Here Vanity slinks back, her head to hide : Whilst here, the veriest clown that treads the sod, Here, 'midst the boldest triumphs of her worth, Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest, No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows- Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along : May-day with the Old Squire. Thus came the jovial day; no streaks of red O'er the broad portal of the morn was spread, But one high-sailing mist of dazzling white, A screen of gossamer, a magic light, Doomed instantly, by simplest shepherd's ken, To reign awhile, and be exhaled at ten. O'er leaves, o'er blossoms, by his power restored, Forth came the conquering sun and looked abroad; Millions of dew-drops fell, yet millions hung, Like words of transport trembling on the tongue, Too strong for utterance :-Thus the infant boy, With rosebud cheeks, and features tuned to joy, Weeps while he struggles with restraint or pain; But change the scene, and make him laugh again, His heart rekindles, and his cheek appears A thousand times more lovely through his tears. From the first glimpse of day a busy scene Had plucked his flowers, and still he held his sway, The creaking hamper with its costly store, Well corked, well flavoured, and well taxed, that came At length the damask cloths were whisked away, They viewed him, while his ale was filling round, Dull must that clown be, dull as winter's sleet, A complete collection of Bloomfield's works, which comprise many short and occasional pieces as well as a short prose 'village drama,' was made in 1824; and there have been several editions of them since, as in 1864 and 1883. The Farmer's Boy, with an introduction and notes by Darlington, appeared in 1898. Capell Lofft (1751-1824), was a Whig barrister with a taste for letters; he wrote legal treatises, poems, magazine articles, and books on theological, astronomical, and political subjects. The son of the famous Duchess of Marlborough's secretary, he was born in London, passed from Eton to Peterhouse, Cambridge, lived on his estate at Troston near Bury St Edmunds, and died near Turin. He was a keen reformer, a warm admirer of Napoleon, the friend of Fox, Clarkson, Wilberforce, and Arthur Young, and the patron of Bloomfield. A son who bore the same name (1806-73) and died at Millmead in Virginia was also a poet and miscellaneous writer. James Grahame (1765-1811), the son of a thriving Whig lawyer in Glasgow, went in 1784 to Edinburgh to study law, and, after qualifying as a Writer to the Signet, was admitted as an advocate in 1795. But in 1809 he took Anglican orders, and was successively curate of Shipton Moyne in Gloucestershire, and of Sedgefield in Durham. Illhealth compelled him to abandon his curacy when his talents had attracted notice and rendered him a popular preacher; and he died soon after his return to Scotland. His works include, besides one or two earlier pieces, Mary, Queen of Scotland, a dramatic poem (1801), The Sabbath (1804), Sabbath Walks (1805), The Birds of Scotland (1806), and British Georgics (1809), all in blank verse. The Sabbath is his best achievement; in the Georgics, spite of some fine descriptions, he is too detailed and too practical in his instructions. Scott spoke warmly of him, Christopher North lauded him, and Byron, as might be expected, sneered. Grahame has some affinity with Cowper. He has no humour or satire, it is true, and he has many prosaic lines, but he displays not a little of Cowper's power of close and happy observation, with the same devoutness and seriousness tending to melancholy. The ordinary features of the Scottish landscape he portrays truly, sometimes vividly, and always without exaggeration, though he often adds a special note of tenderness or solemnity. Content with humble things, he paints the charms of a retired cottage-life, the calm of a Sabbath morning, a walk in the fields, or even a bird's nest, with such unfeigned delight and striking truth that the reader is constrained to see and feel with him, to rejoice in the elements of poetry and meditation scattered around, even in the homeliest objects. From 'The Sabbath.' How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. The people rising sing, with harp, with harp, The various voices blend; the long-drawn aisles, From 'Sabbath Walks.' Delightful is this loneliness; it calms That soon as loosed booms with full twang away- Not even a footfall heard. Smooth are the fields, On all the sparkling waste. From the 'Georgics.' How pleasant came thy rushing, silver Tweed, Upon my ear, when, after roaming long In southern plains, I've reached thy lovely bank! How bright, renowned Sark, thy little stream, Like ray of columned light chasing a shower, Would ask thy well-known name! And must I leave, Dear land, thy bonny braes, thy dales, But to my parched mouth's roof cleave this tongue, And this oft-pausing heart forget to throb, John Leyden (1775–1811), Orientalist and poet, was born at Denholm in Roxburghshire. His father, a shepherd, seeing his natural bent, determined to educate him for the Church, and from 1790 to 1797 he was a student of Edinburgh University. He made rapid progress; was an excellent Latin and Greek scholar; and acquired also French, Spanish, Italian, and German, besides studying Hebrew, Arabic, and Persian. He became no mean proficient in mathematics and various branches of science; every difficulty seemed to vanish before his commanding talents, retentive memory, and robust application. His college vacations were spent at home; and as his father's cottage afforded him little opportunity for quiet and seclusion, he looked out for accommodation abroad. In a wild recess,' says Sir Walter Scott, 'in the den or glen which gives name to the village of Denholm, he contrived a sort of furnace for the purpose of such chemical experiments as he was adequate to performing. But his chief place of retirement was the small parish church, a gloomy and ancient building, generally believed in the neighbourhood to be haunted. To this chosen place of study, usually locked during week-days, Leyden made entrance by means of a window, read there for many hours in the day, and deposited his books and specimens in a retired pew. It was a well-chosen spot of seclusion, for the kirk-excepting during divine service is rather a place of terror to the Scottish rustic, and that of Cavers was rendered more so by many a tale of ghosts and witchcraft of which it was the supposed scene, and to which Leyden, partly to indulge his humour, and partly to secure his retirement, contrived to make some modern additions. The nature of his abstruse studies, some specimens of natural history, as toads and adders, left exposed in their spirit-phials, and one or two practical jests played off upon the more curious of the peasantry, rendered his gloomy haunt not only venerated by the wise, but feared by the simple of the parish.' From this singular and romantic study, Leyden sallied forth, with his curious and various stores, to astonish his college associates; he already numbered among his friends the most distinguished literary and scientific men of Edinburgh. In 1796-98 he was tutor to the sons of Mr Campbell of Fairfield, whom he accompanied to the University of St Andrews. There he pursued his own researches in Oriental learning, and was licensed to preach; in 1799 he published Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Western Africa. He also contributed to the Edinburgh Magazine, to 'Monk' Lewis's Tales of Wonder, and to Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. So ardent was he in assisting Sir Walter that once he walked between forty and fifty miles, and back again, for the sole purpose of visiting an old person who possessed an ancient historical ballad. He cherished a strong desire to visit foreign countries; but when his friends sought from Government on his behalf some appointment for him connected with the learning and languages of the East, the only situation they could obtain for him was that of assistant-surgeon at Madras; and in five or six months Leyden qualified himself for this new profession and obtained a diploma in medicine. In December 1802, summoned to join the Christmas fleet of Indiamen, Leyden finished his poem, the Scenes of Infancy, describing his native Teviotdale, and left Scotland for ever. After his arrival at Madras his health gave way, and he was obliged to remove to Prince of Wales Island. He remained there for some time, visiting Sumatra and the Malayan Peninsula, and amassing the curious information concerning the language, literature, and descent of the Indo-Chinese tribes, which enabled him to lay a most valuable dissertation before the Asiatic Society at Calcutta. An appointment as professor in the Bengal College was soon exchanged for a more lucrative post, that of a judge in Calcutta ; but his spare time was still devoted to Oriental manuscripts and antiquities. 'I may die in the attempt,' he wrote to a friend, 'but if I die without surpassing Sir William Jones a hundredfold in Oriental learning, let never a tear for me profane the eye of a Borderer.' The possibility of an early death in a distant land often crossed the mind of the ambitious student; in his Scenes of Infancy he expressly anticipates a fate he had then no reason to expect: The silver moon at midnight cold and still, tion who should set foot upon Java. When the success of the well-concerted movements of the invaders had given them possession of the town of Batavia, Leyden displayed the same ill-omened precipitation, in his haste to examine a library, or rather a warehouse of books. The apartment had not been regularly ventilated, and either from this circumstance, or already affected by the fatal sickness peculiar to Batavia, Leyden, when he left the place, had a fit of shivering, and declared the atmosphere was enough to give any mortal a fever. The presage was too just: he took his bed, and died in three days (August 28, 1811), on the eve of the battle which gave Java for a while to the British Empire.' Scott alluded to his death in the Lord of the Isles: Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shore Scenes sung by him who sings no more, And mute his tuneful strains; referring here to Leyden's ballad The Mermaid, the scene of which is laid at Corrievreckan; it was published with his Cout of Keeldar in the Border Minstrelsy. Scott too generously said of the opening of the Mermaid that for mere melody of sound it had seldom been excelled in English poetry. Leyden's learning was portentous; he dealt not merely with Sanskrit and Prakrit, Persian and Pushtu, Hindustani and Bengali, but with the tongues of the Dekkan, of the Maldives, of Macassar and Bali, and with various forms of Malay. He translated important works from and into several of these tongues. At home he had edited the Complaynt of Scotlande, Scottish Descriptive Poems (including Albania, heretofore unpublished; see page 440). But he was more powerful as a scholar than as a poet, though his ballads and shorter poems have more inspiration than his longest piece, the Scenes of Infancy. Ode to an Indian Gold Coin. Slave of the dark and dirty mine! What vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear? The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear For twilight converse, arm in arm ; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine car When mirth and music wont to cheer. By Cherical's dark wandering streams, Of Teviot loved while still a child, Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played, Revives no more in after-time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave; The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of the mine! thy yellow light A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widowed 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 crossed the tedious ocean-wave, To roam in climes unkind and new. A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, 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 ! From '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 charmed 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 Still blamed the lingering bark's delay: For her he chid the flagging sail, The lovely maid of Colonsay. 'And raise,' he cried, the song of love, 'When on this ring of ruby red Shall die,' she said, 'the crimson hue, Know that thy favourite fair is dead, Or proves to thee and love untrue.' Now, lightly poised, the rising oar Disperses wide the foamy spray, And echoing far o'er Crinan's shore, Resounds the song of Colonsay: 'Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowy seas, Before my love, sweet western gale! 'Where the wave is tinged with red, And the russet sea-leaves grow, Mariners, with prudent dread, Shun the shelving reefs below. |