JOHN LEYDEN. 1775-1811. LEYDEN'S fame is greater than his | Lettres in the University, but did not poetic remains, or any other literary achievement that he has left behind him would sustain; but so long as the recollection of his enthusiastic ardour for learning, and his romantic encounters with the difficulties which he overcame in its pursuit, preserve their interest for the readers of literary biography, his name shall retain a brighter halo than his mere poetic merits confer, Leyden was the son of a shepherd in the village of Denholm, in Roxburghshire, and was born there in September 1775. His conspicuous talents at school led to his being sent to Edinburgh University, at the age of fifteen, with the view of qualifying him for the ministry of the Church of Scotland; but his linguistic and literary tastes do not appear to have facilitated his obtaining a charge, although he was licensed as a probationer in 1798. After completing his course, he obtained the situation of tutor to the sons of Mr Campbell of Fairfield, and accompanied them to the University of St Andrew's, where he continued his oriental and other studies with unabated zeal, and in 1799 published a treatise on the Discoveries and Settlement of the Europeans in Western Africa. Having failed, in 1800, to obtain an appointment in the Church, his literary friends in Edinburgh, who were many and influential, tried to obtain for him the chair of Rhetoric and Belles succeed. Yet no disappointment could In 1811, he accompanied the British expedition against Java; and with that imprudent impetuosity which characterized all his actions, he leaped into the surf, in order to be the first Briton that should set foot on the shore; and when Batavia was taken possession of, in his eagerness to investigate the contents of a Dutch library that was said to contain Indian MSS., he forgot those precautions which were necessary in the circumstances, and caught a cold, which ended his career in three days, on the 28th August 1811. There were few men whose talents and indomitable literary application excited greater hopes than John Leyden ; or whose death was more sincerely mourned by his numerous friends. Scott, the greatest of them, paid several graceful tributes to his memory, one of which is a short memoir, written for the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1811. It is impossible to estimate, from Leyden's poetic remains, what he might have done, had his life been prolonged; yet from the intensity of his linguistic and antiquarian genius, it is not probable that he would have added much to his poetic fame. Like most university-bred Scots, except Fergusson, he did not attempt the Scottish manner; yet few writings are so much imbued with the love of the land of his birth as his. The Scenes of Infancy is more distinguished for the spirit it breathes than for the loftiness of its poetry, and perhaps his "Mermaid" of Corrivrekin is the best specimen of his poetic genius. His edition of the Complaint of Scotland, with a learned antiquarian dissertation on the subject of our ancient poetry, is evidence of his love for, and deep study of the ancient minstrels of Even as I muse, my former life returns, And youth's first ardour in my bosom burns. Like music melting in a lover's dream, stream: The crisping rays, that on the waters lie, Depict a paler moon, a fainter sky; While, through inverted alder boughs below, Then is the time to stretch the daring hand, And snatch it from the bending poplar pale, The magic harp of ancient Teviotdale. If thou, Aurelia! bless the high design, And softly smile, that daring hand is mine! Wild on the breeze the thrilling lyre shall fling Melodious accents from each elfin string. Such strains the harp of haunted Merlin' threw, The twinkling stars with greener lustre When from his dreams the mountain glow. sprites withdrew ; On these fair banks, thine ancient bards While, trembling to the wires that warbled Enchanting stream! their melting numbers His apple-blossoms waved along the hill. Hark! how the mountain-echoes still pour; But still their viewless harps, on poplars hung, Sigh the soft airs they learned when time was young: And those who tread with holy feet the ground, At lonely midnight, hear their silver sound; When river breezes wave their dewy wings, And lightly fan the wild enchanted strings. What earthly hand presumes, aspiring bold, The airy harp of ancient bards to hold, With ivy's sacred wreath to crown his head, And lead the plaintive chorus of the dead retain The memory of the prophet's boding strain ! "Once more, begirt with many a mar tial peer, Victorious Arthur shall his standard rear, In ancient pomp his mailèd bands display; While nations, wondering, mark their strange array, Their proud commanding port, their giant form, The spirit's stride, that treads the northern storm. Where fate invites them to the dread repast, Dark Cheviot's eagles swarm on every blast; He round the poplar's base shall nightly On Camlan bursts the sword's impatient strew The willow's pointed leaves, of pallid blue, And still restrain the gaze, reverted keen, When round him deepen sighs from shapes unseen, And o'er his lonely head, like summer bees, roar; The war-horse wades, with champinghoofs, in gore ; The scythed car on grating axle rings; Broad o'er the field the ravens join their wings; Above the champions in the fateful hour, The leaves self-moving tremble on the Floats the black standard of the evil Though many a wond'rous tale of elder | When in these wilds a jocund, sportive Each flower, self-sown, my heedless hours beguiled: Shall grace the wild traditionary rhyme, Yet, not of warring hosts and faulchion wounds, The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew,' Again the harp of ancient minstrels The wild-briar rose, of pale and blushful sounds: hue, Be mine to sing the meads, the pensile The thistle's rolling wheel of silken down, groves, The blue-bell, or the daisy's pearly crown, And silver streams, which dear Aurelia The gaudy butterfly, in wanton round, loves. That, like a living pea-flower, skimm'd the ground. From wilds of tawny heath, and mosses dun, Through winding glens, scarce pervious Afraid to glitter in the noon-tide beam, stream: Till, far retiring from her native rills, hills, And, gathering wide her waters on their way, With foamy force emerges into day. Where'er she sparkles o'er her silver The daisied meads in glowing hues expand; Again I view the cairn, and moss-grey stone. Where oft at eve I wont to muse alone, Or think, as playful fancy wandered far, Again I view each rude romantic glade, Where once with tiny steps my childhood stray'd, To watch the foam-bells of the bubbling brook, Or mark the motions of the clamorous rook, Who saw her nest, close thatched with ceaseless toil, But, more remote, the spangled fields At summer eve become the woodman's And windows tinkling shrill with dancing And oft, when ardent fancy spurned con hail; While, as the drifting tempest darker blew, White showers of blossoms seemed the fields to strew. Again, beside this silver riv'let's shore, With green and yellow moss-flowers mottled o'er, Beneath a shivering canopy reclined, trol, The living image rushed upon my soul, Filled all my heart, and, mid the bustling crowd, Bade me forgetful muse, or think aloud; While, as I sighed thy favourite scenes to view, Each lingering hour seemed lengthening as it flew : As Ovid, banished from his favourite fair, No gentle melting heart his grief to share, Was wont in plaintive accents to deplore Campania's scenes, along the Getic shore; When peers in scattered tuft the yellow A lifeless waste unfanned by vernal breeze, bloom, Or trace the path, with tangling furze o'errun ; When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun, And pittering grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill, Pipe giddily along the glowing hill. Sweet grasshopper, who lov'st at noon to lie Serenely in the green-ribbed clover's eye, To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest, Unseen thy form, and undisturbed thy rest! Oft have I listening mused the sultry day, And wondered what thy chirping song might say; When nought was heard along the blossomed lea, To join thy music, save the listless bee. Since with weak step I traced each rising down, Nor dreamed of worlds beyond yon mountains brown, These scenes have ever to my heart been dear; But still, Aurelia ! most when thou wert near. On Eden's banks, in pensive fit reclined, Thy angel features haunted still my mind; Where snow-flakes hung like leaves upon the trees: The fur-clad savage loved his aspect mild, That bade the Getæ hear the songs of 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 charm'd 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 |
