Daily Richmond Whig

There is so much of true genius and poetic feeling of the highest order, in the following stanzas; that I cannot withstand the temptation of enriching my barren pages with so beautiful a gem. This ode of Doctor Leyden's, in my humble opinion, comes as near perfection as the sublunary Muse can arrive at, when assisted by a subject that is interesting, and an execution that is masterly. It adds a deeper shade to that sympathy, which such lines must awaken, to reflect that the spirit that dictated them has fled.—[Lacon.

ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.

Written in Cherical, 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-ropes flapping lone I hear
For twilight converse, arm in arm;
The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear,
Which mirth and music were wont to charm.

By Cherical's dark wandering streams,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot lov'd while still a child,

Of castled rocks stupendous pil'd
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,
Where loves of youth and friendships smiled
Uncur's'd 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 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 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 lost a heart that lov'd 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 view—
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!

Ha! comest thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn?
Now that his frame the lightning shock
Of sun rags 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!