The tent-rope's flapping lone I hear For twilight-converse, arm in arm; 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, Of Teviot lov'd while still a child, By Esk or Eden's classic wave, Where loves of youth and friendships smil'd, Uncurs'd by thee, vile yellow slave! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade :The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy play'd, Revives no more in after-time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave; The daring thoughts that soar'd 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 widow'd heart to cheer; 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. Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn, Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ? Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!— When Leyden was at Mysore, an occurrence took place which shewed that ill-health had neither subdued his spirit, nor weakened his poetical powers. His host, Sir John Malcolm, one morning before breakfast, gave him back his poem of the "Scenes of Infancy," which he had borrowed a few days before ;-on looking at the title-page, Leyden observed that Sir John had written with a pencil the stanzas which follow:: "Thy muse, O Leyden, seeks no foreign clime, "Tis songs like thine that lighten labour's toil, And make it death from those we love to part. "Tis songs like thine that make each rugged wild, "Tis songs like thine that spread the martial flame, While the clear Teviot thro' fair meads shall stray, So long shall Border maidens sing thy lay, And Border youths applaud the patriot strain.” Leyden read these verses once or twice over, with much apparent satisfaction, and then exclaimed, "What! attack me at my own trade; this must not be. You, gentlemen," addressing himself to two or three who were in the parmay go to breakfast, but I will neither lour, eat nor drink, until I have answered this fine compliment." He retired to his room, and in less than half an hour, returned with the following far superior lines, addressed to Colonel Malcolm: "Bred 'mid the heaths and mountain swains, I sigh'd to leave my native plains, Soft as I trac'd each woodland green, I sketch'd its charms with parting hand; Careless of fame, nor fond of praise, Enough for me if these impart The glow to patriot virtue dear; Torn from my native wilds afar, SINGULAR DEDICATIONS OF POEMS. In the dedication of poems, one general manner has prevailed ever since poems were written -namely, to extol, with more or less extravagance, the individuals to whom they are inscribed. Every reader is familiar with instances of the fulsome extremes to which such adulation has been carried: let ours be the more agreeable task to bring together some of the few cases which are either deserving of imitation for the good taste in which they are conceived, or amusing for their eccentricity. The happiest, and, at the same time, one of the shortest, dedications, which we remember to have met with, is that prefixed to the poem of "Madagascar," by Sir William Davenant; 1648. It is in these words: "If these poems live, may their memories by whom they are cherished, Endymion Porter and H. Jarmyn, live with them." Sheppard, in his “ Epigrams, Theological, Philosophical, and Romantic," 1651, has adopted almost literally the same style of inscription: "If these Epigrams survive, (maugre the voracitie of |