This description is by Michael Bruce, whose early promise and premature death have awakened so much sympathy among all classes in Scotland. He was born in the vicinity of Lochleven, and has written a poem of considerable merit descriptive of the lake and surrounding scenery. His "Ode to Spring," and especially his "Ode to the Cuckoo," now universally acknowledged to be his, are among the most beautiful poems in the English language. He was born at Kinnesswood, parish of Portmoak, on the 27th of March, 1746. By going round to the north-east bank of the lake, we shall find this village, insignificant in itself, but sweetly situated on the south-west declivity of the Lomond hills. Ascending a narrow lane, we reach, near its centre, the house in which Bruce was born. It consists of two stories, with a thatched roof. Michael's parents were very poor, and occupied only the upper part of the house, which served them at once for a workshop and dwelling. "A true nestling place of genius," exclaims his biographer, quoting the words of Washington Irving respecting the birth-place of Shakspeare, "which delights to hatch its offspring in bye corners." Mean as it is, an angelic soul has been here, and a charm lingers upon its homely walls. Dr. Huie of Edinburgh has given the following touching account of a visit which he paid to this place, in company with one of Bruce's old friends. "On returning," says he, "from Portmoak church-yard, where Bruce is buried, I attended my venerable guide to the lowly dwelling where the parents of the poet resided. We first entered the garden: 'This,' said Mr. B. 'was a spot of much interest to Michael. Here he used alternately to work and to meditate. There stood a row of trees which he particularly cherished, but they are now cut down,' added the good old man, and as he said this, he sighed. 'Here again,' said he, 'was a bank of soft grass on which Michael was accustomed to recline after he became too weak to walk; and here his father would sit beside him in the evening, and read to amuse him.' We next entered the house. I experienced an involuntary feeling of awe when I found myself in the humble abode, where neglected worth and talents had pined away and died. The little square windows cast but a feeble light over the apartment, and the sombre shades of evening, for the sun had now set, were strikingly in unison with the scene. 'There,' said my conductor, 'auld Saunders used to sit at his loom. In that corner stood the bed where the auld couple slept, in this the bed which was occupied by Michael, and in which he died,' The good old man's eyes filled as he spoke. I found it necessary to wipe my own. I was not ashamed of my tears. They were a tribute to departed genius, and there was nothing unmanly in their flow."