Here Vanity slinks back, her head to hide :
What is there here to flatter human pride?
The towering fabric, or the dome's loud roar,
And steadfast columns may astonish more,
Where the charmed gazer long delighted stays,
Yet traced but to the architect the praise;

Whilst here, the veriest clown that treads the sod,
Without one scruple gives the praise to God;
And twofold joys possess his raptured mind,
From gratitude and admiration joined.

Here, 'midst the boldest triumphs of her worth,
Nature herself invites the reapers forth;

Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest,
And gives that ardour which in every breast
From Infancy to Age alike appears,
When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears.

No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows-
Children of want, for you the bounty flows!
And every cottage from the plenteous store
Receives a burden nightly at its door.

Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along :
Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong,
Whose writhing form meridian heat defies,
Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries;
Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet,
But spares the rising clover, short and sweet.
Come, Health! come, Jollity! light-footed, come;
Here hold your revels, and make this your home.
Each heart awaits and hails you as its own;
Each moistened brow, that scorns to wear a frown:
The unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants strayed;
E'en the domestic laughing dairymaid
Hies to the field, the general toil to share.
Meanwhile the farmer quits his elbow-chair,
His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease,
And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees
His gates thrown open, and his team abroad,
The ready group attendant on his word,
To turn the swarth, the quivering load to rear,
Or ply the busy rake the land to clear.
Summer's light garb itself now cumbrous grown,
Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down;
Where oft the mastiff skulks with half-shut eye,
And rouses at the stranger passing by ;
Whilst unrestrained the social converse flows,
And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows,
And rival wits with more than rustic grace
Confess the presence of a pretty face.

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
Was that high swelling lawn, that destined green,
Which shadowless expanded far and wide,
The mansion's ornament, the hamlet's pride;
To cheer, to order, to direct, contrive,
Even old Sir Ambrose had been up at five;
There his whole household laboured in his view,-
But light is labour where the task is new.
Some wheeled the turf to build a grassy throne
Round a huge thorn that spread his boughs alone,
Rough-rin'd and bold, as master of the place;
Five generations of the Higham race

Had plucked his flowers, and still he held his sway,
Waved his white head, and felt the breath of May.
Some from the green-house ranged exotics round,
To bask in open day on English ground:
And 'midst them in a line of splendour drew
Long wreaths and garlands gathered in the dew.
Some spread the snowy canvas, propped on high,
O'er sheltered tables with their whole supply;
Some swung the biting scythe with merry face,
And cropped the daisies for a dancing space;
Some rolled the mouldy barrel in his might,
From prison'd darkness into cheerful light,
And fenced him round with cans ; and others bore

The creaking hamper with its costly store,

Well corked, well flavoured, and well taxed, that came
From Lusitanian mountains dear to fame,
Whence Gama steered, and led the conquering way
To eastern triumphs and the realms of day.
A thousand minor tasks filled every hour,
Till the sun gained the zenith of his power,
When every path was thronged with old and young,
And many a skylark in his strength upsprung
To bid them welcome. Not a face was there
But for May-day at least had banished care:
No cringing looks, no pauper tales to tell,
No timid glance-they knew their host too well,—
Freedom was there, and joy in every eye:
Such scenes were England's boast in days gone by.
Beneath the thorn was good Sir Ambrose found,
His guests an ample crescent formed around;
Nature's own carpet spread the space between,
Where blyth domestics plied in gold and green.
The venerable chaplain waved his wand,
And silence followed as he stretched his hand,
And with a trembling voice, and heart sincere,
Implored a blessing on th' abundant cheer.
Down sat the mingling throng, and shared a feast
With hearty welcomes given, by love increased;
A patriarch family, a close-linked band,
True to their rural chieftain, heart and hand;
The deep carouse can never boast the bliss,
The animation of a scene like this.

At length the damask cloths were whisked away,
Like fluttering sails upon a summer's day;
The heyday of enjoyment found repose;
The worthy baronet majestic rose;

They viewed him, while his ale was filling round,
The monarch of his own paternal ground.
His cup was full, and where the blossoms bowed
Over his head, Sir Ambrose spoke aloud,
Nor stopped a dainty form or phrase to cull-
His heart elated, like his cup, was full :-
'Full be your hopes, and rich the crops that fall;
Health to my neighbours, happiness to all!'

Dull must that clown be, dull as winter's sleet,
Who would not instantly be on his feet :
An echoing health to mingling shouts gave place,
'Sir Ambrose Higham, and his noble race!'

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.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen ;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods:
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.

But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days, the man of toil is doomed
To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground
Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold
And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God-not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day :
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air pure from the city's smoke;
While wandering slowly up the river-side,
He meditates on Him whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around the roots; and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,
He hopes-yet fears presumption in the hope-
To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends.
But now his steps a welcome sound recalls:
Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile,
Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe :
Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground;
The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave well pleased;
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach
The house of God-these, spite of all their ills,
A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
They enter in; a placid stillness reigns,
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
Opens the book, and reverentially
The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.
The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes,
Then swells into a diapason full :

The people rising sing, with harp, with harp,
And voice of psalms;' harmoniously attuned

The various voices blend; the long-drawn aisles,
At every close, the lingering strain prolong.
Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,
The Sabbath service of the shepherd-boy!
In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled
To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,
Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,
Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son ;
Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold,
And wonders why he weeps: the volume closed,
With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings
The sacred lays, his weekly lesson conned
With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,
Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth
Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.
Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen,
The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps,
Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands
Returning homeward from the house of prayer.
In peace they home resort. Oh, blissful days!
When all men worship God as conscience wills.
Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew,
A virtuous race to godliness devote.

From 'Sabbath Walks.'

Delightful is this loneliness; it calms
My heart pleasant the cool beneath these elms
That throw across the stream a moveless shade.
Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks;
How peaceful every sound!-the ringdove's plaint,
Moaned from the forest's gloomiest retreat,
While every other woodland lay is mute,
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest,
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear-
The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp-the buzz,
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee,

That soon as loosed booms with full twang away-
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal
Scared from the shallows by my passing tread.
Dimpling the water glides, with here and there
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout
Watches his time to spring; or from above,
Some feathered dam, purveying 'mong the boughs,
Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood
Bears off the prize. Sad emblem of man's lot! . . .
How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day-

Not even a footfall heard. Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain :
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered keystone of the churchyard porch.
Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried;
No step approaches to the house of prayer.
The flickering fall is o'er: the clouds disperse,
And show the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge,
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam

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 cross my homeward path; how sweet the sound,
When I, to hear the Doric tongue's reply,

Would ask thy well-known name!

And must I leave,

Dear land, thy bonny braes, thy dales,
Each haunted by its wizard stream, o'erhung
With all the varied charms of bush and tree?
And must I leave the friends of youthful years,
And mould my heart anew, to take the stamp
Of foreign friendships in a foreign land,
And learn to love the music of strange tongues !
Yes, I may love the music of strange tongues,
And mould my heart anew to take the stamp
Of foreign friendships in a foreign land :

But to my parched mouth's roof cleave this tongue,
My fancy fade into the yellow leaf,

And this oft-pausing heart forget to throb,
If, Scotland, thee and thine I e'er forget.

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,
Looks, sad and silent, o'er yon western hill;
While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,
Reared on the confines of the world below.
Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?
Is that blue light the moon's, or tomb-fire's gleam,
By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,
The old deserted church of Hazeldean,
Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,
Till Teviot's waters rolled their bones away?
Their feeble voices from the stream they raise-
'Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,
Why didst thou quit the peasant's simple lot?
Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,

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
Still rings to Corrievreckan's roar,
And lonely Colonsay;

Scenes sung by him who sings no more,
His bright and brief career is o'er,

And mute his tuneful strains;
Quenched is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour :
A distant and a deadly shore
Has Leyden's cold remains-

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,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams

Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous piled
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

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
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.

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 left a heart that loved me true!

I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart; the grave,
Dark and untimely, met my view
And all for thee, vile yellow slave !
Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock

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,
The maiden sung with tearful smile,
When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove,
We left afar the lonely isle!

'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.