prevail upon him to relax in his application to study, it was in vain. He used, when unable to sit upright, to prop himself up with pillows, and continue his translations. One day that I was sitting by his bed-side, the surgeon came in. 'I am glad you are here,' said Mr. Anderson, addressing himself to me, 'you will be able to persuade Leyden to attend to my advice. I have told him before, and I now repeat, that he will die if he does not leave off his studies, and remain quiet. Very well, Doctor,' exclaimed Leyden; you have done your duty, but you must now hear me; I cannot be idle; and whether I die or live, the wheel must go round to the last:' and he actually continued, under the depression of a fever and a liver complaint, to study more than ten hours each day." His feelings on the subject of his exile from his home and country, are well depicted in the following beautiful little poem. ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. Written in Chéricál, Malabar. 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-rope's flapping lone I hear For twilight-converse, arm in arın; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm. By Chéricál's dark wandering streams, Of Teviot lov'd while still a child, 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 cross'd the tedious ocean-wave, To roam in climes unkind and new. Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn, Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!- 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: 66 Thy muse, O Leyden, seeks no foreign clime, 'Tis songs like thine that lighten labour's toil, And make it death from those we love to part. 'Tis songs like thine that make each rugged wild, 'Tis songs like thine that spread the martial flame, While the clear Teviot thro' fair meads shall stray, 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 parlour, "may go to breakfast, but I will neither 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, I sigh'd to leave my native plains, Soft as I trac'd each woodland green, I sketch'd its charms with parting hand; Careless of fame, nor fond of praise, Enough for me if these impart The glow to patriot virtue dear; Torn from my native wilds afar, |