BY THE LATE JOHN LEYDEN, M. D.
HARK! how the merry lark's loud carols ring,
While wavering on the morning's dewy breath
The spider's silky web hangs o'er the heath;
Soaring, re-soaring high on quivering wing,
Her winding notes to sad remembrance bring
The moody musings of youth's earlier day,
When on the yellow curling moss I lay,
To hear the first wild music of the Spring,
Which o'er my soul a pleasing sadness threw :
Then heaving, as by stealth, a feeble sigh,
I mus'd how mortal man so soon must die,
And pensive view'd the sky so mildly blue.
Farewell, soft childish griefs, that but presage
The cheerless sorrows of maturer age.
In ridges green the peopled church-yard heaves,
Where musing slow, from human footsteps far,
I often pause to see some falling star
Twinkle by glimpses through the shivering leaves.
And there beneath the languid cypress shade
I love to mark a shapeless mossy stone
Of former days, that now remains alone,
And wish my head at last may there be laid :—
For there the peasant's sober steps shall pass,
When the slow sabbath-bells to church shall toll,
And wish a prayer in silence for my soul,
While his rude staff divides the rustling grass.
Than proud sepulchral pomp to me more dear
Shall be the peasant's sigh, the peasant's tear.
STILL on my soul that awful hour shall rise,
When, bounding home from the red-blossom'd heath,
Full in my view the corpse-like form of death
First burst in horror on mine infant eyes:
The sheeted bed of melancholy white,
The death-watch, and the dog's long dreary howl,
The ghostly terror lest the parted soul
Should glide before the shuddering watch at night; The sable bier, the wailing female cry
When slow the sad procession mov'd away I well remember,-and for many a day I mus❜d, and hop'd that I should never die. Vain hope! for death, since that tremendous hour, Has been the canker-worm of pleasure's flower.
TO MILFORD HAVEN. ON LANDING AFTER A SEVERE TEMPEST, 1792.
FAM'D haven! whose capacious arms embrace
A clear expanse, to float BRITANNIA's pride;
Or give kind refuge to the wandering race,
Sore rock'd by BOREAS' breath, and NEPTUNE's tide; Thy banks-if aught enrich'd by SHAKSPEARE's strain, The melting scene of IMOGEN's distress,
Were subject meet for minstrel voice profane,
Thy beauteous banks my votive song should bless.
Yet may he hope-who, late escap'd the grave
Of LYCIDAS, to taste poetic dear!
For thy still bosom chang'd the stormy wave-
Yet fondly hope the hour propitious near,
From CAMBRIA's vales when navies shall emerge,
Fill all thy winding ports, and ride the ATLANTIC surge!
READING THE POEMS OF A GIRL OF THIRTEEN, 1810.
ITH anxious thought the parent eyes his child, Whose ripening talents sanguine hope outrun ; Like flowrets rare, that wait the kindling sun, To throw their tints and fragrance o'er the wild. And oft of care that parent was beguil❜d,
Who mark'd to fame her youthful genius soar, Fraught with the treasures of poetic lore, While every Muse on Fancy's darling smil❜d! So, deep sequester'd in the PERSIC stream,
Mid coral caves the pearl, unheeded, lies;
Till, given to day, it drinks the orient beam,
And claims the homage of admiring eyes:
Selected now, to grace INDOSTAN's throne,
Its lustre, matchless, and its price, unknown!
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