THE MAID'S LAMENT. I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone, I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, For reasons not to love him once I sought, To vex myself and him: I now would give Who lately lived for me, and, when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death! I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me! but mine returns, With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years "Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer, Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, THE DRAGON-FLY. LIFE (priest and poet say) is but a dream; I wish no happier one than to be laid Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade; Or wavy willow, by the running stream, Brimful of moral, where the dragon-fly Wanders as careless and content as I. Thanks for this fancy, insect king, Of purple crest and meshy wing, Who, with indifference, givest up The water-lily's golden cup, To come again and overlook What I am writing in my book. Believe me, most who read the line Will read with hornier eyes than thine; And yet their souls shall live for ever, And thine drop dead into the river! God pardon them, O insect king, Who fancy so unjust a thing! AN ARAB TO HIS MISTRESS. Look thou yonder, look and tremble, Tost the imploring arm away. Or would Folly e'er be taught? Strong are cities; Rage o'erthrows 'em; Rage o'erswells the gallant ship; Stains it not the cloud-white bosom, Flaws it not the ruby lip? All that shields us, all that charms us, Night may send to rave and ravage But their manners, harsh and savage, When the waves of life surround thee, Quenching oft the light of love, When the clouds of doubt confound thee, Drive not from thy breast the dove. JOHN LEYDEN. DR. LEYDEN was born at Denholm, a village on the borders of Teviotdale, in Scotland, in the autumn of 1775. His father was a shepherd farmer, whose humble cottage was the home of piety and content. Young LEYDEN entered the parish school of Kirktown when nine years of age, and continued his studies there for about three years, when he was removed to a private academy kept by a Cameronian clergyman who prepared him for the university. At Edinburgh he was a member of literary societies with Lord BROUGHAM, Dr. THOMAS BROWN, Lord JEFFREY, and the Rev. SIDNEY SMITH. After completing his classical course with distinguished reputation, he studied theology, and in 1795 was licensed to preach by the Presbytery of St. Andrews. He did not succeed very well in the pulpit, and soon abandoned it to enter upon a literary life. His first production was an "Historical and Descriptive Account of Discoveries in Africa," published in 1798, and his second, an edition of The Complaynt of Scotland," an old and scarce tract, to which he added an elaborate preliminary essay and a glossary. In 1799 he became acquainted with SCOTT, to whom he gave valuable aid in the preparation of "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," which appeared in 1801. In 1802, having previously obtained the degree of Doctor of Medicine from the university of St. Andrews, he went to London with a view to embark for India, and while there prepared for the press his "Scenes of Infancy," a poem of considerable merit, in which he combines interesting allusions to local history and superstition with graphic description of the scenery amid which he passed his early years. Of this poem it has been said by a judicious critic, that "in genuine feeling and fancy, as well as in harmony and elegance of composition, it can encounter very few rivals in the English language. It touches so many of the genuine strings of the lyre, with the hand of inspiration; it draws forth so many tender notes, and carries our eyes and our hearts so utterly among those scenes with which the real bard is conversant, that we for a moment enjoy some portion of the creative powers of the poet himself. Nowhere laboured, studied, or affected, he writes in a stream of natural eloquence, which shows the entire predominance of his emotion over his art." Dr. LEYDEN sailed for Madras in the spring of 1803, and immediately after his arrival entered the service of the East India Company, in which he continued the larger portion of the time until his death. He devoted the intervals of business, when health permitted, to the laborious study of the literature and languages of the eastern nations. He made elegant translations from the Persian, Arabic, and Sanscrit, wrote several valuable philological tracts, and grammars of the Malay, Pracrit and other languages. In 1810 he resigned the office of Commissioner of Requests, and was preferred to that of Assayer of the Mint at Calcutta, with less arduous duties and a more liberal salary. In 1811 his services were required in the expedition against Java, and he sailed from Calcutta under Lord MINTO on the ninth of March in that year. After Batavia fell into the possession of the Company's forces, he employed his leisure in researches into the literature of the conquered city. He one day entered a large low room in one of the public buildings which was said to contain some Javanese curiosities, and the confined air of which was impregnated with the poisonous quality which has made Batavia the grave of so many Europeans. On leaving it he was suddenly affected with the first symptoms of a mortal fever, of which he died on the twenty-eighth of August, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. LEYDEN is said to have been pedantic and vain; but he had many admirable social qualities, and those who were most intimately acquainted with his character were his warmest friends. Sir WALTER SCOTT alludes to him in the following lines from the "Lord of the Isles," written soon after his death:His bright and brief career is o'er, And mute his tuneful strains; Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour ;A distant and a deadly shore Has LEYDEN's cold remains! ODE TO JEHOVAH. IN high JEHOVAH's praise, my strain The horseman with his vaunted steed. Our father's GOD! THY name we raise Beyond the bounds of mortal praise, The Chieftain and the Lord of war. Far in the caverns of the deep Their chariots sunk to rise no more; What lambent lightnings round THEE gleam, The flames, in undulations blue. The bosom of the abyss reveal'd, Wall'd with huge crystal waves congeal'd, Unfolds the yawning jaws of death. Swift, steeds of Egypt, speed your course, And swift, ye rapid chariots, roll! Not ocean's bed impedes our force; Red vengeance soon shall glut our soul: The sabre keen shall soon embrue Its glimmering edge in gory dew❞— Impatient cried the exulting foe;— When, like a ponderous mass of lead, They sink-and sudden, o'er their head The bursting waves impetuous flow. But THOU, in whose sublime abode Resistless might and mercy dwell, Our voices, high o'er every God, With grateful hearts THY praises swell! Outstretch'd we saw THY red right hand, The earth her solid jaws expand; Adown the gulf alive they sink :While we, within the incumbent main, Beheld the tumbling floods in vain Storm on our narrow pathway's brink. But, far as fame's shrill notes resound, With dire dismay the nations hear; Old Edom's sons with laurels crown'd, And Moab's warriors melt with fear. The petrifying tale disarms The might of Canaan's countless swarms, Appall'd their heroes sink supine; No mail'd band with thrilling cries The might of Jacob's sons defies, That moves to conquer Palestine, Nor burning sands our way impede, Where nature's glowing embers lie; But, led by THEE, we safely tread Beneath the furnace of the sky. To fields, where fertile olives twine Their branches with the clustering vine Soon shalt THOU Jacob's armies bring; To plant them by Tay mighty hand Where the proud towers of Salem stand; And ever reign their GoD and King. Far in the deep's unfathom'd caves Lie strew'd the flower of Mazur's land, Save when the surge, that idly raves, Heaves their cold corses on the sand. With courage unappall'd, in vain They rush'd within the channell'd main; Their heads the billows folded o'er: While THOU hast Israel's legions led Through the green ocean's coral bed, To ancient Edom's palmy shore. ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. WRITTEN IN CHERICAL, MALABAR. SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine! So bright, whom I have bought so dear?— The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm. By Chéricál's dark wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade !— The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widow'd heart to cheer; Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine: Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!— I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave, To roam in climes unkind and new. Star of the vast and howling main! Star of the dark and stormy sea! Bright rising o'er the hoary wave, The surging seas recede to pave Star of the desert waters wild, On that chaste bosom loves to lie; Star of the deep! at that blest name That made the deep's foundations reel; Ave Maris Stella! THE MEMORY OF THE PAST. For still the memory of our tender years, And softer tints than ever nature wears.Lo! now, to fancy, Teviot's vale appears Adorn'd with flowers of more enchanting hue And fairer bloom than ever Eden knew, With all the charms that infancy endears. Dear scenes! which grateful memory still employ, Why should you strive to blast the present joy? A MORNING SCENE. Lo! in the vales, where wandering rivulets run, While on their chalky summits glimmering dance K CHANGES OF HOME. As every prospect opens on my view, I seem'd to live departed years anew; When in these wilds a jocund, sportive child, Each flower self-sown my heedless hours beguiled; The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew, The wild-briar rose, of pale and blushful hue, The thistle's rolling wheel, of silken down, The blue-bell, or the daisy's pearly crown, The gaudy butterfly, in wanton round, That, like a living pea-flower, skimm'd the ground! Again I view each rude romantic glade, Where once with tiny steps my childhood stray'd To watch the foam-bell of the bubbling brook, Or mark the motions of the clamorous rook, Who saw her nest, close thatch'd with ceaseless toil, At summer eve become the woodman's spoil! Green down ascending drink the moorish rills, The winding smoke arose in columns blue;- Or else, too proud where once he loved to fawn, TEVIOTDALE. · LAND of my fathers!-though no mangrove here O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear, Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot, Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit, Nor golden apples glimmer from the treeLand of dark heaths and mountains! thou art free. Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot! runs, With unatoned blood of Gambia's sons: No drooping slave, with spirit bow'd to toil, Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil, Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads Is bought and barter'd, as the flock he feeds. Free, as the lark that carols o'er his head, At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed, Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care, And whistling loud directs the mining share; Free, as his lord, the peasant treads the plain, And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain; Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right, And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might. Dear native valleys! may ye long retain And time lay bare each lofty colonnade, SERENITY OF CHILDHOOD. In the sweet morn of life, when health and joy Which fans the wild-wood music on the ear; |