Rosy Hannah.

A spring, o'erhung with many a flower, The gray sand dancing in its bed, Embanked beneath a hawthorn bower, Sent forth its waters near my head. A rosy lass approached my view;

I caught her blue eyes' modest beam; The stranger nodded How-d'ye-do?'

And leaped across the infant stream. The water heedless passed away;

With me her glowing image stayed; I strove, from that auspicious day,

To meet and bless the lovely maid. I met her where beneath our feet

Through downy moss the wild thyme grew; Nor moss elastic, flowers though sweet,

Matched Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale moon rising gave
New glories to her rising train.
From her sweet cot upon the moor,

Our plighted vows to heaven are flown;
Truth made me welcome at her door,
And rosy Hannah is my own.

Lines addressed to my Children.

[Occasioned by a visit to Whittlebury Forest, Northamptonshire, in August 1800.]

Genius of the forest shades,

Lend thy power, and lend thine ear;
A stranger trod thy lonely glades,

Amidst thy dark and bounding deer;
Inquiring childhood claims the verse,
Ô let them not inquire in vain ;
Be with me while I thus rehearse
The glories of thy sylvan reign.
Thy dells by wintry currents worn,
Secluded haunts, how dear to me!
From all but nature's converse borne,
No ear to hear, no eye to see.
Their honoured leaves the green oaks reared,
And crowned the upland's graceful swell;
While answering through the vale was heard
Each distant heifer's tinkling bell.

Hail, greenwood shades, that, stretching far,
Defy e'en summer's noontide power,
When August in his burning car

Withholds the clouds, withholds the shower.
The deep-toned low from either hill,

Down hazel aisles and arches green
(The herd's rude tracks from rill to rill),

Roared echoing through the solemn scene.
From my charmed heart the numbers sprung,
Though birds had ceased the choral lay;
I poured wild raptures from my tongue,
And gave delicious tears their way.
Then, darker shadows seeking still,

Where human foot had seldom strayed,

I read aloud to every hill

Sweet Emma's love, the Nut-brown maid.'

Shaking his matted mane on high,

The gazing colt would raise his head,
Or timorous doe would rushing fly,
And leave to me her grassy bed;
Where, as the azure sky appeared
Through bowers of ever varying form,
'Midst the deep gloom methought I heard
The daring progress of the storm.

How would each sweeping ponderous bough
Resist, when straight the whirlwind cleaves,
Dashing in strengthening eddies through

A roaring wilderness of leaves?
How would the prone descending shower
From the green canopy rebound?
How would the lowland torrents pour?

How deep the pealing thunder sound?
But peace was there: no lightnings blazed;
No clouds obscured the face of heaven;
Down each green opening while I gazed,
My thoughts to home and you were given.
O, tender minds! in life's gay morn,

Some clouds must dim your coming day;
Yet bootless, pride and falsehood scorn,
And peace like this shall cheer your way.
Now, at the dark wood's stately side,
Well pleased I met the sun again;
Here fleeting fancy travelled wide;

My seat was destined to the main.
For many an oak lay stretched at length,
Whose trunks (with bark no longer sheathed)
Had reached their full meridian strength
Before your father's father breathed!
Perhaps they'll many a conflict brave,
And many a dreadful storm defy;
Then, groaning o'er the adverse wave,
Bring home the flag of victory.
Go, then, proud oaks; we meet no more!
Go, grace the scenes to me denied,
The white cliffs round my native shore,
And the loud ocean's swelling tide.
'Genius of the forest shades,'

Sweet from the heights of thy domain,
When the gray evening shadow fades,
To view the country's golden grain;
To view the gleaming village spire
'Midst distant groves unknown to me-
Groves that, grown bright in borrowed fire,
Bow o'er the peopled vales to thee.

Where was thy elfin train, that play

Round Wake's huge oak, their favourite tree, Dancing the twilight hours away? Why were they not revealed to me? Yet, smiling fairies left behind,

Affection brought you all to view; To love and tenderness resigned,

My heart heaved many a sigh for you. When morning still unclouded rose,

Refreshed with sleep and joyous dreams,
Where fruitful fields with woodlands close,
I traced the births of various streams.
From beds of clay, here creeping rills,

Unseen to parent Ouse, would steal;
Or, gushing from the northward hills,
Would glitter through Tove's winding dale.
But ah! ye cooling springs, farewell!
Herds, I no more your freedom share;
But long my grateful tongue shall tell
What brought your gazing stranger there.
'Genius of the forest shades,'

Lend thy power, and lend thine ear;
But dreams still lengthen thy long glades,
And bring thy peace and silence here.

[Description of a Blind Youth.]

For from his cradle he had never seen
Soul-cheering sunbeams, or wild nature's green.
But all life's blessings centre not in sight;
For Providence, that dealt him one long night,
Had given, in pity, to the blooming boy
Feelings more exquisitely tuned to joy.

Fond to excess was he of all that grew;
The morning blossom sprinkled o'er with dew,
Across his path, as if in playful freak,
Would dash his brow and weep upon his cheek;
Each varying leaf that brushed where'er he came,
Pressed to his rosy lip he called by name;

He grasped the saplings, measured every bough,
Inhaled the fragrance that the spring's months throw
Profusely round, till his young heart confessed
That all was beauty, and himself was blessed.
Yet when he traced the wide extended plain,
Or clear brook side, he felt a transient pain;
The keen regret of goodness, void of pride,
To think he could not roam without a guide.
May-Day with the Muses.

[Banquet of an English Squire.]

Then came the jovial day, no streaks of red
O'er the broad portal of the morn were spread,
But one high-sailing mist of dazzling white,
A screen of gossamer, a magic light,
Doomed instantly, by simplest shepherd's ken,
To reign awhile, and be exhaled at ten.
O'er leaves, o'er blossoms, by his power restored,
Forth came the conquering sun and looked abroad;
Millions of dew-drops fell, yet millions hung,
Like words of transport trembling on the tongue,
Too strong for utterance. Thus the infant boy,
With rosebud cheeks, and features tuned to joy,
Weeps while he struggles with restraint or pain;
But change the scene, and make him laugh again,
His heart rekindles, and his cheek appears
A thousand times more lovely through his tears.
From the first glimpse of day, a busy scene
Was that high-swelling lawn, that destined green,
Which shadowless expanded far and wide,
The mansion's ornament, the hamlet's pride;
To cheer, to order, to direct, contrive,
Even old Sir Ambrose had been up at five;
There his whole household laboured in his view-
But light is labour where the task is new.
Some wheeled the turf to build a grassy throne
Round a huge thorn that spread his boughs alone,
Rough-rined and bold, as master of the place;
Five generations of the Higham race

Had plucked his flowers, and still he held his sway,
Waved his white head, and felt the breath of May.
Some from the greenhouse ranged exotics round,
To bask in open day on English ground:
And 'midst them in a line of splendour drew
Long wreaths and garlands gathered in the dew.
Some spread the snowy canvass, propped on high
O'er sheltering tables with their whole supply;
Some swung the biting scythe with merry face,
And cropped the daisies for a dancing space;
Some rolled the mouldy barrel in his might,
From prison darkness into cheerful light,
And fenced him round with cans; and others bore
The creaking hamper with its costly store;
Well corked, well flavoured, and well taxed, that came
From Lusitanian mountains dear to fame,
Whence Gama steered, and led the conquering way
To eastern triumphs and the realms of day.
A thousand minor tasks filled every hour,
Till the sun gained the zenith of his power,
When every path was thronged with old and young,
And many a skylark in his strength upsprung
To bid them welcome. Not a face was there
But, for May-day at least, had banished care;
No cringing looks, no pauper tales to tell,
No timid glance--they knew their host too well-
Freedom was there, and joy in every eye:
Such scenes were England's boast in days gone by.
Beneath the thorn was good Sir Ambrose found,
His guests an ample crescent formed around;

Nature's own carpet spread the space between,
Where blithe domestics plied in gold and green.
The venerable chaplain waved his wand,
And silence followed as he stretched his hand :
The deep carouse can never boast the bliss,
The animation of a scene like this.

At length the damasked cloths were whisked away,
Like fluttering sails upon a summer's day;
The hey-day of enjoyment found repose;
The worthy baronet majestic rose.

They viewed him, while his ale was filling round,
The monarch of his own paternal ground.
His cup was full, and where the blossoms bowed
Over his head, Sir Ambrose spoke aloud,
Nor stopped a dainty form or phrase to cull.
His heart elated, like his cup was full :-
'Full be your hopes, and rich the crops that fall;
Health to my neighbours, happiness to all.'
Dull must that clown be, dull as winter's sleet,
Who would not instantly be on his feet:
An echoing health to mingling shouts give place,
'Sir Ambrose Higham and his noble race!"

May-Day with the Muses,

[The Soldier's Home.]

['The topic is trite, but in Mr Bloomfield's hands it almost assumes a character of novelty. Burns's Soldier's Return is not, to our taste, one whit superior.'-Professor Wilson.] My untried Muse shall no high tone assume, Nor strut in arms-farewell my cap and plume! Brief be my verse, a task within my power; I tell my feelings in one happy hour: But what an hour was that! when from the main I reached this lovely valley once again! A glorious harvest filled my eager sight, Half shocked, half waving in a flood of light; On that poor cottage roof where I was born, The sun looked down as in life's early morn. I gazed around, but not a soul appeared; I listened on the threshold, nothing heard; I called my father thrice, but no one came; It was not fear or grief that shook my frame, But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home, Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come. The door invitingly stood open wide; I shook my dust, and set my staff aside.

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, And take possession of my father's chair! Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, Appeared the rough initials of my name, Cut forty years before! The same old clock Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue, Caught the old dangling almanacs behind, And up they flew like banners in the wind; Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went, And told of twenty years that I had spent Far from my native land. That instant came A robin on the threshold; though so tame, At first he looked distrustful, almost shy, And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye, And seemed to say (past friendship to renew) 'Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?' Through the room ranged the imprisoned humble bee, And bombed, and bounced, and struggled to be free; Dashing against the panes with sullen roar, That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor; That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy strayed, O'er undulating waves the broom had made; Reminding me of those of hideous forms That met us as we passed the Cape of storms, Where high and loud they break, and peace comes

never;

They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever.

induced his friends to apply to government for some appointment for him connected with the learning and languages of the East. The only situation which they could procure was that of surgeon's assistant; and in five or six months, by incredible labour, Leyden qualified himself, and obtained his diploma. 'The sudden change of his profession,' says Scott, 'gave great amusement to some of his friends.' In December 1802, Leyden was summoned to join the Christmas fleet of Indiamen, in consequence of his appointment as assistant-surgeon on the Madras establishment. He finished his poem, The Scenes of Infancy, descriptive of his native vale, and left Scotland for ever. After his arrival at Madras, the health of Leyden gave way, and he was obliged to remove to Prince of Wales Island. He resided there for some time, visiting Sumatra and the Malayan peninsula, and amassing the curious information concerning the language, literature, and descent of the Indo-Chinese tribes, which afterwards enabled him to lay a most valuable dissertation before the Asiatic Society at Calcutta. Leyden quitted Prince of Wales Island, and was appointed a professor in the Bengal college. This was soon exchanged for a more lucrative appointment, namely, that of a judge in Calcutta. His spare time was, as usual, devoted to oriental manuscripts and antiquities. I may die in the attempt,' he wrote to a friend, but if I die without surpassing Sir William Jones a hundredfold in oriental learning, let never a tear for me profane the eye of a borderer.' The possibility of an early death in a distant land often crossed the mind of the ambitious student. In his Scenes of Infancy,' he expresses his anticipation of such an event in a passage of great melody and pathos.

The silver moon at midnight cold and still,
Looks, sad and silent, o'er yon western hill;
While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,
Reared on the confines of the world below.

Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?
Is that blue light the moon's, or tomb-fire's gleam?
By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,
The old deserted church of Hazeldean,
Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,
Till Teviot's waters rolled their bones away?
Their feeble voices from the stream they raise-
"Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,
Why didst thou quit the peasant's simple lot?
Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,
The ancient graves where all thy fathers lie,
And Teviot's stream that long has murmured by?
And we when death so long has closed our eyes,
How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise,
And bear our mouldering bones across the main,
From vales that knew our lives devoid of stain?
Rash youth! beware, thy home-bred virtues save,
And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave.'

In 1811 Leyden accompanied the governor-general to Java. His spirit of romantic adventure,' says Scott, led him literally to rush upon death; for, with another volunteer who attended the expedition, he threw himself into the surf, in order to be the first Briton of the expedition who should set foot upon Java. When the success of the well-concerted movements of the invaders had given them possession of the town of Batavia, Leyden displayed the same ill-omened precipitation, in his haste to examine a library, or rather a warehouse of books, in which many Indian manuscripts of value were said to be deposited. A library in a Dutch settlement was not, as might have been expected, in the best order; the apartment had not been regularly ventilated, and either from this circumstance, or already affected by the fatal sickness peculiar to Batavia,

Leyden, when he left the place, had a fit of shivering, and declared the atmosphere was enough to give any mortal a fever. The presage was too just: he took his bed, and died in three days (August 28, 1811), on the eve of the battle which gave Java to the British empire.' The Poetical Remains of Leyden were published in 1819, with a Memoir of his Life, by the Rev. James Morton. Sir John Malcolm and Sir Walter Scott both honoured his memory with notices of his life and genius. The Great Minstrel has also alluded to his untimely death in his Lord of the Isles.'

Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shore
Still rings to Corrievreckin's roar,
And lonely Colonsay;

Scenes sung by him who sings no more,
His bright and brief career is o'er,
And mute his tuneful strains;
Quenched 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.

The allusion here is to a ballad by Leyden, entitled The Mermaid, the scene of which is laid at Corrievreckin, and which was published with another, The Cout of Keeldar, in the Border Minstrelsy. His longest poem is his 'Scenes of Infancy,' descriptive of his native vale of Teviot. His versification is soft and musical; he is an elegant rather than a forcible poet. His ballad strains are greatly superior to his 'Scenes of Infancy.' Sir Walter Scott has praised the opening of "The Mermaid,' as exhibiting a power of numbers which, for mere melody of sound, has seldom been excelled in English poetry.

Sonnet on Sabbath Morn.

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That scarcely wakes while all the fields are still;
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,
A graver murmur echoes from the hill,
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn;
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The sky a placid yellow lustre throws;
The gales that lately sighed along the grove
Have hushed their drowsy wings in dead repose;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move:
So soft the day when the first morn arose!*

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin.
[Written in Cherical, Malabar.]
Slave of the dark and dirty mine!
What vanity has brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine

So bright, whom I have bought so dear?
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear
For twilight converse, arm in arm;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear
When mirth and music wont to cheer.
By Cherical's dark wandering streams,

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous piled
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendships smiled,
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

* A writer in the Edinburgh Review (1805) considers that Grahame borrowed the opening description in his Sabbath from the above sonnet by Leyden. The images are common to poetry, besides being congenial to Scottish habits and feel│ings.

61

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played,

Revives no more in after-time.

Far from my sacred natal clime,

I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light

Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night

My lonely widowed 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 left a heart that loved me true!

I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart; the grave

Dark and untimely met my view-
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!
Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock

Of sun-rays tipt with death was borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey;

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!

The Mermaid.

On Jura's heath how sweetly swell

The murmurs of the mountain bee! How softly mourns the writhed shell

Of Jura's shore, its parent sea!

But softer floating o'er the deep,

The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charmed the dancing waves to sleep, Before the bark of Colonsay. Aloft the purple pennons wave,

As, parting gay from Crinan's shore, From Morven's wars, the seamen brave Their gallant chieftain homeward bore. In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail Still blamed the lingering bark's delay: For her he chid the flagging sail,

The lovely maid of Colonsay.

'And raise,' he cried, the song of love, The maiden sung with tearful smile, When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove, We left afar the lonely isle! "When on this ring of ruby red

Shall die," she said, "the crimson hue,
Know that thy favourite fair is dead,
Or proves to thee and love untrue."
Now, lightly poised, the rising oar

Disperses wide the foamy spray,
And echoing far o'er Crinan's shore,
Resounds the song of Colonsay.
'Softly blow, thou western breeze,
Softly rustle through the sail!
Soothe to rest the furrowy seas,
Before my love, sweet western gale!
Where the wave is tinged with red,
And the russet sea-leaves grow,
Mariners, with prudent dread,
Shun the shelving reefs below.

As you pass through Jura's sound,
Bend your course by Scarba's shore;
Shun, O shun, the gulf profound,
Where Corrievreckin's surges roar!

If from that unbottomed deep,

With wrinkled form and wreathed train, O'er the verge of Scarba's steep,

The sea-snake heave his snowy mane,
Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils,

Sea-green sisters of the main,
And in the gulf where ocean boils,
The unwieldy wallowing monster chain.
Softly blow, thou western breeze,

Softly rustle through the sail!
Soothe to rest the furrowed seas,

Before my love, sweet western gale!' Thus all to soothe the chieftain's wo,

Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow,

He seemed her parting sigh to hear.
The lonely deck he paces o'er,

Impatient for the rising day,
And still from Crinan's moonlight shore,
He turns his eyes to Colonsay.
The moonbeams crisp the curling surge,
That streaks with foam the ocean green;
While forward still the rowers urge

Their course, a female form was seen.
That sea-maid's form, of pearly light,
Was whiter than the downy spray,
And round her bosom, heaving bright,
Her glossy yellow ringlets play.
Borne on a foamy crested wave,

She reached amain the bounding prow,
Then clasping fast the chieftain brave,
She, plunging, sought the deep below.
Ah! long beside thy feigned bier,

The monks the prayer of death shall say,
And long for thee, the fruitless tear,
Shall weep the maid of Colonsay!
But downward like a powerless corse,
The eddying waves the chieftain bear;
He only heard the moaning hoarse
Of waters murmuring in his ear.
The murmurs sink by slow degrees,
No more the waters round him rave;
Lulled by the music of the seas,

He lies within a coral cave.

In dreamy mood reclines he long,
Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose,
Till, warbling wild, the sea-maid's song
Far in the crystal cavern rose.

Soft as that harp's unseen control,

In morning dreams which lovers hear, Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul, But never reach the waking ear.

As sunbeams through the tepid air,

When clouds dissolve the dews unseen, Smile on the flowers that bloom more fair, And fields that glow with livelier green

So melting soft the music fell;

It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray'Say, heard'st thou not these wild notes swell? Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay.'

Like one that from a fearful dream

Awakes, the morning light to view, And joys to see the purple beam,

Yet fears to find the vision true,