mr. Arnot, a farmer on the banks of Lochleven, and one David Pearson, whose occupation is not described. In his sixteenth year he went to the university of Edinburgh, where, after the usual course of attendance, he entered on the study of divinity, intending, probably, to be a preacher in the Burgher sect of dissenters, to whom his parents belonged. Between the latter sessions, which he attended at college, he taught a small school at Gairney Bridge, in the neighbourhood of his native place, and afterwards at Forest-Hill, near Allan, in Clackmananshire. This is nearly the whole of his sad and short history. At the latter place he was seized with a deep consumption, the progress of