To the Memory of John Leyden

O, MOURNFUL on our ears the wild harp died
When the bard sang farewell to Teviotside;
And gentle hearts, while thou wert far away,
Own'd sad misgivings for thy plaintive lay.
Ah, too prophetic! in the flush of years
Sweet minstrel, far from thine Aurelia's tears,
Thy glorious task hath bowed thee to the tomb.
Most mournful, yet most blessed was thy doom!
Most blessed was thy doom, the rural Muse
Dropp'd on thy cradled head her blandest dews,
And melting hues of moonlight loveliness,
And fairy forms thy childish eyne would bless
Thou, too, hadst learn'd to love; and not in vain,
If right I guess, was pour'd thy soothing strain.
To each fond note that down the valley sigh'd
Some chord within thy fair one's heart replied;
Breathless she listen'd for the song of love,
Nor miss'd the nightingale from Teviot's grove.
Most blessed was thy doom: to thy bold glance
Flew wide the gorgeous portals of Romance;
From living gems that deck her mystic cell
Thine eye caught lustre, and the sacred spell
Of high chivalric song upon thy spirit fell.
O, sweeter than the music of the grove,
The border clarion, or the lute of love,
Those angel-notes that on thy dying ear
Fell soft, recalling all thy soul held dear,
All bright remembrances of deeds well done,
Of Mercy's work for half mankind begun,
All the calm joys of hearts in virtue sure,
All holy longings, all affections pure,
With thy free soul in bliss for ever to endure.
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