By Chéricál'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 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 left a heart that loved me true!

I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new. The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my wither'd heart: the grave Dark and untimely met my viewAnd all for thee, vile yellow slave !

Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock

A wanderer's banish'd 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 SCENES OF INFANCY.

E'EN as I muse, my former life returns,
And youth's first ardour in my bosom burns.
Like music melting in a lover's dream,

I hear the murmuring song of Teviot's stream:
The crisping rays, that on the waters lie,
Depict a paler moon, a fainter sky;
While through inverted alder-boughs below
The twinkling stars with greener lustre glow.

On these fair banks thine ancient bards no more, Enchanting stream! their melting numbers pour ; But still their viewless harps, on poplars hung, Sigh the soft airs they learn'd when time was young:

And those who tread with holy feet the ground, At lonely midnight, hear their silver sound; When river-breezes wave their dewy wings, And lightly fan the wild enchanted strings.

What earthly hand presumes, aspiring bold, The airy harp of ancient bards to hold,

With ivy's sacred wreath to crown his head,
And lead the plaintive chorus of the dead;
He round the poplar's base shall nightly strew
The willow's pointed leaves, of pallid blue,
And still restrain the gaze, reverted keen,
When round him deepen sighs from shapes unseen,
And o'er his lonely head, like summer bees,
The leaves self-moving tremble on the trees.
When morn's first rays fall quivering on the strand,
Then is the time to stretch the daring hand,
And snatch it from the bending poplar pale,
The magic harp of ancient Teviotdale.

JOHN KEATS.

BORN 1796-DIED 1820.

THIS young poet was of humble origin. He was born in London, educated at Enfield, and apprenticed to a surgeon at the age of fifteen. John Keats was as unlucky in his early friends and patrons as he was happy in natural genius; yet they probably all meant well and even kindly by him: and we can only regret that he became, from evil juxta-position, the foot-ball between contending partisans. Lord Byron has attributed the death of this youth to the injustice and acrimony of the critics; but whatever effect their severity may have had on his poetically-constituted and singular mind, the immediate and unequivocal cause of his death was confirmed phthisis, to which he fell a victim in Rome, in his twenty-fourth year. With the productions of Collins, Chatterton, Bruce, White, and others, full in memory, it is impos

sible not to be struck by the early writings of John Keats, which, amid their wild extravagance, display much of the power, fervour, and exuberance of original genius.

EXTRACT FROM HYPERION.

Lo! 'tis for the Father of all verse.
Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue,
Let the rose glow intense, and warm the air,
And let the clouds of even and of morn
Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills;
Let the red wine within the goblet boil,
Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp'd shells,
On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn
Through all their labyrinths; and let the maid
Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised.
Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades,

Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green,
And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech,
In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song,
And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the
shade:

Apollo is once more the golden theme!

Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun
Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers?
Together had he left his mother fair
And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower,
And in the morning twilight wandered forth
Beside the osiers of a rivulet,

Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale.

The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle

There was no covert, no retired cave
Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves,
Though scarcely heard in many a green recess.
He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears
Went trickling down the golden bow he held.
Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood,
While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard

by,

With solemn step, an awful Goddess came,
And there was purport in her looks for him,
Which he with eager guess began to read,
Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said:
"How cam'st thou over the unfooted sea?
Or hath that antique mien and robed form
Moved in these vales invisible till now?
Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er
The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone
In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced
The rustle of those ample skirts about
These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers
Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass'd.
Goddess! I have beheld those eyes before,
And their eternal calm, and all that face,
Or I have dream'd."-"Yes," said the supreme
shape,

"Thou hast dream'd of me; and awaking up,
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side,

Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast
Unwearied ear of the whole universe

Listen'd, in pain and pleasure, at the birth
Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange
That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me,
youth,

What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad