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 friendship 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!
While conversing about Leyden, we must not forget a gentler, purer spirit, Mary Lundie Duncan, who first saw the light "amid the blossoms of Kelso," and whose young heart first warbled its poetic strains on the banks of the Tweed. Her "Memoir," by her gifted mother, is one of the most beautiful and touching biographies in the English language. Possessed of genius and piety, at once pure and tender, her brief life was the fair but changeful spring-time which preceded the long summer of eternity.
Sweet bird of Scotia's tuneful clime,
So beautiful and dear,
Whose music gushed as genius taught,
With Heaven's own quenchless spirit fraught,
I list—thy strain to hear.
Bright flower on Kelso's bosom born,
When spring her glories shed,
Where Tweed flows on in silver sheen,
And Tiviot feeds her valleys green,
I cannot think thee dead.
Fair child—whose rich unfoldings gave
A promise rare and true,
The parent's proudest thoughts to cheer,
And soothe of widowed woe the tear,—
Why hid'st thou from our view?
Young bride, whose wildest thrill of hope
Bowed the pure brow in prayer,
Whose ardent zeal and saintly grace,
Did make the manse a holy place,
We search—thou art not there.