TO THE MEMORY OF DR. JOHN LEYDEN*,
DEPARTED year! though Victory raise
The pean to thy passing shade,
From climes that saw thy youthful days,
To where, like thee, the sun-rays fade;
A sadder strain the breast should melt,
For, far beyond Malaya's Sea,
The pride of Western Isles has felt
The fell breath of the Upas tree.
And I will weep his fate severe,
Whom now the pallid grave-flowers hide;
Whose song, to all the Muses dear,
'Twas sweet to hear by Teviot's side.
But what, alas! avail'd the songs,
They taught him in their woodland bower?
And what avail'd the gift of tongues,
By Heaven vouchsaf'd in blessed hour?
Dr. Leyden accompanied Lord Minto, in the expedition to Java, in the capacity of Malayan and Chinese interpreter, and died at Batavia, on the 27th of August, 1811, in the prime of life, after an illness of three days.
What boots it, that, like yonder star
Of day, he wander'd many a mile,
From Travancore to Malabar,
To catch the light of Learning's smile;
That with the banner of his land
He brav'd the power that scatters death,
Along Batavia's swampy strand,
In many a pestilential breath:
And, all regardless of his doom,
Immortal Science! led by thee,
He boldly snatch'd the brightest bloom,
That blossoms on the guarded tree*.
Ah! 'twas a flower too fair to blow
Beneath the cope of other skies;
Soon fades, alas! youth's roseate glow,
And Leyden, lov'd and honour'd, dies.
Nor can the wealth, the glory, won
By British arms on Java's shore,
Dear Leyden! for thy loss atone,
More than they can thy life restore.
Dr. Leyden's dissertation on the Classification of the IndoChinese Languages, and on the Languages of the Dekkan and Hindostan, in the 10th volume of the Asiatic Researches, is extremely valuable; infinitely exceeding in extent of knowledge and combination any thing ever attempted. It furnishes an excellent division of the languages of the countries between India and China, of infi. nite use in antiquarian and philological research. It was what the learned had a right to expect from the British, and Dr. Leyden, much to his honour, has discharged the debt of his country.
Well may the tear-drops dim thine eye,
Aurelia! Teviot's loveliest maid *,
For whom he breath'd th' impassion'd sigh,
And languish'd in Mysura's shade.
And well may they whom classic lore
Has given to grace EDINA's halls,
Lament thy fate; for thou no more
Where Learning lifts her attic walls,
Enthusiast youth! shalt fondly bring,.
Prometheus like, thine orient beam,
And flowers in sunnier glades that spring,
To deck her sounding Academe.
But what shall soothe a parent's grief,
Whose hope is sunk in dark despair?
Has Heaven a cup of sweet relief,
For such a pang, then pour it there.
Departed youth! departed year!
Thy cherish'd memory cannot fade,
For ever lost-for ever dear,
Tho' number'd with the silent dead,
Edinburgh,
January 18, 1812.
* See "Scenes of Infancy, descriptive of Teviot Dale,” a poem of great beauty, by Dr. Leyden.
"Α ρατε με δεμας ̓ ὅρθετε κάρα.
Δελύμαι μελέων σύνδεσμα.
Ο δ ̓ ολβιος ὅν με συ θύμω
Προφρων τιμήσεις τω δ' αφθονα παντα πόρεσι, HOMER.
HITHER turn thee, rosy Maid!
Turn, to give the wretched aid!
Power I seek not; wealth I spurn;
Hither, heavenly vision, turn!
With thy vivid, vermil hue,
Tinge my faded cheek anew;
Stay the withering griefs that soil;
Where they trickled, plant a smile;
And kindle thro' my sparkling eye
The beams of radiant ecstacy.
Ah! let not Spring disclose in vain
The treasures of her orient reign!
Nor Flora blushing, summon all
But me, to Nature's festival!
Behold the whispering zephyrs rove,
And piercing sweetness thrills the grove;
The fields their freshest verdure wear,
And laughs around the childish year,
Then haste thee, lovely Dryad, turn!
Now leave me singly thus to mourn.
Written at Christ-Church, in 1784; Etat 18. The Author is supposed to have been the present Baron Smith, a distinguished literary and judicial character in Ireland.
Hand in hand let's skirt the mead,
Fast by the twinkling aspen shade
Let us thrid the dewy vale,
Where the rill glitters to the gale,
Or the tangling grass among,
Steals its latent tricklings on.
The bordering upland climb we now,
And from its scene-commanding brow,
Beneath a shadowy group of trees,
On pillowing verdure stretch'd at ease,
Let's view the mingled prospect round;
Flowery lawn, and fallow ground;
Oxen, o'er the furrow'd soil,
Urging firm their annual toil :
Trim cottages that here and there
Speckling the social tilth appear;
And spires, that as from groves they rise,
Tell where the lurking hamlet lies:
Hills white with many a bleating throng,
And lakes, whose willowy banks along,
Herds or ruminate, or lave,
Immersing in the silent wave:
The sombre wood-the cheerful plain,
Green with the hope of future grain :
A tender blade, ere Autumn smile
Benignant on the farmer's toil,
Gild the ripe fields with mellowing hand,
And scatter plenty through the land.
On earth should dazzling summer brood, Lead to some bosky solitude:
Pent in the leafy, wild retreat,
There let me press a moss-grown seat,
Where violets droop their purple heads;
Its fragrance the pale primrose sheds;
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