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,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams

Of Teviot lov'd while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous pil'd

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;
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 lov'd me true!

I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my wither'd 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 banish'd heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock

Of sun-rays tipt with death has 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!"

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,
For deeds of fame, to twine her brow with bays;
But finds a home whereon to build her rhyme,
And patriot virtues sings in patriot lays.

"Tis songs like thine that lighten labour's toil,
That rouse each generous feeling of the heart,
That bind us closer to our native soil,

And make it death from those we love to part.

"Tis songs like thine that make each rugged wild,
And barren heath, to Scotia's sons more dear
Than scenes o'er which fond Nature partial smil'd,
And rob'd in verdure thro' the varied year.

"Tis songs like thine that spread the martial flame,
'Mid Scotia's sons, and bid each youth aspire
To rush on death, to gain a deathless name,
And live in story like his glorious sire.

While the clear Teviot thro' fair meads shall stray,
And Esk still clearer seeks the Western main;

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,
Rude Nature charm'd my early view;

I sigh'd to leave my native plains,
And bid the haunts of youth adieu.

Soft as I trac'd each woodland green,

I sketch'd its charms with parting hand;
That memory might each fairy scene
Revive within this Eastern land.

Careless of fame, nor fond of praise,
The simple strains spontaneous sprung,
For Teviot's youths I wrote the lays,
For Border-maids my songs I sung.

Enough for me if these impart

The glow to patriot virtue dear;
The free-born soul, the fearless heart,
The spirit of the mountaineer.

Torn from my native wilds afar,
Enough for me if souls like thine
Unquench'd beneath the Eastern star,
Can still applaud the high design."

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