DR. JOHN LEYDEN.

THIS extraordinary person, who had emerged from obscurity by the activity and ardour of genius alone, lately died at Batavia, of a fever partly occasioned by fatigue, and partly by the noxious climate to which he had accompanied Lord Minto. He appears to have been a linguist scarcely inferior even to the late Sir William Jones. The specimens of poetry which he left behind him in this country bear such decided marks of what may be called in some sense inspiration, that, had he confined his talents to poetry alone, he must have risen to the first height of excellence. For a more ample account of him, I refer my readers to the Monthly Magazine for February, 1812.

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF DR. JOHN LEYDEN.

"He sleeps in dust, and all the muses mourn."-BEATTIE.

LEYDEN! the favour of the tuneful choir

Thy Caledonia consecrates to fame,

And soon shall many a lofty bard inspire

With numbers worthy of thy honour'd name; But pardon, gentle shade! my powerless aim To decorate with simple flowers thy bier; The gift, though little worth, defies all blame

The votive tribute of applause sincere

Shall sanctify the verse, if not excite the tear.

K

No more by Esk or Eden's classic wave

Shall Scotia's muse her votary's footsteps see,

Nor shall the banks the Teviot's waters lave,

Dear haunts of childhood! bloom again for thee :

No more at eve, beneath some spreading tree,

The pride of wood-girt Harden's wild domain, Visions of rapture shall thy fancy see,

When, safe returning from the billowy main,

With joy thou might'st explore thy favourite haunts

again.

For, did not many a tear unbidden start,

As rose the whispers of that dreaded gale,
Which bade thee from these scenes of bliss depart?
And, sadly listening to the flapping sail,

Did not each rocky cliff, each peaceful vale
Endear'd by habit, then more lovely seem

Than all the splendour and the pride that hail
The stranger borne to Ganges' sacred stream,

Which from its surface grand reflects the solar beam.

And, while the vessel which convey'd thee far

From friends belov'd, pursued her destin'd course, As to thy harp thou sang'st the northern star*

Just setting to thy view, the tear perforce

Betray'd of fond regret the copious source,

To think of those on whom it still has shone ;

While the rude crew around, with voices hoarse,

Forbade thee to indulge thy grief alone,

Well pleas'd and proud to call the passing hour their own.

When treading sea-girt Sagur's desert isle,†

Where superstition claims her deathful meed;
Where never beam'd sweet Mercy's godlike smile,
But cruel Kali claims the monstrous creed;
Say, did not Fancy, with the arrow's speed,
Fly to those scenes in Britain's distant isle,
Where, near the lowly glen, or grassy mead,

The solemn chime to many a hallow'd pile

Invites the weary poor to leave the world awhile.

*See Leyden's translation of the Portugueze hymn to the Star of the Sea.

† Where human victims are exposed by the superstitious Hindus. K 2

Ah! not for thee, sweet bard! was heard the sound

Of that sad knell which toll'd thy fathers' end,

Nor o'er thy grave, within their burial-ground,
Shall childhood's dear companions mournful bend;
Yet still in Java's isle, some sorrowing friend

Shall o'er thy mould'ring reliques drop a tear;

On thy green sod shall gentlest dews descend,

And bounteous nature, through the circling year, Deck with her fairest flowers a banish'd minstrel's bier.

Nor shalt thou share that hapless minstrel's doom
Who, nameless as the race from which he sprung,

Pour'd his sad strains o'er Mary's hallow'd tomb,
O'er Harden's bier a parting requiem rung;
Then died "unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.”
No, Leyden! no. A softer, sweeter strain

Then Jura heard, as with her syren tongue

The Mermaid strove her captive to retain,

Shall yet arise for thee from Scotia's tuneful train.