.11. A. 
 
 LOS ANGfiiiiS 
 OMARY'
 
 ^hg Jttxts^g' ^ibrarg 
 
 KIRKE WHITE'S POEMS, 
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE 
 
 FRAGMENTS
 
 Unhappy White ! while life was in its spring, 
 And thy young muse just waved her glorious wing, 
 The spoiler swept that soaring Lyre away, 
 WTiich else had sounded an immortal lay. 
 Oh ! What a noble heart was here undone, 
 When Science 'self destroyed her favourite son ! 
 Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit. 
 She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit. 
 'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow. 
 And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
 So the struck Eagle, stretched upon the plain, 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
 Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart ; 
 Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
 He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; 
 While the same plumage that had warmed his nest 
 Drank the last hfe-drop of his bleeding breast. 
 
 — BYKON. 
 
 {JEnglish Bards, and Scotch 
 
 Reviewers, 11. 831-8,
 
 POEMS, LETTERS AND 
 PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 KIRKE WHITE 
 
 EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 BY 
 
 JOHN DRINKWATER 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITED 
 
 NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. 
 
 -(j Q n <> r r 
 
 1 ,3 U A^- b
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN EDWIN SANDYS, Litt.D. 
 
 FELLOW OV ST JOHN'S COLLEGK AND PUBLIC OKATOK 
 OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBKIDGE 
 
 THIS EDITION OF 
 KIRKE WHITE'S POEMS 
 
 IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED BY 
 THE EDITOR 
 
 Rr*T»w TM ftnu-iT PTirTiTM
 
 V 
 
 J 
 
 1)8 2 
 
 k^ PREFACE 
 
 The text followed in this edition is that of the 
 
 ^" first edition of T//e Remains of He7iry Kirke 
 
 h. White, Volumes I. and II. of which were 
 
 ^ published in 1807, and Volume III. in 1822. 
 
 .v^The text of the poems included in the Clifton 
 
 Grove volume, published in 1803, has been 
 
 collated with that edition. I have made no 
 
 alteration to the text beyond rectifying some 
 
 V obvious mistakes of spelling and punctuation, 
 
 >i save in one or two instances where I have 
 
 *^ followed later texts, which I have duly noted. 
 
 The few letters included have been selected 
 
 as throwing light upon the poet's character and 
 
 life, but not without regard to their literary 
 
 S value. 
 
 ^\ The facts given in the biographical note are, 
 as I therein state, almost entirely taken from 
 Southey's Memoir, but I must also acknowledge 
 my indebtedness to Dr J. E. Sandys and the 
 Rev. W. A. Cox, Fellows of St John's College, 
 Cambridge, for some items derived from a 
 reprint of the article contributed by them to 
 The Eagle for December 1906, in connection 
 V b
 
 vi PREFACE 
 
 with the centenary of Kirke White's death, 
 which was commemorated at Nottingham on 
 November 21. I further thank Dr Sandys (the 
 representative of St John's on that occasion), 
 for the trouble he has kindly taken in revising 
 part of the present volume. He has, inter alia, 
 indicated the source of the Greek quotations on 
 pages xvi and 262, and has corrected the mis- 
 prints of the original text in both passages. 
 
 The footnotes to the text are White's, except 
 those marked S., which are Southey's, and those 
 to which I have referred above. 
 
 J.D.
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 POEMS INCLUDED IN THE ' CLIFTON GROVE ' 
 VOLUME OF 1803 : — 
 
 To my Lyre ...... 3 
 
 Clifton Grove . . ... 5 
 
 Gondoline ....... 23 
 
 Lines written on a Survey of the Heavens . 34 
 To the Herb Rosemary . . . -36 
 
 To the Morning 38 
 
 My Study 40 
 
 To an Early Primrose . . -44 
 
 Sonnets L ' Give me a cottage ' . -45 
 
 n. The Winter Traveller . . 45 
 
 HI. On hearing the Sounds of an 
 
 ^olian Harp . . .46 
 
 IV. ' What art thou, Mighty One ! ' 47 
 A Ballad — ' Be hush'd, be hush'd ' . -47 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBLICATION OF 
 'CLIFTON grove' : — 
 
 Song from Fragment of an Eccentric Drama 49 
 Lines on reading the Poems of Warton . 53 
 Canzonet ....... 54
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBLICATION OF 
 
 ' CLIFTON GROVE ' — continued. 
 
 The Eve of Death 
 
 Song—' Softly, softly blow ' 
 
 Sonnet — ' Sweet to the gay of heart ' 
 
 Song — ' Sweet Jessy ' . 
 
 Song — ' Oh, that I were ' . 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN DURING OR AFTER THE 
 PUBLICATION OF 'CLIFTON GROVE ' : — 
 
 Ode to Disappointment 
 
 Ode addressed to H. Fuseli, Esq., R.A. 
 
 Description of a Summer's Eve . 
 
 To Contemplation 
 
 Pastoral Song — ' Come, Anna ! come, 
 
 Verses — ' When pride and envy ' 
 
 Ode to Thought .... 
 
 Genius — An Ode 
 
 Sonnets I. To December 
 
 II. ' Poor little one ! ' . 
 III. To the Moon . 
 
 IV. ' As thus oppress'd ' 
 
 V. To April 
 
 VI. 'Ye unseen spirits'. 
 VII. To a Taper . 
 VIII. To Consumption . 
 
 IX. ' When I sit musing " 
 Or should the Day . . . 
 Nelsoni Mors ....
 
 CONTENTS ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 rOEMS WRITTEN DURING OR AFTER THE PUn- 
 LICATION OF 'CLIFTON GROVE ' — continued. 
 
 Hymns I. * Awake, sweet harp ' 
 
 II. ' O Lord, another day' . 
 
 III. The Star of Bethlehem . 
 
 IV. 'O Lord, my God'. 
 V. ' The Lord our God ' 
 
 Melody — ' Yes, once more ' 
 'Fanny ! upon thy breast' 
 Ode to Liberty . . ... 
 
 I have a Wish ..... 
 Fragments I. ' Lo ! on the eastern summi 
 II. ' O pale art thou ' 
 
 III. ' O give me music ' 
 
 IV. ' When high romance ' 
 V. ' Once more' 
 
 VI. Time .... 
 
 VII. 'Where yonder woods' 
 
 VIII. ' Loud rage the winds " 
 
 IX. Ode to the Moon 
 
 X. The Christiad 
 
 ' Yes, my stray steps ' (Letters) . 
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS . 
 NOTES 
 
 91 
 92 
 
 94 
 
 95 
 96 
 
 97 
 
 lOI 
 
 ' 102 
 102 
 103 
 104 
 104 
 
 105 
 127 
 129 
 130 
 132 
 198 
 
 149 
 
 265 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES 267
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 To the facts of Kirke White's life, as related by 
 Southey in the memoir prefixed to his edition of 
 The Remains of Henry Kirke White of 1807, 
 nothing of importance is likely to be added. 
 Southey was at the time in direct communica- 
 tion with White's family, and it is extremely 
 unlikely that anything escaped him that would 
 materially affect our judgment of his subject as 
 a poet. This note, therefore, makes no pretence 
 to being more than a summary of the bio- 
 graphical portion of the memoir in question. 
 
 Henry Kirke White was born at Nottingham, 
 2ist March 1785. His father, John White, 
 was a butcher, and his mother, nee Mary Neville, 
 was of a Staffordshire family of good repute. 
 The poet was their second son. 
 
 At the age of three he was sent to school, 
 and from his earliest years the love of reading, 
 that was with him till his death, was manifested. 
 At seven years we find him teaching the servant 
 to read and write, and at the same age he wrote 
 a tale of a Swiss emigrant, which has not been
 
 xii BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 preserved. About this time he was sent to what 
 was then the best school in Nottingham, kept 
 by the Rev. John Blanchard. One day he wrote 
 a separate e.xercise for each boy in the class, 
 and the standard of that day's work was pro- 
 nounced by the master to be higher than it had 
 ever been before. At this school he learnt 
 French, besides the usual routine subjects. He 
 was considered to be unusually fortunate in 
 having so good an education provided for him, 
 and he made the most of his opportunities. 
 His father was intent upon bringing him up 
 to his own business, and one whole day in the 
 week and his leisure hours on others were 
 employed in carrying the butcher's basket; but 
 his mother more readily perceived the boy's 
 early promise, and opposed her husband's plan 
 from the first, with ultimate success. Some 
 difference arising between Mr Blanchard and 
 the poet's father, Henry was removed from the 
 school of the former, and placed under a Mr 
 Shipley. Shipley was quick to recognise his 
 pupil's parts, and his report greatly relieved 
 White's family, who had been sorely worried by 
 same ill-conceived charge brought against the 
 boy by an usher at his former school. 
 
 At the age of fourteen White left school, 
 and his father so far conceded to Mrs White's 
 wishes as to allow him to be placed in a stock- 
 ing-loom rather than the butcher's shop. For 
 a year he shone and folded up stockings, was
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE xiii 
 
 very miserable, and occasionally wrote poetry. 
 His mother, by strenuous efforts — his father 
 was still unable to appreciate the need of any 
 change — at length arranged for her son to 
 enter the office of Messrs Coldham & Enfield, 
 attorneys and town clerks of Nottingham. 
 There was no money to pay his premium, so 
 that he engaged to serve two years before 
 becoming articled, which he was early in 1802. 
 From this date (1800) began the incessant 
 brainwork which was to continue until the 
 end of his short life six years later. 
 
 His employers advised him that a knowledge 
 of Latin would be of service to him in his new 
 profession. His leisure from business was very 
 small, but in less than a year he could read 
 Horace, knew some Greek, Italian, Spanish, 
 and Portuguese, and was not unacquainted with 
 chemistry, astronomy, electricity, mechanics, 
 drawing and music ! He would not take his 
 supper with his family — he could not afford the 
 time. His mother endeavoured to restrain this 
 tremendous application, but to no purpose, and 
 slowly the body began to wear beneath the too 
 ardent spirit. During this period much of his 
 poetry was written, and he contributed to the 
 Monthly Preceptor and the Mo7ithly Mirror. 
 
 After several attempts, which failed on account 
 of his youth, he succeeded in obtaining admis- 
 sion to the Nottingham Literary Society, and 
 forthwith astonished the worthy members by
 
 xiv BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 discoursing upon Genius for two hours without 
 any notes, for which effort he was elected 
 'Professor of Literature' to the Society. 
 
 His contributions to the Monthly Mirror 
 attracted the notice of Capel Lofft, and other 
 men of some consequence in the literary world 
 of their day, and they recommended him to 
 prepare a selection of his poems for the press. 
 He now greatly desired to go up to Oxford or 
 Cambridge ; he hoped that publication, if suc- 
 cessful, might help him to this end, and he 
 accordingly acted upon the suggestion. He 
 applied to the Countess of Derby for permis- 
 sion to dedicate the work to her, but she 
 refused, saying that it was her invariable rule 
 to do so. She, nevertheless, enclosed il. as 
 her subscription to the volume. The Duchess 
 of Devonshire subsequently accepted the dedi- 
 cation, although not until the manuscript had 
 nearly been lost through her oversight ; but, 
 when a copy of the volume was sent to her, she 
 took no further notice. That the manuscript 
 was not lost whilst at Devonshire House was 
 due to the solicitude of Neville White, the 
 poet's brother, who, after calling several times 
 in vain, installed himself in the servants' hall, 
 whence he refused to move until, after four 
 hours, he attained his object. After this. White 
 was inclined to dispense with the dedication, 
 but his friends urged him not to do so, and 
 
 t last Neville obtained an interview with the
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE xv 
 
 Duchess, with the result mentioned. In 1803 
 Clifton Grove, a Sketch in Verse, 7uith Other 
 Poems, by Henry Kirke White of Nottingham, 
 was pubhshed by Vernor & Hood, of London, 
 with the following dedication : 
 
 TO HER GRACE 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, 
 
 THE FOLLOWING 
 
 TRIFLING EFFUSIONS 
 
 OF A VERY YOUTHFUL MUSE 
 
 ARE BY PERMISSION DEDICATED, 
 
 BY HER grace's 
 
 MUCH OBLIGED AND GRATEFUL SERVANT, 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 Nottingham. 
 
 The preface is here reprinted, and we cannot 
 do better than allow Southey to tell the history 
 of the little volume in his own words. 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The following, attempts in Verse are laid before the 
 public with extreme diffidence. The Author is very 
 conscious that the juvenile efforts of a youth, who 
 has not received the polish of Academical discipline, 
 and who has been but sparingly blessed with oppor- 
 tunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must
 
 xvi BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 necessarily be defective in the accuracy and finished 
 elegance which mark the works of the man who has 
 passed his life in the retirement of his study, furnishing 
 his mind with images, and at the same time attain- 
 ing the power of disposing those images to the best 
 advantage. 
 
 The unpremeditated effusions of a boy, from his 
 thirteenth year, employed, not in the acquisition of 
 literary information, but in the more active business of 
 life, must not be expected to exhibit any considerable 
 portion of the correctness of a Virgil, or the vigorous 
 compression of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, 
 frequently known to bestow much labour on their amuse- 
 ments : and these Poems were, most of them, written 
 merely to beguile a leisure hour, or to fill up the 
 languid intervals of studies of a severer nature. 
 
 lias ro oLKeLOS epyov a7a7raw,^ ' Every one loves his 
 own work;', says the Stagyrite ; but it was no overween- 
 ing affection of this kind which induced this publication. 
 Had the author relied on his own judgment only, these 
 Poems would not, in all probability, ever have seen the 
 light. 
 
 Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives 
 for this publication ? He answers — simply these : The 
 facilitation, through its means, of those studies which, 
 from his earliest infancy, have been the principal objects 
 of his ambition, and the increase of the capacity to 
 pursue those inclinations which may one day place him 
 in an honourable station in the scale of society. 
 
 The principal poem in this little collection {Cliftoii 
 
 1 Dr Sandys has drawn my attention to the fact that 
 this quotation, which is incorrectly printed, comes from 
 Aristotle's Ethics, ix. 7 3, Tras 701/) rh o'lKeiov 'ipyov 
 dyaTTo.' See also White's letter to his brother, p. 172, 
 infra.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE xvii 
 
 Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers, and harmonious 
 coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded 
 as a description of a nocturnal ramble in that charming 
 retreat, accompanied with such reflections as the scene 
 naturally suggested. It was written twelve months 
 ago, when the author was in his sixteenth year. The 
 Miscellanies are some of them the productions of a very 
 early age. Of the Odes, that To an Early Primrose 
 was written at thirteen— the others are of a later date. — 
 The sonnets are chiefly irregular ; they have, perhaps, 
 no other claim to that specific denomination than that 
 they consist only of fourteen lines. 
 
 Such are the poems, towards which I entreat the lenity 
 of the public. The critic will doubtless find in them 
 much to condemn ; he may likewise, possibly, discover 
 something to commend. Let him scan my faults with 
 an indulgent eye, and in the work of that correction 
 which I invite, let him remember he is holding the iron 
 Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a 
 youth of seventeen, and remembering that, may he 
 forbear from crushing by too much rigour the painted 
 butterfly, whose transient colours may otherwise be 
 capable of affording a moment's innocent amusement. 
 
 H. K. White. 
 
 Nottijigliam. 
 
 Henry sent his little volume to each of the then exist- 
 ing Reviews, and accompanied it with a letter, wherein 
 he stated what his advantages had been, and what were 
 the hopes which he proposed to himself from the 
 publication : requesting from them that indulgence of 
 which his productions did not stand in need, and which 
 it might have been thought, under such circumstances, 
 would not have been withheld from works of less 
 promise. It may be well conceived with what anxiety 
 he looked for their opinions, and with what feelings
 
 xviii BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 he read the following article in the Monthly Review 
 for February, 1804. 
 
 Monthly Review, February, 1804 
 ' The circumstances under which this little volume is 
 offered to the public, must, in some measure, disarm 
 criticism. We have been informed, that Mr White 
 has scarcely attained his eighteenth year, has hitherto 
 exerted himself in the pursuit of knowledge under the 
 discouragements of penur}' and misfortune, and now 
 hopes, by this early authorship, to obtain some assist- 
 ance in the prosecution of his studies at Cambridge. 
 He appears, indeed, to be one of those young men of 
 talents and application who merit encouragement : and 
 it would be gratif3-ing to us, to hear that this publication 
 had obtained for him a respectable patron, for we fear 
 that the mere profit arising from the sale cannot be, 
 in any measure, adequate to his exigencies as a student 
 to the university, A subscription, with a statement of 
 the particulars of the author's case, might have been 
 calculated to have answered his purpose; but, as a 
 book which is to " win its way" on the sole ground 
 of its own merit, this poem cannot be contemplated 
 with any sanguine expectation. The author is very 
 anxious, however, that critics should find in it some- 
 thing to commend, and he shall not be disappointed : 
 we commend his exertions, and his laudible endeavours 
 to excel ; but we cannot compliment him with having 
 learned the difficult art of writing good poetry. 
 
 ' Such lines as these will sufficiently prove our asser- 
 tions : 
 
 " Here would I run a visionary boy. 
 When the hoarse thunder shook the vaulted sky. 
 And, fancy led, beheld the Almighty's form 
 Sternly careering in the eddying storm,"
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE xix 
 
 ' If Mr White should be instructed by Alma Mater, 
 he will, doubtless, produce better sense, and better 
 rhymes.' 
 
 I know not who was the writer of this precious article. 
 It is certain that Henry could have no personal enemy. 
 His volume fell into the hands of some dull man, who 
 took it up in an hour of ill-humour, turned over the 
 leaves to look for faults, and finding that Boy and Sky 
 were not orthodox rhymes, according to his wise creed 
 of criticism, sat down to blast the hopes of a boy, who 
 had confessed to him all his hopes and all his difificul ies, 
 and thrown himself upon his mercy. With such a letter 
 before him (by mere accident I saw that which had been 
 sent to the Critical Review), even though the poems 
 had been bad, a good man would not have said so ; 
 he would have avoided censure, if he had found it 
 impossible to bestow praise. But that the reader may 
 perceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty 
 of this reviewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus 
 contemptuously condemned because Boy and Sky are 
 used as rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place. 
 
 (Here follow extracts from the poems.) 
 
 An author is proof against reviewing, when, like my- 
 self, he has been reviewed above seventy times ; but 
 the opinion of a reviewer upon his first publication has 
 more effect, both upon his feelings and his success, than 
 it ought to have, or would have, if the mystery of the 
 ungentle craft were more general!)' understood. Henry 
 wrote to the Editor, to complain of the cruelty with 
 which he had been treated. This remonstrance pro- 
 duced the following answer in the next month.
 
 XX BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 Monthly Review, March, 1804 
 
 ADDRESS TO CORRESPONDENTS 
 
 ' In the course of our long critical labours, we have 
 necessarily been forced to encounter the resentment, 
 or withstand the lamentations of many disappointed 
 authors; but we have seldom, if ever, been more 
 affected, than by a letter from Mr White, of Nottingham, 
 complaining of the tendency of our strictures on his 
 poem of Clifton Grove, in our last number. His ex- 
 postulation is written with a warmth of feeling in which 
 we truly sympathise, and which shall readily excuse, 
 with us, some expressions of irritation : but Mr White 
 must receive our most serious declaration, that we did 
 "judge of the book by the book itself" ; excepting only, 
 that, from his former letter, we were desirous of miti- 
 gating the pain of that decision which our public duty 
 required us to pronounce. We spoke with the utmost 
 sincerity when we stated our wishes for patronage to 
 an unfriended man of talents, for talents Mr White 
 certainly possesses, and we repeat those wishes with 
 equal cordiality. Let him still trust that, like Gifford, 
 (see preface to his translation of Juvenal,) some Mr 
 Cookesley may yet appear to foster a capacity which 
 endeavours to escape from its present confined sphere 
 of action ; and let the opulent inhabitants of Notting- 
 ham reflect, that some portion of that wealth which 
 they have worthily acquired by the habits of industry, 
 will be laudably applied in assisting the eftbrts of the 
 mind. ' 
 
 Henry was not aware that reviewers are infallible. 
 His letter seems to have been answered by a different 
 writer : the answer has none of the commonplace and 
 vulgar insolence of the criticism ; but to have made 
 any concession, would have been admitting that a
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE xxi 
 
 review can do wrong, and thus violating the funda- 
 mental principle of its constitution. 
 
 The poems which had been thus comdemned, 
 appeared to me to discover strong marks of genius. I 
 had shown them to two of my friends, than whom no 
 persons living better understand what poetry is, nor 
 have given better proofs of it ; and their opinion coin- 
 cided with my own. I was fully convinced of the 
 injustice of this criticism, and having accidently seen 
 the letter which he had written to the reviewers, 
 understood the whole cruelty of their injustice. In 
 consequence of this, I wrote to Henry to encourage 
 him : told him, that though I was well aware how 
 imprudent it was in young poets to publish their pro- 
 ductions, his circumstances seemed to render that 
 expedient, from which it would otherwise be right to 
 dissuade him : advised him therefore, if he had no 
 better prospects, to print a larger volume by subscrip- 
 tion, and offered to do what little was in my power to 
 serve him in the business. To this he replied in the 
 following letter. 
 
 ' I dare not say all I feel respecting your opinion of 
 my little volume. The extreme acrimony with which 
 the Monthly Review (of all others the most important) 
 treated me, threw me into a state of stupefaction : I 
 regarded all that had passed as a dream, and I thought 
 that I had been deluding myself into an idea of possess- 
 ing poetic genius, when in fact I only had the longing, 
 without the afflatus. I mustered resolution enough, 
 however, to write spiritedly to them : their answer in the 
 ensuing number was a tacit acknowledgment that they 
 had been somewhat too unsparing in their correction. 
 It was a poor attempt to salve over a wound wantonly 
 and most ungenerously inflicted. Still I was damped, 
 because I knew the work was very respectable, and
 
 xxii BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 therefore could not, I concluded, give a zx\i\cSs,xa. grossly 
 deficient in equity — the more especially, as I knew of 
 no sort of inducement to extraordinary severity. Your 
 letter, however, has revived me, and I do again venture 
 to hope that I may still produce something which will 
 survive me. 
 
 ' With regard to your advice and offers of assistance, 
 I will not attempt, because I am unable, to thank you 
 for them. To-morrow morning I depart for Cambridge, 
 and I have considerable hopes that, as I do not enter 
 into the university with any sinister or interested views, 
 but sincerely desire to perform the duties of an affectionate 
 and vigilant pastor, and become more useful to mankind, 
 I therefore have hopes, I say, that I shall find means of 
 support iti the university. If I do not, I shall certainly 
 act in pursuance of your recommendations; and shall, 
 without hesitation, avail myself of your offers of service, 
 and of your directions. 
 
 ' In a short time this will be determined ; and when 
 it is, I shall take the liberty of writing to you at Keswick, 
 to make you acquainted with the result. 
 
 ' I have only one objection to publishing by subscrip- 
 tion, and confess it has weight with me. It is, that in 
 this step, I shall seem to be acting upon the advice so 
 unfeelingly and contumeliously given by the Monthly 
 Reviewers, who say what is equal to this — that had I 
 gotten a subscription for my poems before their merit 
 was known, I might have succeeded ; provided, it seems, 
 I had made a particular staiemettt of my case ; like a 
 beggar, who stands with his hat in one hand, and a 
 full account of his cruel treatment on the coast of 
 Barbary in the other, and so gives you his penny sheet 
 for your sixpence, by way of half purchase, half charity. 
 
 ' I have materials for another volume, but they were 
 written principally while Clifton Grove was in press, or 
 soon after, and do not now at all satisfy rae. Indeed,
 
 Biographical note xxiii 
 
 of late, I have been obliged to desist, almost entirely, 
 from converse with the dames of Helicon. The 
 drudgery of an attorney's office, and the necessity of 
 preparing myself, in case I should succeed in getting to 
 college, in what little leisure I could boast, left no 
 room for the flights of the imagination.' 
 
 In another letter he speaks, in still stronger terms, of 
 what he had suffered from the unfeeling and iniquitous 
 criticism. 
 
 ' The unfavourable review (in the Monthly^ of my 
 unhappy work, has cut deeper than you could have 
 thought ; not in a literary point of view, but as it affects 
 my respectability. It represents me actually as a beggar, 
 going about gathering money to put myself at college, 
 when my book is worthless ; and this with every appear- 
 ance of candour. They have been sadly misinformed 
 respecting me ; this review goes before me wherever I 
 turn my steps ; it haunts me incessantly, and I am 
 persuaded it is an instrument in the hands of Satan to 
 drive me to distraction. I must leave Nottingham.' 
 
 It is not unworthy of remark, that this very reviewal, 
 which was designed to crush the hopes of Henry, and 
 suppress his struggling genius, has been, in its conse- 
 quences, the main occasion of bringing his Remains 
 to light, and obtaining for him that fame which 
 assuredly will be his portion. Had it not been for the 
 indignation which I felt at perusing a criticism at once 
 so cruel and so stupid, the little intercourse between 
 Henry and myself would not have taken place ; his 
 papers would probably have remained in oblivion, and 
 his name, in a few years, have been forgotten. 
 
 Three causes contributed to White's desire to 
 enter one of the Universities : his natural love 
 of learning, a deafness which militated against
 
 xxiv BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 success in his profession, and a wish to enter 
 the Church. The reHgious struggle and doubts, 
 through which every active mind passes, had 
 led him to orthodox Christianity, partly through 
 the influence of R. W. Almond, afterwards 
 rector of St Peter's, Nottingham. With charac- 
 teristic thoroughness he wished to be of the 
 greatest service he could to his newly-found faith 
 — he would be a clergyman. A University train- 
 ing he looked upon as essential to this end, and 
 thenceforth all his efforts were in that direc- 
 tion. Almond, who went up to Cambridge in 
 1803, succeeded in obtaining influence at that 
 university on White's behalf, and, in view of his 
 prospects of being able to attain his desire, 
 Messrs Coldham & Enfield generously agreed 
 to allow him to break his contract with them, 
 so soon as he might be able to make arrange- 
 ments to enter Cambridge, and, further, allowed 
 him a month's leave of absence to recruit his 
 health. This holiday he spent at Wilford, a 
 village on the banks of the Trent, near to his 
 beloved Clifton Grove. Very shortly after this, 
 however, he learnt that the endeavours on his 
 behalf had failed, and, in spite of the dis- 
 appointment, he returned to his law work with 
 renewed determination and vigour. He worked 
 incessantly. After his day at the office he 
 would read till one, two, or three o'clock in the 
 morning, and rise again at five to study ; 
 sometimes he would not sleep at all. The
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE xxv 
 
 earnest entreaties of his mother could do 
 nothing to check this terrible strain of overwork, 
 and the inevitable breakdown followed. From 
 this he recovered largely through the revival of 
 his aspirations towards Cambridge. 
 
 He obtained an introduction to Charles 
 Simeon, Fellow of King's College, and after his 
 interview he obtained that gentleman's promise 
 of a sizarship at St John's, and an annual sum of 
 30/. to be subscribed by himself and a friend. 
 Neville White promised an additional 20/., and 
 it was hoped that his mother would be able to 
 allow him 15/. or 20/. more. Shortly afterwards 
 he was induced to apply to the Elland Society — 
 instituted for the purpose of training promis- 
 ing men for the ministry — and he was duly 
 examined by a body of clergymen. He satisfied 
 their requirements as to his theological and 
 classical knowledge, and religious views ; and 
 this fact, together with the tribute that had been 
 paid to him by Southey, caused his name to be 
 placed in the books of the Society. He came 
 away from the interview, however, oppressed 
 by a sense of formality and dependence, and 
 when Mr Simeon, on being acquainted with the 
 facts, insisted on his adhering to the original 
 arrangement, he gladly did so. 
 
 In October, 1804, he left Messrs Coldham 
 and Enfield, who were sincerely sorry to lose 
 him, as they themselves testified. He went to 
 Winteringham in Lincolnshire to study under
 
 \xvi BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 the Rev. L. Grainger for a year before taking 
 up his residence at Cambridge, and there he 
 continued the same relentless application, until 
 illness again made relaxation imperative. In 
 the following October he left for Cambridge 
 with a store of learning that was astonishing, 
 but with health shattered beyond any per- 
 manent recovery. 
 
 The remaining year of his life was a con- 
 tinuance of the same tale of boundless energy, 
 liberal scholastic success, and distressing dis- 
 regard of his physical welfare. Southey shall 
 again speak in his own words. 
 
 During his first term, one of the University Scholar- 
 ships became vacant, and Henry, young ag he was in 
 college, and almost self-taught, was advised, by those 
 who were best able to estimate his chance of success, to 
 offer himself as a competitor for it. He passed the whole 
 term in preparing himself for this, reading for college 
 subjects in bed, in his walks, or, as he sa3's, where, when, 
 and how he could, never having a moment to spare, and 
 often going to his tutor without having read at all. His 
 strength sunk under this, and though he had declared 
 himself a candidate, he was compelled to dechne ; but 
 this was not the only misfortune. The general college 
 examination came on ; he was utterly unprepared to 
 meet it, and believed that a failure here would have 
 ruined his prospects for ever. He had only about a fort- 
 night to read what other men had been the whole term 
 reading. Once more he exerted himself beyond what 
 his shattered health could bear ; the disorder returned, 
 and he went to his tutor, Mr Catton, with tears in his 
 eyes, and told him that he could not go into the hall
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE xxvii 
 
 to be examined. Mr Catton, however, thought his 
 success here of so much importance, that he exhorted 
 him, with all possible earnestness, to hold out the 
 six days of the examination. Strong medicines were 
 given him to enable him to support it, and he was 
 pronounced the first man of his year. But life was the 
 price which he was to pay for such honours as these, 
 and Henry is not the first young man to whom such 
 honours have proved fatal. He said to his most intimate 
 friend, almost the last time he saw him, that were he to 
 paint a picture of Fame, crowning a distinguished under- 
 graduate after the senate-house examination, he would 
 represent her as concealing a Death's head under a 
 mask of beauty. 
 
 When this was over he went to London. London 
 was a new scene of excitement, and what his mind 
 required was tranquillity and rest. Before he left college, 
 he had become anxious concerning his expenses, fearing 
 that they exceeded his means. Mr Catton perceived 
 this, and twice called him to his rooms, to assure him 
 of every necessary support, and every encouragement, 
 and to give him every hope. This kindness relieved 
 his spirits of a heavy weight, and on his return he 
 relaxed a little from his studies ; but it was only a little. 
 I found among his papers the day thus planned out : — 
 ' Rise at half-past five. Devotions and walk till seven. 
 Chapel and breakfast till eight. Study and lectures till 
 one. Four and a half clear reading. Walk, &c. and 
 dinner, and Woolaston, and chapel to six. Six to nine, 
 reading — three hours. Nine to ten, devotions. Bed at 
 ten.' 
 
 The exercise which Henry took was no relaxation ; 
 he still continued the habit of studying while he walked, 
 and in this manner, while he was at Cambridge, com- 
 mitted to memory a whole tragedy of Euripides. Twice 
 he distinguished himself in the following year, being
 
 xxviii BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 again pronounced first at the great college examination, 
 and also one of the three best theme writers, between 
 whom the examiners could not decide. The college 
 offered him, at their expense, a private tutor in mathe- 
 matics during the long vacation ; and Mr Catton, by 
 procuring for him exhibitions to the amount of 66/. per 
 ann. enabled him to give up the pecuniary assistance 
 which he had received from Mr Simeon and other 
 friends. This intention he had expressed in a letter, 
 written twelve months before his death. ' With regard 
 to my college expenses, (he says,) I have the pleasure 
 to inform 3'ou that I shall be obliged, in strict rectitude, 
 to wave the offers of many of my friends. I shall not 
 even need the sum Mr Simeon mentioned, after the first 
 year ; and it is not impossible that I may be able to live 
 without any assistance at all. I confess I feel pleasure 
 at the thought of this, not through any vain pride of 
 independence, but because I shall then give a more 
 unbiassed testimony to the truth, than if I were supposed 
 to be bound to it by any ties of obligation or gratitude. 
 I shall always feel as much indebted for intended as for 
 actually afforded assistance ; and though I should never 
 think a sense of thankfulness an oppressive burden, yet 
 I shall be happy to evince it, when in the eyes of the 
 world the obligation to it has been discharged.' Never, 
 perhaps, had any young man, in so short a time excited 
 such expectations ; ever}' University honour was thought 
 to be within his reach ; he was set down as a medallist, 
 and expected to take a senior wrangler's degree ; but 
 these expectations were poison to him, they goaded him 
 to fresh exertions when his strength was spent. His 
 situation became truly miserable ! to his brother, and to 
 his mother, he wrote always that he had relaxed in his 
 studies, and that he was better ; always holding out to 
 them his hopes and his good fortune : but to the most 
 intimate of his friends (Mr Maddock) his letters told a
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE xxix 
 
 different tale : to him he complained of dreadful palpita- 
 tions — of nights of sleeplessness and horror, and of spirits 
 depressed to the very depth of wretchedness, so that 
 he went from one acquaintance to another, imploring 
 society, even as a starving beggar entreats for food. 
 During the course of this summer, it was expected that 
 the Mastership of the Free-School at Nottingham would 
 shortly become vacant. A relation of his family was at 
 that time Mayor of the town ; he suggested to them 
 what an advantageous situation it would be for Henry, 
 and offered to secure for him the necessary interest. 
 But, though the salary and emoluments are estimated 
 at from 4 to 600/. per annum, Henry declined the offer ; 
 because, had he accepted it, it would have frustrated 
 his intentions with respect to the ministry. This was 
 certainly no common act of forbearance in one so 
 situated as to fortune, especially as the hope which he 
 had most at heart, was that of being enabled to assist 
 his family, and in some degree requite the care and 
 anxiety of his father and mother, by making them 
 comfortable in their declining years. 
 
 The indulgence shown him by his college, in providing 
 him a tutor during the long vacation, was peculiarly 
 unfortunate. His only chance of life was from relaxa- 
 tion, and home was the only place where he would have 
 relaxed to any purpose. Before this time he had seemed 
 to be gaining strength ; it failed as the year advanced. 
 He went once more to London to recruit himself — the 
 worst place to which he could have gone ; the variety 
 of stimulating objects there hurried and agitated him, 
 and when he returned to college, he was so completely 
 ill, that no power of medicine could save him. His mind 
 was worn out, and it was the opinion of his medical 
 attendants, that if he had recovered, his intellect would 
 have been affected. His brother Neville was just at this 
 time to have visited him. On his first seizure, Henry
 
 XXX BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 found himself too ill to receive him, and wrote to say 
 so ; he added, with that anxious tenderness towards 
 the feelings of a most affectionate family which always 
 appeared in his letters, that he thought himself recover- 
 ing. But his disorder increased so rapidly, that this 
 letter was never sent ; it was found in his pocket after 
 his decease. One of his friends wrote to acquaint 
 Neville with his danger : he hastened down ; but Henry 
 was delirious when he arrived.— He knew him only for 
 a few moments ; the next day sunk into a state of 
 stupor ; and on Sunday, October 19th, 1806, it pleased 
 God to remove him to a better world, and a higher 
 state of existence. 
 
 After his death the whole of his papers were 
 committed to the charge of Sou they, with the 
 resuh that the two volumes of Remains were 
 published in 1807, which were supplemented 
 by a third volume in 1822. 
 
 The curious in such matters may still see the 
 house in Exchange Alley, Nottingham, where 
 White was born. Until recently, it was occu- 
 pied as an inn, ' The Kirke White', and a much 
 worn portrait of the poet still remains as the 
 sign. A tablet briefly records the fact of 
 White's birth at the house ; this latter was 
 lately bought by the City Corporation, and is at 
 present untenanted. It is to be hoped that it 
 will be put to some not unworthy use. 
 
 The rooms that the poet occupied at St John's 
 were attic rooms, probably those known as 
 No. 8 on staircase F in the third Court, or those 
 immediately opposite ; they look out on to the
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE xxxi 
 
 College Library. There is a pleasant tradition 
 in the College that, when White's health finally 
 broke down, it was thought that to climb so 
 many stairs daily would be injurious to him, 
 and that he was moved to more convenient 
 quarters on the ground floor, known as No. i 
 on staircase K in the first Court, below the 
 Silver Bell. 
 
 The church where he was buried — All Saints 
 — no longer stands, but the site is enclosed, and 
 there may still be seen the plain stone slab, 
 bearing the name ' Henry Kirke White', with 
 the recent addition — 'Died, October 19, 1806'. 
 
 Some years after the poet's death, Dr Francis 
 Boott, an American, whose countrymen have 
 always liberally recognised White's talents, 
 placed in the church a marble tablet, sur- 
 mounted by a medallion by Chantrey, and 
 bearing the following lines by William Smyth, 
 the Cambridge Professor of Modern History. 
 
 Warm with fond hope and learning's sacred flame, 
 To Granta's bowers the youthful poet came : 
 Unconquered powers the immortal mind displayed : 
 But, worn with anxious thought, the frame decayed ; 
 Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retired, 
 The martyr student faded and expired ! 
 O, genius, taste, and piety sincere, 
 Too early lost, midst studies too severe ! 
 Foremost to mourn was generous Southey seen ; 
 He told the tale, and showed what White had been : 
 Nor told in vain. Far o'er the Atlantic wave 
 A wanderer came, and sought the poet's grave ;
 
 xxxii BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 On j-on low stone he saw his lonely name, 
 And raised this fond memorial to his fame. 
 
 This memorial was removed to the New 
 Chapel of St John's in 1869, when All Saints 
 Church was pulled down. 
 
 Professor Sedgwick, writing in 1868, thus 
 recalls the poet's personal appearance : ' When- 
 ever I met him in the street I was impressed 
 by his look and bearing. He was a tall, thought- 
 ful-looking young man, with fine features, and 
 a complexion that seemed to indicate a life of 
 severe study. A month or two before his death 
 I met him several times in society. His 
 manners well matched his character. They 
 were simple, earnest, winning and unaffected. 
 He had the look of a man of genius. So far as 
 regards his features, Chantrey's medallion gives 
 a good general notion of them.' 
 
 J. D.
 
 CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 For some forty years after his death, the 
 poetry of Henry Kirke White enjoyed a 
 very considerable popularity, and this during 
 a period that was productive of a series of 
 poets whose names must for ever mark one 
 of our most glorious epochs of verse. Great 
 poets and critics combined with the cultured 
 public of the day in lamenting White s 
 untimely death, not only for sentimental 
 reasons natural to such an occasion, but 
 also because they believed a harvest of 
 really considerable poetry had been lost to 
 the world. Southey, Coleridge and Words- 
 worth 1 were agreed in this opinion ; Byron, 
 
 1 Southey's words are these : ' The poems which had 
 been thus condemned, appeared to me to discover 
 strong marks of genius. I had shown them (the 
 poems) to two of my friends, than whom no persons 
 living better understand what poetry is, nor have given 
 better proofs of it, and their opinion coincided with 
 my own.' Although he does not mention the names of 
 his friends, the presumptive evidence that Coleridge 
 x.wiii
 
 xxxiv CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 whose praise was not lightly given, had, 
 even in his bitterest mood, nothing but 
 admiration for the promise that was dis- 
 played in White's work, and the several 
 editions of the Remai7is testified to the 
 appreciation of the public. 
 
 The latter half of the nineteenth century, 
 however, saw a change from this attitude. 
 In 1844, R. H. Home, in his Neiu Spirit of 
 the Age. thought fit to disparage the 'thin 
 gruel of Kirke White' by contrasting it with 
 the 'pvire Greek wine of Keats,' and from 
 that time one critic has followed another in 
 either ignoring White altogether or summarily 
 dismissing his poetry as worthless. It will be 
 my endeavour in the following pages to show 
 that this judgment is neither just nor critically 
 sound. 
 
 At the outset let it be said that the present 
 edition does not include by any means all of 
 the poems printed in Southeys three volumes 
 of The Remains of Henry Kirke White, the 
 first two volumes of which were published in 
 1807 and the third in 1822. 
 
 The highest praise is due to Southey for 
 
 and Wordsworth are meant is strong. Coleridge and 
 Southey were living together at the time of the publica- 
 tion of Clifton Grove, and Wordsworth was close at 
 hand. ' Nor have given better proofs of it ' : to which 
 other of his friends at that date would Southey thus 
 refer ?
 
 CRITICAL INTRODUCTION xxxv 
 
 the spirit which prompted him to his task, and 
 for the ability which he appHed to it ; at the 
 same time it is abundantly clear that he erred 
 in printing far too many of the papers entrusted 
 to him after the poet's death. Many of the 
 poems included in Southey's selection are 
 indeed quite worthless, and, although it cannot 
 perhaps be claimed that this fact has prejudiced 
 the opinions of discriminating critics, there can 
 be no doubt that it has considerably diminished 
 the degree of favour that has in later years been 
 accorded to White by the more general public. 
 
 In this connection it must be borne in mind 
 that Kirke White's case presents certain features 
 peculiar to itself. The only publication in his 
 name that appeared during his hfetime and 
 under his own supervision was the slender 
 volume entitled Clifton Grove, a Sketch in 
 Verse, luiih Other Poems, printed in 1803, and 
 we may be sure that little or nothing that 
 he had written at that date and that was 
 excluded from this selection, was worth print- 
 ing. While it is true that in the long run a 
 poet is the nicest critic of his own work, it is 
 eminently untrue until such time as he can see 
 that work in proper perspective, and a young 
 poet in preparing his efforts for the press will 
 almost without exception be rather too indulgent 
 than too severe in the matter of self-criticism. 
 Apart from this general principle it must be 
 remembered that, in the ordinary course of
 
 xxxvi CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 events, Kirke White would not have pubHshed 
 his book at this particular time. But he 
 was ambitious, and he was poor. He needed 
 money to enable him to prosecute his studies, 
 and he turned to his poetry in the hope that 
 it would supply this want, confessing that he 
 felt that the due time for the step had not yet 
 arrived. We are, therefore, justified in con- 
 cluding that, had he lived, his maturer judgment 
 would have revised his youthful selection, and 
 in this edition, I have, therefore, ventured to 
 omit nearly all the pieces that White himself 
 rejected, together with a few that he printed. 
 There is no evidence that the poems written 
 after the publication of Clifton Grove were 
 ever revised by their author for the press ; had 
 this been the case, there is little doubt that 
 many of them would have been destroyed. 
 Southey himself says ' Undoubtedly many (of 
 his poems) have been chosen which he himself 
 would not have published, and some few which, 
 had he lived to have taken that rank among 
 English poets which would assuredly have been 
 within his reach, I also should then have 
 rejected among his posthumous papers.' He 
 states that his reason for printing the pieces 
 in question is that they mark either the state 
 or progress of the poet's mind ; but this is quite 
 unconvincing, and he clearly acted against his 
 own better judgment. Here, again, I have 
 endeavoured to rectifv what seems to me to
 
 CRITICAL INTRODUCTION xxxvii 
 
 have been an error on Southey's part, and so 
 give to readers of this new edition only such 
 of White's poems as I believe he himself would 
 have recognised in later life as worthy expres- 
 sions of his genius. 
 
 I do not, of course, suggest for one moment 
 that it is desirable that poets should be repre- 
 sented by their best work only, although I do 
 believe that, broadly speaking, by this they 
 should finally be judged. I can, however, see 
 no good reason why a poet's worthless produc- 
 tions — and every poet at one time or another 
 produces work that is of no intrinsic value 
 — should be preserved. An author is him- 
 self generally careful that this should not 
 be the case, and destroys much of his verse 
 as it is. written, or at least never allows it 
 to be printed. Kirke White seems to have 
 put his poems aside as they were completed, 
 doubtless with a view to reconsidering them 
 at his leisure. That leisure never came. The 
 strenuous year at Cambridge, spent in close 
 study, allowed him, as he himself regretfully 
 writes, but little time for poetry. At the end 
 of that year he died, and I humbly suggest 
 that this edition is not, in the ordinary sense 
 of the term, a selection of Kirke WhMs 
 Retnains, but rather Kirke Whitens Remains^ 
 as they would have appeared, had he himself 
 supervised the publication before his early 
 death. 
 
 d
 
 xxxviii CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 In approaching a poet's work there are two 
 distinct methods to be employed, and in each 
 there is a real, though too rarely recognised 
 danger, against which the critic must ever be 
 on his guard. A judicious and clear historical 
 estimate of a poet's aim and achievement, a 
 definite sense of his indebtedness and relation 
 to his predecessors and his influence upon his 
 successors is, of course, invaluable to the 
 student. It reveals to him the inception and 
 progress of various verse forms, the rise and 
 fall of diverse fashions in diction and imagery, 
 and above all, it discloses to him a detached 
 and bird's-eye view of the waves in which 
 poetical thought undulates through the ages. 
 When, however, this attitude passes from an 
 idea of classification to one of comparison, it 
 ceases to be wise and becomes vicious. Thus, 
 to trace the gradual secession by Warton from 
 the school of Pope, the more vital stir of the 
 new movement in Gray and Collins, until we 
 are brought up in wonder before the magic 
 of Coleridge ; thence to note the evolution 
 of Keats and later of Tennyson ; to observe 
 how each in turn moulds the older influence 
 to the new spirit, and sets the seal of his 
 own genius and imagination and vision upon 
 the product — all this is of absorbing interest 
 and, of course, immense critical value. When, 
 by the aid of this method, however, Keats 
 and Tennyson — to follow the same example —
 
 CRITICAL INTRODUCTION xxxix 
 
 are brought together before our minds, and 
 we misuse the occasion to wrangle as to 
 whether Tennyson is a smaller or a greater 
 poet than Keats, the staff which we have in 
 our hands becomes a scourge. Such a dis- 
 cussion may form a more or less interesting 
 topic of casual conversation, but, so far as 
 criticism is concerned, it is absolutely worth- 
 less. Indeed it is worse than worthless, it is 
 vicious as I have said, for it so often engenders 
 a bitterness of spirit which is fatal to criticism. 
 ' Set aside the thin gruel of Kirke White, 
 and put to your lips the pure Greek wine of 
 Keats.' That, in effect, was Home's charge, 
 and there in a single phrase is exemplified the 
 disastrous consequence of such misapplication 
 of the historical method. Home appreciated 
 the glory of Keats' poetry, and in his enthusi- 
 asm likened it to pure Greek wine, which was 
 a happy phrase. He called upon the public to 
 read Keats — an entirely worthy mission. Had 
 he stopped there, we could only have approved 
 his perspicacity. But no ; there was Kirke 
 White, who had achieved a wide popularity. 
 After Kirke White, a greater poet than he had 
 risen ; therefore Kirke White must now be 
 set aside. Why? The question is, I venture 
 to say, unanswerable. Of course Kirke White 
 was not as great a poet as Keats, but that is 
 entirely beside the question. White accom- 
 plished a certain work, and the value of that
 
 xl CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 work would have been in nowise diminished 
 had he been followed by a succession of 
 Shakespeares. It is largely to this spurious 
 method of criticism that the injustice that 
 has of late years been done to White must 
 be attributed, as must also the uselessness of 
 much of our present-day reviewing. To say 
 
 that a certain poem by Mr is or is not 
 
 worthy of Marlowe or Milton is not criticism, 
 it is simply nonsense. 
 
 The bulk of White's work is so small, and 
 most of it so immature, that a sound estimate of 
 his historical value is exceedingly difficult. He 
 was born at a time when Englisl) poetry was 
 on the threshold of a new life. Warton had 
 preached his gospel ; Collins and Gray had 
 done their work ; Wordsworth and Coleridge 
 were in their teens ; Byron, Shelley and Keats 
 were not yet born, and song seemed to be 
 almost hushed for the moment in expectancy 
 of the era that was to see the birth and growth 
 of the Romantic school. To have witnessed 
 such a transition may, at this distance of time, 
 appear to have been an inestimable privilege 
 for any poet, but the truth is that this is a 
 matter which depends entirely upon the mental 
 build of the poet in question. If his mind be 
 mainly a constructive one, as was Shelley's, he 
 will thrive at such a period. The decline of old 
 ideas will throw his constructive powers into 
 bolder relief. On the other hand, if his mind
 
 CRITICAL INTRODUCTION xli 
 
 be mainly an assimilative and interpretative one, 
 such as Kirke White's, the conditions of such a 
 time are all against him. Large issues, which 
 at a distance are quite clearly marked, are 
 difficult to distinguish close at hand, and new 
 ideas, however vital in themselves, are apt to 
 be overlooked in their early days by all, save 
 their immediate conceivers. It will, therefore, 
 generally be found that the interpretative mind, 
 looking for nourishment to the most complete 
 and potent system of current thought, will, in 
 an age of great intellectual conflict, be rather 
 influenced by the older and more transparent 
 principles than by those which are unformed 
 and indefinite. This being so, it would have 
 been in no way surprising if Kirke White had 
 been largely insensible to the new movement 
 that was at work around him. The distinctive 
 features of the poetry of Warton, Gray and 
 Collins were still overshadowed by the powerful 
 traditions of Pope and his school, as upheld by 
 Johnson, Goldsmith and their followers. White, 
 however, not only had an extremely active mind ; 
 he also had a remarkably fine judgment, which 
 almost amounted to an instinct, as may be seen 
 time after time in his letters. It was this 
 judgment or instinct that was his poetical salva- 
 tion. He certainly could never have initiated a 
 great new movement himself, but, such a move- 
 ment having been started, he was quick to 
 appreciate its vitality long before it had come
 
 xlii CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 to its full strength, and in consequence we find 
 that the predominant influence in his work is 
 that of the pioneers of the Romantic revival. 
 To this revival he made a small but definite 
 contribution. 
 
 Now, as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, 
 
 A livelier light upon my vision flows. 
 
 No more above, the embracing branches meet ; 
 
 No more the river gurgles at my feet, 
 
 But seen deep down the cliff's impending side 
 
 Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide. 
 
 Dim is my upland path, ^across the Green 
 
 Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between 
 
 The chequer'd glooms, the moon her chaste ray sheds, 
 
 Where knots of blue-bells droop their grateful heads, 
 
 And beds of violets blooming 'mid the trees. 
 
 Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze. ^ 
 
 Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in grey, 
 Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes ; 
 
 And from his tower of mist. 
 
 Night's watchman hurries down.^ 
 
 Notes like these foreshow, no matter how 
 faintly, the great years that are to follow, and 
 in the face of them it is impossible to treat 
 White as a negligible quantity in the movement 
 that was to produce a Shelley and a Keats. 
 
 The personal aspect of criticism is a thing 
 much more intimate, and to most men more 
 interesting. It speaks of those matters that 
 
 ^ Clifton Grove. 
 " Fragment I.
 
 CRITICAL INTRODUCTION xliii 
 
 appeal to all men in all. ages. The historical 
 estimate may not be of universal interest ; the 
 personal estimate emphatically is. To learn 
 what the poet thinks of his relation to God and 
 men, his reading of the eternal problems that 
 are the glory and despair of generation after 
 generation, to wonder and dream with him, and 
 with him to tremble and exult — these are the 
 things of the heart, the greater things. Here 
 again, though, we have a danger to face ; that of 
 an arrogant spirit. If we hope to learn all that 
 a poet has to teach us, we must approach him 
 humbly, or we shall certainly learn nothing. 
 To be humble does not, of course, mean to be 
 blind to defects, but a man of critical instinct 
 need not fear that he will be imposed upon by 
 these ; he will without effort recognise them as 
 such, and they will not escape his reproof. It 
 is, however, essential that, in reading a poet, 
 we should not set out with the idea that all he 
 has to say lies within the compass of our own 
 knowledge and experience, and that he is up 
 for judgment at the court of our superior wisdom. 
 Having considered his work, we may be forced 
 to the conclusion that it is valueless, but that 
 does not affect the point in question. A critic's 
 first function is to analyse and interpret, so far 
 as lies in his power. Having done this, he can 
 summarise his opinion in approval or condemna- 
 tion, but statement of such an opinion without 
 reasons is of no critical value whatever. To
 
 xliv CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 attain this end, to analyse and interpret properly, 
 we must, as I have said, approach our subject 
 humbly, and willing to be taught. Here lies 
 another defect of much of our modern criticism. 
 It is too often thought sufficient to state the 
 conclusion without the premises, while it is too 
 rarely recognised that, after all, the poet may be 
 greater than the critic. Most critics would, I 
 suppose, be willing to write an estimate of 
 Shelley, for example, and it would be perfectly 
 legitimate for them to do so, and, in a large 
 number of cases, the result would be informing ; 
 but how many of these same critics would have 
 the courage to admit that, after all their careful 
 and even affectionate study, there are still in 
 Shelley certain elusive thoughts and emotions 
 that they have not been able fully to grasp and 
 realise, certain heights and depths that they 
 have been unable to scale and fathom ? Yet 
 in every case would this be true, no matter 
 how able the critic. One man's experience 
 will never reach as far in all directions as 
 another's, and remembrance of this fact is of 
 vital importance in criticism. The greater the 
 critic, the more fully will he realise this, the 
 more reverently will he set out upon his work, 
 and the more intimately will the poet reveal him- 
 self to him. 
 
 Kirke White has suffered on this ground ; 
 more than one critic has in recent years 
 assumed towards him this false attitude of
 
 CRITICAL INTRODUCTION xlv 
 
 which I speak, has been disappointed in conse- 
 quence, and has been content to record the 
 fact in a single note of condemnation. He 
 has, of course, every right to the opinion, but 
 we, too, have a right in the matter ; we must 
 require to know why that opinion was formed, 
 or refuse to accept it as criticism worthy of 
 consideration. 
 
 White's poetry is marked by a melancholy 
 and sadness, noble in unfaltering faith and in 
 absolute lack of fear. 
 
 What is this passing scene ? 
 
 A peevish April day ! 
 A little sun — a little rain, 
 And then night sweeps along the plain, 
 And all things fade away. 
 Man (soon discuss'd) 
 Yields up his trust, 
 And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 
 « * * * 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 
 Thou art not stern to me ; 
 Sad Monitress ! I own thy swa5^ 
 A votary sad in early day, 
 I bend my knee to thee. 
 From sun to sun 
 My race will run, 
 1 only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done.i 
 
 The restlessness of commercial life, which 
 in our own day has grown to such a distressing 
 
 J Ode to Dimppuintment.
 
 xlvi CRITTCAL TNTRODUCTION 
 
 extent, depressed him, and drove him at every 
 available moment to Nature, whom he learnt 
 to love with all a lover's passion. 
 
 Fair Nature ! thee, in all thy varied charms, 
 Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms, 
 Thine are the sweets which never, never sate, 
 Thine still remain through all the storms of fate.i 
 
 Even in the solace of this communion, how- 
 ever, there clings to him a certain wistfulness, 
 a sense of the tears that lie so close to the 
 laughter of the world. 
 
 And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, 
 
 Moans hollow in the forest-trees. 
 
 And sailing on the gusty breeze. 
 Mysterious music dies. 
 Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 
 It warns me to the lonely shrine. 
 The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
 
 My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
 
 Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
 A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.- 
 
 This love for Nature was in White a very vital 
 thing, no mere poetical pose or formula. He 
 did actually learn of the trees and the rivers, 
 the sunshine and the rain, the promise of 
 dawn and the quiet of the evening, and from 
 
 ' Cliftof! Grove. 
 
 ° To the Herb Rosemary,
 
 CRITICAL INTRODUCTION xlvii 
 
 these he drew most of his happiest inspira- 
 tion. 
 
 Beams of the daybreak faint ! I hail 
 Your dubious hues, as on the robe 
 Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, 
 
 I mark your traces pale. 
 Tir'd with the taper's sickly light, 
 .And with the wearying, numbered night, 
 I hail the streaks of morn divine : 
 -And lo ! they break between the dewy wreathes 
 
 That round my rural casement twine ; 
 The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes. 
 It fans my feverish brow, — it calms the mental strife, 
 And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.' 
 
 That is the simple expression of personal 
 observation and feeling, as also is 
 
 Hark how it falls ! and now it steals along, 
 
 Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, 
 When all is still ; 2 
 
 Most of his Nature poetry is simple like this, 
 never gorgeous, but always sincere. His treat- 
 ment of such themes is entirely direct ; he is 
 never able, as a^-e the great poets, to see in 
 all the workings of the natural world the 
 symbols of eternal laws and universal harmony, 
 but to the phases of Nature in themselves, to 
 her beauty, her comfort and her terror, he is 
 keenly alive, and expresses his emotions in 
 
 1 To the Morning, 
 
 2 Fragment III.
 
 xlviii CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 musical verse that is often of great tender- 
 ness. 
 
 He is restrained by much the same limitation 
 when he writes of men. For their sorrows 
 and sufferings he is full of pity, he rejoices in 
 their achievements and nobility, but he has no 
 sense of drama, no artistic perception of the 
 conflict that constitutes action in literature. 
 Thus, in passages such as the slight sketch 
 of the hermit in the fragment beginning, 
 ' Where yonder woods in gloomy pomp arise ', 
 and his sonnet ' Poor little one ! most bitterly 
 did pain', he is successful in his simplicity 
 and poignancy, notwithstanding certain flaws 
 in each instance ; but when he attempts to 
 set his figures in motion, as in the legend in 
 Clifton Grovc^ he becomes merely melodramatic 
 and fails. In other words, he is delicately 
 sensitive, he is intellectually vigorous, but he 
 is never intellectually subtle. 
 
 Of the influence which his predecessors had 
 upon his work in general, enough has been 
 said, but in this connection it is well to bear 
 in mind the distinction between being influenced 
 by, and imitating another poet. White worked 
 upon models, it is true — every young poet must 
 of necessity do so — but he did so unconsciously 
 and with individuality. His Ode to Liberty 
 illustrates the point more clearly than any other 
 of his poems. The influence of Collins' ode 
 of the same name is marked, both in matter
 
 CRITICAL INTRODUCTION xlix 
 
 and treatment ; yet we can read White's poem 
 after that of CoUins with pleasure. There is no 
 sense of imitation, rather a feeling that our debt 
 to Collins has been increased, and that his seed 
 has fallen on good ground. 
 
 In workmanship Kirke White maintains a 
 very high level, and his verse, if never quite 
 magical, is always harmonious and easy, and 
 sometimes full-voiced and masterful. 
 
 And oh ! thy voice it rose so musical , 
 Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm, 
 That at the sound the winds forgot to rave, 
 And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd 
 Sunk on his rocking throne, to still repose, 
 Locked in the arms of silence. i 
 
 -:;- « -;t * 
 
 The angelic hosts in their inferior Heaven, 
 Hymn to their golden harps His praise sublime, 
 Repeating loud, ' The Lord our God is great,' 
 In varied harmonies. — The glorious sounds 
 Roll o'er the air serene^The /Eolian spheres. 
 Harping along their viewless boundaries, 
 Catch the full note, and cry, ' The Lord is great,' 
 Responding to the Seraphim. — O'er all. 
 From orb to orb, to the remotest verge 
 Of the created world, the sound is borne 
 Till the whole universe is full of Him.- 
 
 There speaks the authentic voice of poetry ; 
 
 ■' From Lines supposed to be Spoken by a Lover, not 
 otherwise included in this edition. 
 - Lines written on a Survey of the Heavens.
 
 f CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 and, in such sonnets as To Deccfiiber^ 
 What art thou, mighty One ! and in many 
 of his lyrics, he attains an expression that 
 arrests and charms. His chief weakness lies 
 in passages where he forsakes his natural and 
 customary restfulness, and attempts to be vivid 
 and dramatic. He then flounders in too lavish 
 a use of such words as " wild," " horrid," 
 " affright," " shriek," which can only be efifect- 
 tively handled by the very greatest word artists, 
 and even by them only with the utmost caution 
 and restraint. Gray succeeded, in his poems 
 from the Norse and the Welsh, in making such 
 expressions impart vigour and wildness to his 
 verse, but when White is influenced by him in 
 this matter, he is generally grotesque. 
 
 In forming our estimate of White we must 
 always remember that he was only twenty-one 
 when he died, and that even in his best work 
 we only see the preparatory efforts of his muse- 
 At the time of his death his views both of art 
 and of life were undeveloped and vague, but 
 they were living, and it is not too much to say 
 that their growth would have produced poetry 
 of a very high order indeed, though not, I 
 believe, of the highest. Speculations as to 
 what a young poet might have been, had he 
 lived, are, however, unprofitable, and we are 
 chiefly concerned with actual achievement. 
 This test reveals Kirke White as a poet, 
 not of the greatest truly, but a poet, earnest,
 
 CRITICAL INTRODUCTION li 
 
 vital, and lovable. His position among the 
 singers may not be a very high one, but he 
 claims kinship with them, and that claim 
 cannot justly be disallowed. His work is 
 possessed of a definite value and charm, and 
 a little of it is worthy of a place in any com- 
 prehensive English anthology. I venture to 
 maintain that any one who, reading it, dismisses 
 it as worthless, is for the moment lacking in 
 critical perception and in a sense of the fitness 
 of things. 
 
 John Drinkwater 
 
 Birmingham, 1907.
 
 POEMS 
 
 INCLUDED IN THE 
 
 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 OF 1803
 
 POEMS INCLUDED IN THE 
 
 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 OF 1803 
 
 TO MY LYRE 
 
 AN ODE 
 
 I 
 Thou simple Lyre '. — Thy music wild 
 
 Has served to charm the weary hour, 
 And many a lonely night has 'guiled, 
 When even pain has own'd and smiled, 
 
 Its fascinating power. 
 
 Yet, oh my Lyre ! the busy crowd 
 
 Will little heed thy simple tones : 
 Them mightier minstrels harping loud 
 Engross, — and thou and I must shroud 
 Where dark oblivion "thrones. 
 
 Ill 
 No hand, thy diapa.son o'er, 
 
 Well skill'd, I throw with sweet sublime ; 
 For me, no academic lore 
 Has taught the solemn strain to pour, 
 
 Or build the polish'd rhyme.
 
 THE '-CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 Yet thou to Sylvan themes canst soar ; 
 
 Thou know'st to charm the woodland train : 
 The rustic swains beHevc thy power 
 Can hush the wild winds when they roar, 
 
 And still the billowy main. 20 
 
 These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, 
 I, still unknown, may live with thee, 
 And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep 
 Thy solemn string, where low I sleep 
 Beneath the alder tree. 
 
 This little dirge will please me more 
 
 Than the full requiem's swelling peal ; 
 I'd rather than that crowds should sigh 
 For me, that from some kindred eye 
 The trickling tear should steal. 
 
 Yet dear to me the wreath of bay. 
 
 Perhaps from me debarr'd : 
 And dear to me the classic zone, 
 Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, 
 
 Adorns th' accepted bard.
 
 CLIFTON GROVE 
 
 And O ! if yet 'twere mine to dwell 
 
 Where Cam or Isis winds along, 
 Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, 
 I yet might call the ear of taste 
 
 To listen to my song. 40 
 
 Oh I then, my little friend, thy style 
 
 I'd change to happier lays, 
 Oh ! then, the cloister'd glooms should smile, 
 And through the long, the fretted aisle 
 
 Should swell the note of praise. 
 
 CLIFTON GROVE 
 
 A SKETCH IN VERSE 
 
 Lo ! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, 
 
 And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. 
 
 No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke 
 
 Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke ; 
 
 No more hoarse clamouring o'er th' uplifted head, 
 
 The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock'd bed ; 
 
 Still'd is the village hum — the woodland sounds 
 
 Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, 
 
 And general silence reigns, save when below. 
 
 The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow ; 10
 
 6 THE ' CIJFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, 
 Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate ; 
 Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, 
 Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. 
 
 Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, 
 
 Released from day and its attendant toil, 
 
 And draws his household round their evening fire, 
 
 And tells the oft-told tales that never tire ; 
 
 Or where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, 
 
 And manufacture taints the ambient skies, 20 
 
 The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom, 
 
 The air-pent hold, the pestilential room. 
 
 And rushes out, impatient to begin 
 
 The stated course of customary sin ; 
 
 Now, now my solitary way I bend 
 
 Where solemn groves in awful state impend. 
 
 And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain, 
 
 Bespeak, bless'd Clifton ! thy sublime domain. 
 
 Here, lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, 
 
 I come to pass the meditative hour ; 30 
 
 To bid awhile the strife of passion cease. 
 
 And woo the calms of solitude and peace. 
 
 And oh ! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on high 
 
 Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh ! 
 
 Genius of woodland shades ! whose mild control 
 
 Steals with resistless witchery to the soul. 
 
 Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire 
 
 My glowing bosom with thy hallowed fire. 
 
 And thou too, Fancy, from thy starry sphere. 
 
 Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, 40
 
 CLIFTON GROVE 7 
 
 Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, 
 
 Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. 
 
 At thy command the gale that passes by 
 
 Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. 
 
 Thou wav'st thy wand, and lo ! what forms appear ! 
 
 On the dark cloud what giant shapes career ! 
 
 The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale, 
 
 And hosts of Sylphids on the moon-beams sail. 
 
 This gloomy alcove, darkling to the sight, 
 
 Where meeting trees create eternal night ; 50 
 
 Save, when from yonder stream, the sunny ray, 
 
 Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day ; 
 
 Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind, 
 
 Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined, 
 
 I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood ; 
 
 Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food ; 
 
 Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, 
 
 And at each gay response delighted smiled. 
 
 How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray 
 
 Of gay romance o'er every happy day, 60 
 
 Here would I run, a visionary boy, 
 
 When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, 
 
 And, fancy-led, beheld th' Almighty's form 
 
 Sternly careering on the eddying storm ; 
 
 And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul, 
 
 His voice terrific in the thunders roll. 
 
 With secret joy, I view'd with vivid glare 
 
 The voUey'd lightnings cleave the sullen air ; 
 
 And, as the warring winds around reviled. 
 
 With awful pleasure big, — I heard and smiled. 70
 
 8 THE ' CLIFTON GROVR' VOLUME 
 
 Beloved remembrance !— Memon' which endears 
 This silent spot to my advancing years. 
 Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest, 
 In shades like these to live is to be blest. 
 While happiness evades the busy crowd, 
 In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. 
 And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flame 
 Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame. 
 Thou here dost love to sit with up-turn'd eye, 
 And listen to the stream that murmurs by, So 
 
 The woods that wave, the grey owl's silken flight. 
 The mellow music of the listening night. 
 Congenial calms more welcome to my breast 
 Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre dresl, 
 To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers, I raise. 
 That ye may bless my unambitious days. 
 Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife, 
 May trace with me the lowly vale of life. 
 And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave, 
 May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. oo 
 
 Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, 
 A livelier light upon my vision flows. 
 No more above th' embracing branches meet. 
 No more the river gurgles at my feet, 
 But seen deep, down the clift~'s impending side, 
 Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide. 
 Dim is my upland path, — across the green 
 Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between 
 The chequer'd glooms, the moon her chaste ray sheds, 
 Where knots of blue -bells droop their graceful 
 heads, lOO
 
 CLIFTON GROVE 9 
 
 And beds of violets blooming 'mid the trees, 
 Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze. 
 
 Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight 
 
 Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, 
 
 And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, 
 
 And gives to him alone his bliss to know, 
 
 Why does he pant for vice's deadly charms ? 
 
 Why clasp the syren pleasure to his arms ? 
 
 And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, 
 
 Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death ? no 
 
 Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings, 
 
 Know what calm joy from purer sources springs, 
 
 Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, 
 
 The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, 
 
 No more his soul would pant for joys impure. 
 
 The deadly chalice would no more allure, 
 
 But the sweet potion he was wont to sip. 
 
 Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. 
 
 Fair Nature ! thee, in all thy varied charms, 
 
 Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms : 120 
 
 Thine are the sweets which never, never sate, 
 
 Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. 
 
 Though not for me, 'twas Heaven's divine command 
 
 To roll in acres of paternal land. 
 
 Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy 
 
 Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. 
 
 Happy is he, who, thougli the cup of bliss 
 Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss,
 
 lo THE ' CLIFTON grove' VOLUME 
 
 Who, slill in abject poverty or pain, 
 
 Can count with pleasure what small joys remain : 130 
 
 Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone, 
 
 He would not find one spot of ground his own, 
 
 Yet, as he looks around, he cries with glee, 
 
 These bounding prospects all were made for me : 
 
 For me yon waving fields their burden bear, 
 
 For me yon labourer guides the shining share, 
 
 While happy I in idle ease recline. 
 
 And mark the glorious visions as they shine. 
 
 This is the charm, by sages often told, 
 
 Converting all its touches into gold. 140 
 
 Content can soothe, where'er by fortune placed, 
 
 Can rear a garden in the desert waste. 
 
 How lovely, from this hill's superior height. 
 
 Spreads the wide view before my straining sight I 
 
 O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground, 
 
 E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound, 
 
 My ken is borne ; while o'er my head serene. 
 
 The silver moon illumes the misty scene; 
 
 Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade. 
 
 In all the soft varieties of shade. 150 
 
 Behind me, lo ! the peaceful hamlet lies. 
 
 The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. 
 
 No more, where late the social fagot blazed, 
 
 The vacant peal resounds, by little raised ; 
 
 But lock'd in silence, o'er Arion's^ star 
 
 The slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car : 
 
 1 The Constellation Delphinus. For authority for this 
 appellation, vide Ovid's Fasti, xi, 113.
 
 CLIFTON GROVE n 
 
 The church-bell tolls, deep-sounding down the glade, 
 
 The solemn hour for walking spectres made ; 
 
 The simple plough-boy, wakening with the sound, 
 
 Listens aghast, and turns him startled round, i6o 
 
 Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes. 
 
 Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise. 
 
 Now ceased the long, the monitory toll, 
 
 Returning silence stagnates in the soul ; 
 
 Save when, disturb'd by dreams, with wild affright, 
 
 The deep mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night. 
 
 Or where the village ale-house crowns the vale, 
 
 The creeking sign-post whistles to the gale. 
 
 A little onward let me bend my way, 
 
 Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's 
 
 stay. 170 
 
 That spot, oh ! yet it is the very same ; 
 That hawthorn gives its shade, and gave it name ; 
 There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom. 
 There yet the violet sheds its first perfume, 
 And in the branch that rears above the rest 
 The robin unmolested builds its nest. 
 'Twas here, when Hope, presiding o'er my breast. 
 In vivid colours every prospect drest : 
 'Twas here, reclining, I indulged her dreams. 
 And lost the hour in visionary schemes. 180 
 
 Here, as I press once more the ancient seat, 
 Why, bland deceiver ! not renew the cheat ? 
 Say, can a few short years this change achieve, 
 That thy illusions can no more deceive ! 
 Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread. 
 And thou too, gay Seducer ! art thou fled ?
 
 12 THE ' CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, 
 
 Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear, 
 
 And oft thy smile across life's gloomy way. 
 
 Could throw a gleam of transitory day. 190 
 
 How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems ; 
 
 How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams ; 
 
 The dire mistake too soon is brought to light, 
 
 And all is buried in redoubled night. 
 
 Yet some can rise superior to their pain, 
 
 And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain : 
 
 While others, dead to feeling, can survey. 
 
 Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away : 
 
 But yet a few there be, — too soon o'ercast ! 
 
 Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast, 200 
 
 And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the 
 
 gloom. 
 To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. 
 So in these shades the early primrose blows, 
 Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows. 
 So falls untimely on the desert waste : 
 Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. 
 
 Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display, 
 
 Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way ; 
 
 Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, 
 
 The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. 210 
 
 And oh ! how sweet this walk o'erhung with 
 
 wood, 
 That winds the margin of the solemn flood ! 
 What rural objects steal upon the sight ! 
 What rising views prolong the calm delight ;
 
 CLIFTON GROVE 13 
 
 The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, 
 
 The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, 
 
 The woody island, and the naked mead, 
 
 The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, 
 
 The rural wicket, and the rural stile, 
 
 And, frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. 220 
 
 Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, 
 
 Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. 
 
 High up the cliff the varied groves ascend. 
 
 And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. 
 
 Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise, 
 
 What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes : 
 
 Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, 
 
 The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head, 
 
 And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind, 
 
 Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. 230 
 
 Still, every rising sound of calm delight 
 
 Stamps but the fearful silence of the night, 
 
 Save when is heard, between each dreary rest, 
 
 Discordant from her solitary nest, 
 
 The owl, dull-screaming to the wandering moon ; 
 
 Now riding, cloud-wrapp'd, near her highest noon : 
 
 Or when the wild-duck, southering, hither rides, 
 
 And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. 
 
 I low oft, in this sequestered spot, when youth 
 Gave to each tale the holy force of truth, 240 
 
 Have I long linger'd, while the milk-maid sung 
 The tragic legend, till the woodland rung ! 
 That tale, so sad ! which, still to memory dear, 
 From its sweet source can call the sacred tear,
 
 14 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 And (lulled to rest stern reason's harsh control) 
 
 Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. 
 
 These hallow"d shades, — these trees that woo the 
 
 wind, 
 Recall its faintest features to my mind. 
 
 A hundred passing years, with march sublime, 
 
 Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, 250 
 
 Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, 
 
 Reclusely dwelt the far-famed Clifton Maid, 
 
 The beauteous Margaret ; for her each swain 
 
 Confest in private his peculiar pain, 
 
 In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair. 
 
 Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. 
 
 No more the shepherd on the blooming mead 
 
 Attuned to gaiety his artless reed. 
 
 No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck 
 
 His favourite wether's unpolluted neck, 260 
 
 But listless, by yon babbling stream reclined. 
 
 He mixed his sobbings with the passing wind, 
 
 Bemoan'd his hapless love ; or, boldly bent. 
 
 Far from these smiling fields, a rover went. 
 
 O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, 
 
 A self-will'd exile from his native home. 
 
 Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain ; 
 Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. 
 Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, 
 The echoing vault responded to their vows, 270 
 
 As here deep hidden from the glare of day, 
 Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way.
 
 CLIFTON GROVE 1 5 
 
 Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name ; 
 
 'Twas there the blushing maid confessed her 
 
 flame. 
 Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, 
 When evening slumber'd on the western sky. 
 That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare, 
 Each bears mementoes of the fated pair. 
 
 One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze 
 
 With the fall'n honours of the mourning trees, 2S0 
 
 The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower, 
 
 And waited long beyond the appointed hour. 
 
 Yet Bateman came not : o'er the woodland drear, 
 
 Howling portentous, did the winds career ; 
 
 And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods, 
 
 The fitful rains rush'd down in sudden floods ; 
 
 The night was dark ; as, now and then, the gale 
 
 Paused for a moment — Margaret listen'd, pale ; 
 
 But through the covert to her anxious ear, 
 
 No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. 290 
 
 Strange fears now fiU'd her breast, — she knew not 
 
 why, 
 She sigh'd, and Batemans name was in each sigh. 
 She hears a noise — 'tis he— he comes at last ; — 
 Alas ! 'twas but the gale which hurried past ; 
 But now she hears a quickening footstep sound. 
 Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound ; 
 'Tis Bateman's self — he springs into her arms, 
 'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. 
 ' Yet why this silence ? — I have waited long. 
 And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among, joo
 
 1 6 THE 'CLIFTON GROl'E' VOLUME 
 
 And now thouit here my fears are fled — yet speak, 
 
 Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek ? 
 
 Say, what is wrong?' — Now, through a parting 
 
 cloud 
 The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud. 
 And Bateman's face was seen : — 'twas deadly white, 
 And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. 
 ' Oh, speak, my love ! ' again the maid conjured, 
 ' Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured ? ' 
 He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell, 
 Thrice from his lips the unfinish'd accents fell ; 310 
 When thus at last reluctantly he broke 
 His boding silence, and the maid bespoke : 
 ' Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance, 
 I on these fields must cast my parting glance ; 
 For three long years, by cruel fate's command, 
 I go to languish in a foreign land. 
 Oh, Margaret ! omens dire have met my view, 
 Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true ? 
 Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, 
 Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, 320 
 And, on the silken couch of wealth reclined, 
 Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! why ', replies the maid, ' my faith thus prove, 
 Canst thou ! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love ? 
 Hear me, just God ! if from my traitorous heart, 
 My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, 
 If, when he hail again his native shore. 
 He finds his Margaret true to him no more, 
 May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, 
 Conjoin'd, then drag me from my perjured bed, 330
 
 CLIFTON GROVE I7 
 
 And hurl me headlong down these awful sleeps, 
 
 To find deserved death in yonder deeps ! ' ^ 
 
 Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew 
 
 A golden ring, and broke it quick in two ; 
 
 One half she in her lovely bosom hides, 
 
 The other, trembling, to her love confides. 
 
 ' This bind the vow ', she said, ' this mystic charm, 
 
 No future recantation can disarm, 
 
 The rite vindictive does the fates involve, 
 
 No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve.' 340 
 
 She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry, 
 The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, 
 And once again the lady of the night 
 Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. 
 Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay : 
 But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away : 
 Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, 
 Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart. 
 
 When to the distant land the youth was sped, 
 
 A lonely life the moody maiden led. 350 
 
 Still would she trace each dear, each well-known walk, 
 
 Still by the moonlight to her love would talk, 
 
 And fancy, as she paced among the trees. 
 
 She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. 
 
 Thus two years glided on in silent grief ; 
 
 The third, her bosom own'd the kind relief ; 
 
 ' This part ot the Trent is commonly called The 
 (Uifton Deeps.
 
 l8 THE ' CLIFTON grove' VOLUME 
 
 Absence had cooled her love — the impoverish'd flame 
 Was dwindling fast, when lo ! the tempter came ; 
 He offer'd wealth, and all the joys of life, 
 And the weak maid became another's wife ! 360 
 
 Six guilty months had marked the false one's crime, 
 
 When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime. 
 
 Sure of her constancy, elate he came, 
 
 The lovely partner of his soul to claim. 
 
 Light was his heart, as up the well-known wa\- 
 
 He bent his steps — and all his thoughts were gay. 
 
 Oh ! who can paint his agonizing throes, 
 
 When on his ear the fatal news arose ! 
 
 Chill'd with amazement — senseless with the blow, 
 
 He stood a marble monument of woe ; 370 
 
 Till call'd to all the horrors of despair, 
 
 He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair ; 
 
 Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot, 
 
 And sought those scenes, (by memory ne'er forgot,) 
 
 Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame, 
 
 And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 
 
 'Twas night — he sought the river's lonely shore, 
 
 And traced again their former wanderings o'er. 
 
 Now on the bank in silent grief he stood, 
 
 And gazed intently on the stealing flood, 380 
 
 Death in his mien and madness in his eye, 
 
 He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by ; 
 
 Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave — 
 
 Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. 
 
 Yet still he stood irresolutely bent. 
 
 Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent.
 
 CLIFTON GROVE 19 
 
 He knelt. — Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind, 
 
 And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind. 
 
 The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, 
 
 The paly moonbeam on its surface slept, 390 
 
 And all was peace ; — he felt the general calm 
 
 O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm : 
 
 When casting far behind his streaming eye, 
 
 fie saw the Grove — in fancy saw her lie, 
 
 Hu Margaret, lull'd in Germain's' arms to rest, 
 
 And all the demon rose within his breast. 
 
 Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand, 
 
 Cast his dark eye once more upon the land, 
 
 Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank. 
 
 And in the calm deceitful current sank. 400 
 
 Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound, 
 
 As in the stream he plunged, was heard around : 
 
 Then all was still — the wave was rough no more, 
 
 The river swept as sweetly as before ; 
 
 The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene, 
 
 And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. 
 
 Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang 
 Remorse's glooms and never-ceasing pang. 
 Full well she knew, repentant now too late. 
 She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. 410 
 But, for the babe she bore Ijcneath her breast, 
 The offended God prolonged her life unbless'd. 
 But fast the fleeting moments roU'd away, 
 And near, and nearer drew the dreaded day ; 
 
 J Germain is the traditionary name of her husband.
 
 20 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 That day, foredoom'd to give her child the light, 
 
 And hurl its mother to the shades of night. 
 
 The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife 
 
 The guiltless baby struggled into life. — 
 
 As night drew on, around her bed, a band 
 
 Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand ; 420 
 
 In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time, 
 
 Intent to expiate her awful crime. 
 
 Their prayers were fruitless. — As the midnight came, 
 
 A heavy sleep oppressed each weary frame. 
 
 In vain they strove against the o"erwhelming load, 
 
 Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. 
 
 They slept, till in the blushing eastern sky 
 
 The bloomy Morning oped her dewy eye ; 
 
 Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed, 
 
 But lo ! the hapless Margaret was fled ; 430 
 
 And never more the weeping train were doom'd 
 
 To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd. 
 
 The neighbouring rustics told that in the night 
 
 They heard such screams as froze them with affright ; 
 
 And many an infant, at its mother's breast, 
 
 Started dismay'd, from its unthinking rest. 
 
 And even now, upon the heath forlorn, 
 
 They show the path down which the fair was borne. 
 
 By the fell demons, to the yawning wave, 
 
 Her own, and murder'd lover's mutual grave. 440 
 
 Such is the tale, so sad, lo memory dear. 
 
 Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening
 
 CLIFTON GROVE 21 
 
 The tale, wliich bade me find redoubled sweets 
 
 In the drear silence of these dark retreats, 
 
 And even now, with melancholy power, 
 
 Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 
 
 'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given 
 
 To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven. 
 
 With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans 
 
 On the attendant legend of the scenes. 450 
 
 This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, 
 
 And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods ; 
 
 This, as the distant cataract swells around, 
 
 Gives a romantic cadence to the sound ; 
 
 This, and the deepening glen, the alley green, 
 
 The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between, 
 
 The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas, 
 
 The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees, 
 
 The lengthening vista, and the present gloom, 
 
 The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume ; 460 
 
 These are thy charms, the joys which these impart 
 
 Bind thee, bless'd Clifton ! close around my heart. 
 
 Dear Native Grove ! where'er my devious track. 
 
 To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back. 
 
 Whether in Arno's polished vales I stray, 
 
 Or where ' Oswego's swamps' obstruct the day ; 
 
 Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide, 
 
 The tumbling torrent laves St Gothard's side ; 
 
 Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse. 
 
 Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views ; 470 
 
 Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, 
 
 My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home.
 
 22 THE ' CLIFTON GROVE VOLUME 
 
 When splendour offers, and when Fame incites, 
 I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights, 
 Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change, 
 Renounce the wish which first induced to range ; 
 Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes once 
 
 more, 
 Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore, 
 And, tired with worlds, and all their busy ways, 
 Here waste the little remnant of my days. 480 
 
 But, if the Fates should this last wish deny. 
 And doom me on some foreign shore to die ; 
 Oh ! should it please the world's supernal King, 
 That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing ; 
 Or that my corse should, on some desert strand. 
 Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand ; 
 Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb, 
 My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom, 
 Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove, 
 Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove, 490 
 
 Sit, a lorn spectre on yon well-known grave, 
 And mix its moanings with the desert wave.
 
 GONDOLINE 23 
 
 GONDOLINE 
 
 A BALLAD 
 
 The night it was still^, and the moon it shone 
 
 Serenely on the sea, 
 And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock 
 
 They murmur'd pleasantly. 
 
 When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, 
 
 A maiden full fair to the sight ; 
 Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, 
 
 And turn'd it to deadly white. 
 
 Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear 
 
 It fill'd her faint blue eye, 10 
 
 As oft she heard, in Fancy's ear, 
 Her Bertrand's dying sigh. 
 
 Her Bertrand was the bravest youth 
 
 Of all our good King's men. 
 And he was gone to the Holy Land 
 
 To fight the Saracen. 
 
 And many a month had pass'd away, 
 
 And many a rolling year. 
 But nothing the maid from Palestine 
 
 Could of her lover hear. 20 
 
 1 The 1803 volume reads ' dark,' this being altered to 
 ' still ■ in the subsequent Southey editions. For this 
 alteration there was probably the authority of manu- 
 script, — certainly of sense. Ed.
 
 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 Full oft she vainly tried to pierce 
 
 The Ocean's misty face ; 
 Full oft she thought her lover's bark 
 
 She on the wave could trace. 
 
 And every night she placed a light 
 
 In the high rock's lonely tower, 
 
 To guide her lover to the land, 
 
 Should the murky tempest lower. 
 
 But now despair had seized her breast, 
 
 And sunken in her eye ; 30 
 
 ' Oh I-tell me but if Bertrand live, 
 And I in peace will die.' 
 
 She wander'd o'er the lonely shore, 
 
 The Curlew scream'd above. 
 She heard the scream with a sickening heart, 
 
 Much boding of her love. 
 
 Yet still she kept her lonely way, 
 
 And this was all her cry, 
 ' Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, 
 
 And I in peace shall die.' 40 
 
 And now she came to a horrible rift, 
 
 All in the rock's hard side, 
 A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread 
 
 The cavern yawning wide. 
 
 And pendent from its dismal lop 
 
 The deadly nightshade hung ; 
 The hemlock and the aconite 
 
 Across the mouth were flung.
 
 GONDOLINE 25 
 
 And all within was dark and drear, 
 
 And all without was calm ; 50 
 
 Vet Gondoline entered, her soul upheld 
 
 By some deep- working charm. 
 
 And as she enter'd the cavern wide, 
 The moonbeam gleamed pale, 
 
 And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, 
 It clung by its slimy tail. 
 
 Her foot it slipped, and she stood aghast, 
 
 She trod on a bloated toad ; 
 Yet, still upheld by the secret charm. 
 
 She kept upon her road. 60 
 
 And now upon her frozen ear 
 
 Mysterious sounds arose ; 
 So, on the mountain's piny top, 
 
 The blustering north wind blows. 
 
 Then furious peals of laughter loud 
 
 Were heard with thundering sound. 
 
 Till they died away in soft decay. 
 
 Low whispering o'er the ground. 
 
 Yet still the maiden onward went, 
 
 The charm yet onward led, 70 
 
 Though each big glaring ball of sight 
 
 Seem'd bursting from her head. 
 
 Bui now a pale blue light she saw, 
 
 It from a distance came. 
 She followed, till upon her sight, 
 
 Burst full a flood of flame.
 
 26 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 She stood appall'd ; yet still the charm 
 
 Upheld her sinking soul ; 
 ^'et each bent knee the other smote, 
 
 And each wild eye did roll. 80 
 
 And such a sight as she saw there, 
 
 No mortal saw before, 
 And such a sight as she saw there, 
 
 No mortal shall see more. 
 
 A burning cauldron stood in the midst, 
 The flame was fierce and high, 
 
 And all the cave so wide and long, 
 Was plainly seen thereby. 
 
 And round about the cauldron stout 
 
 Twelve withered witches stood : 90 
 
 Their waists were bound with living snakes, 
 ' And their hair was stiff with blood. 
 
 Their hands were gory too ; and red 
 And fiercely flamed their eyes : 
 
 And they were muttering indistinct 
 Their hellish mysteries 
 
 And suddenly they join'd their hands, 
 
 And uttered a joyous cry, 
 And round about the cauldron stout 
 
 They danced right merrily. 100 
 
 And now they stopp'd ; and each prepared 
 
 To tell what she had done. 
 Since last the Lady of the night 
 
 Her waning course had run.
 
 GONDOLINE 27 
 
 Behind a rock stood Gondoline, 
 
 Thick weeds her face did veil, 
 And she lean'd fearful forwarder, 
 
 To hear the dreadful tale. 
 
 The first arose : She said she'd seen 
 
 Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd, 1 10 
 She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, 
 
 And a jovial storm had brew'd. 
 
 She call'd around the winged winds, 
 
 And rais'd a devilish route ; 
 And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard 
 
 Full fifteen leagues about. 
 
 She said there was a little bark 
 
 Upon the roaring wave, 
 And there was a woman there who'd been 
 
 To see her husband's grave. 120 
 
 And she had got a child in her arms, 
 
 It was her only child, 
 And oft its little infant pranks 
 
 Her heavy heart beguil'd. 
 
 And tRere was too in that same bark, 
 
 A father and his son ; 
 The lad was sickly, and the sire 
 
 Was old and woe-begone. 
 
 And when the tempest waxed strong, 
 
 And the bark could no more it "bide, 130 
 
 She said it was jovial fun to hear 
 How the poor devils cried.
 
 28 THE ^ CLTFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 The mother clasp'd her orphan child 
 
 Unto her breast, and wept ; 
 And sweetly folded in her arms 
 
 The careless baby slept. 
 
 And she told how, in the shape o' the wind, 
 
 As manfully it roar'd, 
 She twisted her hand in the infant's hair 
 
 And threw it overboard, 140 
 
 And to have seen the mother's pangs, 
 
 'Twas a glorious sight to see ; 
 The crew could scarcely hold her down 
 
 From jumping in the sea. 
 
 The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand, 
 
 And it was soft and fair : 
 It must have been a lovely child, 
 
 To have had such lovely hair. 
 
 And she said, the father in his arms 
 
 lie held his sickly son, 150 
 
 And his dying throes they fast arose, 
 
 His pains were nearly done. 
 
 And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands, 
 
 And his face grew deadly blue ; 
 And his father he tore his thin grey hair. 
 
 And kiss'd the livid hue. 
 
 And then she told, how she bored a hole 
 
 In the bark, and it fill'd away : 
 And 'twas rare to hear, how some did swear, 
 
 And some did vow and pray. 160
 
 GONDOLINE 29 
 
 The man and woman they soon were dead, 
 The sailors their strength did urge ; 
 
 But the billows that beat were their windingsheel, 
 And the winds sung their funeral dirge. 
 
 She threw the infant's hair in the fire, 
 
 The red flame flamed high, 
 x\nd round about the cauldron stout 
 
 They danced right merrily. 
 
 The second begun : She said she had done 
 
 The task that Queen Ilecat' had set her, 1 70 
 
 And that the devil, the father of evil, 
 
 Had never accomplish'd a better. 
 
 She said, there was an aged woman. 
 
 And she had a daughter fair, 
 Whose evil habits fill'd her heart 
 
 With misery and care. 
 
 The daughter had a paramour, 
 
 A wicked man was he, 
 And oft the woman him against 
 
 Did murmur grievously. 180 
 
 And the hag had work'd the daughter up 
 
 To murder her old mother, 
 That then she might seize on all her goods, 
 
 And wanton with her lover. 
 
 And one night as the old woman 
 
 Was sick and ill in bed, 
 And pondering sorely on the life 
 
 Her wicked daughter led,
 
 30 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 She heard her footstep on the floor. 
 
 And she raised her palhd head, 190 
 
 And she saw her daughter, with a knife, 
 
 Approaching to her bed. 
 
 And said, my child, I'm very ill 
 
 I have not long to live, 
 Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die 
 
 Thy sins I may forgive. 
 
 And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, 
 
 And she lifted the sharp bright knife, 
 
 And the mother saw her fell intent, 
 
 And hard she begg'd for life. 200 
 
 But prayers would nothing her avail, 
 
 And she screamed loud with fear ; 
 
 But the house was lone, and the piercing screams 
 Could reach no human ear. 
 
 And though that she was sick, and old. 
 She struggled hard, and fought ; 
 
 The murderess cut three fingers through 
 Ere she could reach her throat. 
 
 And the hag she held the fingers up. 
 
 The skin was mangled sore ; 210 
 
 And they all agreed a nobler deed 
 
 Was never done before. 
 
 And she threw the fingers in the fire, 
 
 The red flame flamed high, 
 And round about the cauldron stout 
 
 They danced right merrily.
 
 GONDOLINE 31 
 
 The third arose : She said she'd been 
 
 To Holy Palestine ; 
 And seen more blood in one short day, 
 
 Than they had all seen in nine. 220 
 
 Now Gondoline, with fearful steps, 
 
 Drew nearer to the flame, 
 For much she dreaded now to hear 
 
 Her hapless lover's name. 
 
 The hag related then the sports 
 
 Of that eventful day, 
 When on the well-contested field 
 
 Full fifteen thousand lay. 
 
 She said, that she in human gore 
 
 Above the knees did wade, 230 
 
 And that no tongue could truly tell 
 
 The tricks she there had play'd. 
 
 There was a gallant-featured youth, 
 
 Who like a hero fought ; 
 He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, 
 
 And every danger sought. 
 
 And in a vassal's garb disguised 
 
 Unto the knight she sues. 
 And tells him she from Britain comes, 
 
 And brings unwelcome news. 240 
 
 That three days ere she had embark 'd, 
 
 His love had given her hand 
 Unto a wealthy Thane : — and thought 
 
 llim dead in holy land.
 
 32 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 And to have seen how he did writhe 
 
 When this her tale she told, 
 It would have made a wizard's blood 
 
 Within his heart run cold. 
 
 Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, 
 
 And sought the battle's bed ; 250 
 
 And soon all mangled o'er with wounds, 
 
 He on the cold turf bled. 
 
 And from his smoking corse she tore 
 
 His head, half clove in two : 
 She ceased, and from beneath her garb 
 
 The bloody trophy drew. 
 
 The eyes were starting from their socks, 
 
 The mouth it ghastly grinn'd, 
 And there was a gash across the brow, 
 
 The scalp was nearly skinn'd. 260 
 
 'Twas Bertrand's Head ! ! With a horrible scream, 
 
 The maiden gave a spring. 
 And from her fearful hiding place 
 
 She fell into the ring. 
 
 The lights they fled — the cauldron sunk, 
 
 Deep thunders shook the dome. 
 And hollow peals of laughter came 
 
 Resounding through the gloom. 
 
 Insensible the maiden lay 
 
 Upon the hellish ground, 270 
 
 And still mysterious sounds were heard 
 
 At intervals around.
 
 GONDOLINE 33 
 
 She woke — she half arose — and wild, 
 
 She cast a horrid glare, 
 The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, 
 
 And all was stillness there. 
 
 And through an awning in the rock, 
 
 The moon it sweetly shone. 
 And show'd a river in the cave 
 
 Which dismally did moan. 2S0 
 
 The stream was black, it sounded deep 
 As it rush'd the rocks between, 
 
 It offer'd well, for madness fired 
 The breast of Gondoline. 
 
 She plunged in, the torrent moan'd 
 
 With its accustom'd sound. 
 And hollow peals of laughter loud 
 
 Again rebellow'd round. 
 
 The maid was seen no more. — But oft 
 
 Her ghost is known to glide, 290 
 
 At midnight's silent, solemn hour, 
 Along the ocean's side.
 
 34 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS 
 
 In the Morning before Daybreak 
 
 Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold 
 Your brilliant places in the sable vault 
 Of night's dominions ! — Planets, and central orbs 
 Of other systems : — big as the burning sun 
 Which lights this nether globe — yet to our eye 
 Small as the glow-worm's lamp ! — To you I raise 
 My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd, 
 My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts, 
 Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, 
 Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold, i< 
 
 And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring. 
 Through ye, I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, 
 The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, 
 The great Creator ! Him ! who now sublime. 
 Wrapt in the solitary amplitude 
 Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres 
 Sits on his silent throne, and meditates. 
 
 The angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven. 
 Hymn to the golden harps His praise sublime. 
 Repeating loud, ' The Lord our God is great ', 2( 
 In varied harmonies. — The glorious sounds 
 Roll o'er the air serene — The .-Eolian spheres,
 
 . LINES 35 
 
 Harping along their viewless boundaries, 
 Catch the full note, and cry ' The Lord is great ', 
 Responding to the Seraphim. — O'er all, 
 P'rom orb to orb, to the remotest verge 
 Of the created world, the sound is borne, 
 Till the whole universe is full of Him. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now 
 
 In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, 30 
 
 And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile 
 
 On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, 
 
 And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. 
 
 Oh ! what is man, when at ambition's height. 
 
 What even are kings, when balanced in the scale 
 
 Of these stupendous worlds ! Almighty God ! 
 
 Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works ! 
 
 Say, canst Thou cast on me, poor passing worm, 
 
 One look of kind benevolence? — Thou canst ; 
 
 For Thou art full of universal love, 40 
 
 And in Thy boundless goodness wilt impart 
 
 Thy beams as well to me as to the proud. 
 
 The pageant insects of a glittering hour. 
 
 Oh I when rejecting on these truths sublime, 
 How insignificant do all the joys. 
 The gauds, and honours of the world appear ! 
 How vain ambition ! Why has my wakeful lamp 
 Outwatch'd the slow -paced' night? — Why on the 
 
 page. 
 The schoolman's laijour'd page, have I employ'd 
 The hours devoted by the world to rest, 50
 
 36 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? 
 Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay 
 The loss of health ? or can the hope of glory 
 Lend a new throb unto my languid heart, 
 Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow. 
 Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye, 
 Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek ? 
 
 Say, foolish one — can that unbodied fame, 
 
 For which thou barterest health and happiness. 
 
 Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave ? 60 
 
 Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs 
 
 Of everlasting punishment condign? 
 
 Alas ! how vain are mortal man's desires ! 
 
 How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God ! 
 
 Guide Thou my footsteps in the way of truth, 
 
 And oh ! assist me so to live on earth, 
 
 That I may die in peace, and claim a place 
 
 In Thy high dwelling. — All but this is folly. 
 
 The vain illusions of deceitful life. 
 
 TO THE HERB ROSEMARY^ 
 
 I 
 
 SwKET scented flower ! who art wunt to bloom 
 On January's front severe. 
 And o'er the wintry desert drear 
 To waft thy waste perfume ! 
 
 1 The rosemary buds in January. It is the flower 
 commonly put in the coffins of the dead.
 
 TO THE HERB ROSEMARY 37 
 
 Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, 
 And I will bind thee round my brow, 
 
 And as I twine the mournful wreath, 
 I'll weave a melancholy song : 
 And sweet the strain shall be and long, 
 
 The melody of death. 10 
 
 II 
 Come, funeral flow'r ! who lov'st to dwell 
 
 With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 
 
 And throw across the desert gloom 
 A sweet decaying smell. 
 Come, press my lips, and lie with me 
 Beneath the lowly Alder tree. 
 
 And we will sleep a pleasant sleep. 
 And not a care shall dare intrude. 
 To break the marble solitude. 
 
 So peaceful, and so deep. 20 
 
 And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies. 
 
 Moans hollow in the forest trees. 
 
 And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
 Mysterious music dies. 
 Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 
 It warns m.e to the lonely shrine. 
 
 The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
 My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
 Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
 
 A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. 30 
 
 30 

 
 38 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 TO THE MORNING 
 
 Beams of the day-break faint ! I hail 
 
 Your dubious hues, as on the robe 
 
 Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe 
 I mark your traces pale. 
 Tir'd with the taper's sickly light, 
 And with the wearying, number'd night, 
 
 I hail the streaks of morn divine : 
 And lo ! they break between the dewy wreathes 
 
 That round my rural casement twine : 
 The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes ; lo 
 
 It fans my feverish brow, — it calms the mental 
 
 strife, 
 And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life. 
 
 The lark has her gay song begun. 
 
 She leaves her grassy nest, 
 And soars till the unriscit sun 
 
 Gleams on her speckled breast. 
 Now let me leave my restless bed, 
 And o'er the spangled uplands tread ; 
 
 Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend ; 
 By many a green lane lies my way, 20 
 
 Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, 
 Till on the mountain's summit grey, 
 I sit me down and mark the glorious dawn of day.
 
 TO THE MORNING 39 
 
 Oh, Heaven ! the soft refreshing gale 
 
 It breathes into my breast, 
 My sunk eye gleams, my cheek so pale 
 
 Is with new colours drest. 
 Blythe Health ! thou soul of life and ease ! 
 Come thou too, on the balmy breeze, 
 
 Invigorate my frame : 3*^ 
 
 I'll join, with thee, the buskin'd chase. 
 With thee the distant clime will trace, 
 Beyond those clouds of flame. 
 
 Above, below, what charms unfold 
 
 In all the varied view. 
 Before me all is burnish'd gold. 
 
 Behind the twilight's hue. 
 The mists which on old night await, 
 Far to the West they hold their state, 
 They shun the clear blue face of morn ; 40 
 
 Along the fine cerulean sky 
 
 And fleecy clouds successive fly, 
 While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds 
 adorn. 
 
 And hark ! the thatcher has begun 
 
 His whistle on the eaves. 
 And oft the hedger's bill is heard 
 
 Among the rustling leaves. 
 The slow team creaks upon the road. 
 
 The noisy whip resounds, 
 The driver's voice, his carol blythe, 50 
 
 The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe, 
 
 Mix with the mornine's sounds.
 
 40 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 Who would not rather take his seat 
 
 Beneath these clumps of trees, 
 The early dawn of day to greet, 
 
 And catch the healthy breeze, 
 Than on the silken couch of sloth 
 
 Luxurious to lie ; 
 Who would not from life's dreary waste 
 Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, 60 
 
 An interval of joy ! 
 
 To him who simply thus recounts 
 
 The morning's pleasures o'er. 
 Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close 
 
 To ope on him no more. 
 Yet, morning ! unrepining still 
 
 He'll greet thy beams awhile, 
 And surely thou, when o'er his grave 
 Solemn the whispering willows wave, 
 
 Wilt sweetly on him smile. 70 
 
 And the pale glow-worm's pensive light 
 Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless 
 night. 
 
 MY STUDY 
 
 A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE 
 
 Yotr bid me, Ned, describe the place 
 Where I, one of the rhyming race. 
 Pursue my studies con amore, 
 And wanton with the muse in glory.
 
 MY STUDY 41 
 
 Well, figure to your senses straight, 
 
 Upon the house's topmost height, 
 
 A closet, just six feet by four, 
 
 With white-wash'd walls and plaster floor. 
 
 So noble large, 'tis scarcely able 
 
 To admit a single chair and table : 10 
 
 And (lest the muse should die with cold) 
 
 A smoky grate my fire to hold : 
 
 So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose 
 
 To melt the ice-drop on one's nose ; 
 
 And yet so big, it covers o'er 
 
 Full half the spacious room and more. 
 
 A window vainly stuff'd about, 
 
 To keep November's breezes out. 
 
 So crazy, that the panes proclaim. 
 
 That soon they mean to leave the frame. 20 
 
 My furniture I sure may crack — 
 
 A broken chair without a back ; 
 
 A table wanting just two legs. 
 
 One end sustain'd by wooden pegs ; 
 
 A desk— of that I am not fervent. 
 
 The work of. Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 (Who, though I say't, am no such furiibler ;) 
 
 A glass decanter and a tumbler, 
 
 From which, my night-parch'd throat I lave. 
 
 Luxurious, with the limpid wave. 30 
 
 A chest of drawers, in antique sections, 
 
 And saw'd by me in all directions ; 
 
 So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em 
 
 Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.
 
 42 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 To these, if you will add a store 
 
 Of oddities upon the floor, 
 
 A pair of globes, electric balls, 
 
 Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, 
 
 And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, 
 
 Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves : 40 
 
 I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, 
 
 You'll have my earthly catalogue. 
 
 But stay, — I nearly had left out 
 
 My bellows destitute of snout ; 
 
 And on the walls, — Good Heavens ! why there 
 
 I've such a load of precious ware, 
 
 Of heads, and coins, and silver medals. 
 
 And organ works, and broken pedals ; 
 
 (For I was once a-building music. 
 
 Though soon of that employ I grew sick ;) 50 
 
 And skeletons of laws which shoot 
 
 All out of one primordial root ; 
 
 That you, at such a sight, would swear 
 
 Confusion's self had settled there. 
 
 There stands, just by a broken sphere, 
 
 A Cicero without an ear, 
 
 A neck, on which, by logic good, 
 
 I know for sure a head once stood ; 
 
 But who it was the able master 
 
 Had moulded in the mimic plaster, 60 
 
 Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn, 
 
 I never yet could justly learn : 
 
 But knowing well, that any head 
 
 Is made to answer for the dead
 
 MV STUDY 43 
 
 (And sculptors first their faces frame, 
 
 And after pitch upon a name, 
 
 Nor think it aught of a misnomer 
 
 To christen Chaucer's busto Homer, 
 
 Because they both have beards, which, you know. 
 
 Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno), 70 
 
 For some great man, I could not tell 
 
 But Neck might answer just as well, 
 
 So perch'd it up, all in a row 
 
 With Chatham and with Cicero. 
 
 Then all around in just degree, 
 A range of portraits you may see. 
 Of mighty men, and eke of women 
 Who are no whit inferior to men. 
 
 With these fair dames, and heroes round, 
 
 I call my garret classic ground. 80 
 
 For though confined, 'twill well contain 
 
 The ideal flights of Madam Brain. 
 
 No dungeon's walls, no cell confined. 
 
 Can cramp the energies of mind ! 
 
 Thus, though my heart may seem so small, 
 
 I've friends, and 'twill contain them all ; 
 
 And should it e'er become so cold 
 
 That these it will no longer hold, 
 
 No more may Heaven her blessings give, 
 
 I shall not then be fit to live. 90
 
 44 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE 
 
 Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
 Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
 
 Was nursed in whirling storms, 
 
 And cradled in the winds. 
 
 Thee, when young spring first question'd winter's 
 
 sway, 
 And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
 
 Thee on this bank he threw 
 
 To mark his victory. 
 
 In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
 
 Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, lo 
 
 Unnoticed and alone. 
 
 Thy tender elegance. 
 
 So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
 Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 
 
 Of life she rears her head, 
 
 Obscure and unobserved ; 
 
 While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
 Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 
 
 And hardens her to bear 
 
 Serene the ills of life. 20
 
 SONNETS 45 
 
 SONNETS 
 I 
 
 Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, 
 
 Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, 
 And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, 
 
 May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. 
 While on the rock I mark the browsing goat. 
 
 List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise. 
 Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, 
 
 I shall not want the world's delusive joys ; 
 But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre. 
 
 Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; 
 And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, 
 
 I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore. 
 And lay me down to rest where the wild wave 
 Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. 
 
 II 
 
 THE WINTER TRAVELLER 
 
 God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far ; 
 The wind is bitter keen, — the snow o'erlays 
 The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways. 
 
 And darkness will involve thee. — No kind star
 
 46 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE' VOLUME 
 
 To-night will guide thee, Traveller, — and the war 
 Of winds and elements on thy head will break, 
 And in thy agonizing ear the shriek 
 Of spirits howling on their stormy car, 
 Will often ring appalling — I portend 
 
 A dismal night— and on my wakeful bed lo 
 
 Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, 
 And him who rides where winds and waves contend, 
 And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide 
 His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. 
 
 Ill 
 
 On hearing the Sounds of an .Eolian Harp 
 
 So ravishingly soft upon the tide 
 Of the infuriate gust, it did career, 
 It might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer. 
 And sunk him to a zephyr ; — then it died. 
 Melting in melody ; — and I descried. 
 
 Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear 
 Of druid sage, who on the far-off ear 
 Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied : 
 Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell, 
 Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds. 
 By unseen beings sung ; or are these sounds 
 Such, as 'tis said, at night are known to swell 
 By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, 
 Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death?
 
 A BALLAD 47 
 
 IV 
 
 What art ihou, Mighty One ! and where thy seat? 
 
 Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands, 
 
 And thou dost bear within thine awful hands 
 The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet, 
 Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, 
 
 Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead 
 noon, 
 
 Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon, 
 Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. 
 In the drear silence of the polar span 
 
 Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude lO 
 
 Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan 
 
 Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ? 
 Vain thought ! the confines of his throne to trace, 
 Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. 
 
 .A BALLAD 
 
 Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds. 
 
 Ye pelting rains a little rest : 
 Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, 
 
 That wring with grief my aching breast. 
 
 Oh ! cruel was my faithless love. 
 To triumph o'er an artless maid ; 
 
 Oh ! cruel was my faithless love, 
 To leave the breast by him betray'd.
 
 48 THE 'CLIFTON GROVE VOLUME 
 
 When exiled from my native home, 
 
 He should have wiped the bitter tear ; lo 
 
 Nor left me faint and lone to roam, 
 A heart-sick weary wanderer here. 
 
 My child moans sadly in my arms, 
 The winds they will not let it sleep : 
 
 Ah, little knows the hapless babe 
 
 What makes its wretched mother weep ! 
 
 Now lie thee still, my infant dear, 
 
 I cannot bear thy sobs to see. 
 Harsh is thy father, little one, 
 
 And never will he shelter thee. 20 
 
 Oh, that I were but in my grave, 
 And winds were piping o'er me loud. 
 
 And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, 
 Were nestling in thy mother's shroud !
 
 POEMS WRITTEN BEFORE THE 
 
 PUBLICATION OP^ 'CLIFTON 
 
 GROVE' 
 
 SONG FROM FRAGMEiNT 
 
 OF AN 
 
 ECCENTRIC DRAMA 
 
 THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES 
 
 I 
 
 DiN'G-DONG ! ding-dong ! 
 Merry, merry, go the bells, 
 
 Ding-dong ! ding-dong I 
 Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, 
 
 ' Swinging slow with sullen roar,' 
 Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay ! 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away. 
 
 Round the oak, and round the elm, 
 
 Merrily foot it o'er the ground ! 
 The sentry ghost it stands aloof. 
 
 So merrily, merrily foot it round. 
 
 49 D
 
 50 POEMS BEFORE ' CLIFTON GRO VE 
 
 Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
 Merry, merry go the bells 
 Swelling in the nightly gale, 
 The sentry ghost. 
 It keeps its post, 
 And soon, and soon our sports must fail : 
 But let us trip the nightly ground, 
 While the merry, merry bells ring round. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the death-watch ticks ! 20 
 
 See, see, the winding-sheet ! 
 
 Our dance is done. 
 
 Our race is run. 
 And we must lie at the alder's feet ! 
 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong, 
 
 Merry, merry go the bells. 
 Swinging o'er the weltering wave ! 
 
 And we must seek 
 
 Our death-beds bleak. 
 Where the green sod grows upon the grave. 30 
 
 [They vanish — The Goddess of Consumption descends, 
 habited in a sky-blue Robe, attended by mournful 
 Music] 
 
 Come, Melancholy, sister mine. 
 
 Cold the dews, and chill the night ! 
 Come from thy dreary shrine ! 
 
 The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, 
 
 And underneath the sickly ray. 
 
 Troops of squalid spectres play.
 
 tiA^CE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES 51 
 
 And the dying mortals' groan 
 
 Startles the night on her dusky throne. 
 
 Come, come, sister mine ! 
 
 Gliding on the pale moon-shine : 40 
 
 We'll ride at ease, 
 
 On the tainted breeze, 
 And oh ! our sport will be divine. 
 
 [The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep 
 Glen in the rear, habited in Black, and covered with a 
 thick Veil. — She speaks] 
 
 Sister from my dark abode. 
 
 Where nests the raven, sits the toad, 
 
 Hither I come, at thy command : 
 
 Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 
 
 Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 
 
 I will smooth the way for thee, 
 
 Thou shalt furnish food for me. 50 
 
 Come, let us speed our way 
 
 Where the troops of spectres play ; 
 
 To charnel-houses, church-yards drear. 
 
 Where Death sits with a horrible leer, 
 
 A lasting grin, on a throne of bones, 
 
 And skim along the blue tomb-stones. 
 
 Come, let us speed away, 
 Lay our snares, and spread our tether ! 
 
 I will smooth the way for thee. 
 
 Thou shalt furnish food for me ; 60 
 
 And the grass shall wave 
 O'er many a grave, 
 Where youth and beauty sleep together.
 
 52 PoMMS before ' CLIFTON GROVe' 
 
 CONSUMPTION 
 
 Come, let us speed our way ! 
 Join our hands and spread our tether ! 
 I will furnish food for thee, 
 Thou shalt smooth the way for me ; 
 And the grass shall wave 
 O'er many a grave. 
 Where youth and beauty sleep together. 70 
 
 MELANCHOLY 
 
 Hist, sister, hist ! who comes here ? 
 Oh ! I know her by that tear, 
 By that blue eyes languid glare, 
 By her skin, and by her hair : 
 
 She is mine, 
 
 And she is thine. 
 Now the deadliest draught prepare. 
 
 CONSUMPTION 
 
 In the dismal night air drest, 
 
 I will creep into her breast : 
 
 Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, 80 
 
 And feed on the vital fire within. 
 
 Lover, do not trust her eyes, — 
 
 When they sparkle most, she dies ! 
 
 JNIother, do not trust her breath, — 
 
 Comfort she will breathe in death ! 
 
 Father, do not strive to save her, — 
 
 She is mine, and I must have her ! 
 
 The coffin must be her bridal bed ; 
 
 The winding-sheet must wrap her head ;
 
 LINES 53 
 
 The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, 90 
 For soon in the grave the maid must lie, 
 
 The worm it will riot 
 
 On heavenly diet. 
 When death has defiower'd her eye. 
 
 [ They vanish. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON 
 Oh, Warton ! to thy soothing shell, 
 Stretch'd remote in hermite cell 
 Where the brook runs babbling by. 
 For ever I could listening lie ; 
 And, catching all the Muse's fire. 
 Hold converse with the tuneful quire. 
 
 What pleasing themes thy page adorn, 
 The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn, 
 The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime. 
 And Melancholy's mournful chime ! 
 Each with unwonted graces shines 
 In thy ever lovely lines. 
 
 Thy Muse deserves the lasting meed ; 
 Attuning sweet the Dorian reed, 
 Now the love-lorn swain complains, 
 And sings his sorrows to the plains ; 
 Now the Sylvan scenes appear 
 Through all the changes of the year ;
 
 54 POEMS BEFORE ' CLIFTON GRO VE ' 
 
 Or the elegiac strain 
 
 Softly sings of mental pain, 20 
 
 And mournful diapasons sail 
 
 On the faintly-dying gale. 
 
 But, ah ! the soothing scene is o'er ! 
 
 On middle flight we cease to soar, 
 For now the Muse assumes a bolder sweep, 
 Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep, 
 
 In strains unheard before. 
 Now, now the rising fire thrills high, 
 Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly, 
 
 And every throne explore ; 30 
 
 The soul entranced, on mighty wings. 
 With all the poet's heat up springs, 
 
 And loses earthly \\ jes ; 
 Till all alarm'd at the giddy height, 
 The Muse descends on gentler flight, 
 
 And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. 
 
 CANZONET 
 
 Maiden ! wrap thy mantle round thee, 
 
 Cold the rain beats on thy breast : 
 Why should Horror's voice astound thee? 
 Death can bid the wretched rest ! 
 All under the tree 
 Thy bed may be, 
 And thou mayst slumber peacefully.
 
 THE EVE OF DEATH 55 
 
 Maiden ! once gay Pleasure knew thee ; 
 
 Now thy cheeks are pale and deep : 
 Love has been a felon to thee, 
 Yet, poor maiden, do not weep : 
 There's rest for thee 
 All under the tree, 
 Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. 
 
 THE EVE OF DEATH 
 
 IRREGULAR 
 
 I 
 Silence of death — portentous calm, 
 
 Those airy forms that yonder fly. 
 Denote that your void fore-runs a storm. 
 
 That the hour of fate is nigh. 
 I see, I see, on the dim mist borne, 
 
 The Spirit of battles rear his crest ! 
 I see, I see, that ere the morn. 
 
 His spear will forsake its hated rest, 
 And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her 
 naked breast. 
 
 O'er the smooth bosom 01 the sullen deep 
 
 No softly ruffling zephyrs fly 
 But Nature sleeps a deathless sleep, 
 
 For the hour of battle is nigh.
 
 56 POEMS BEFORE 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, 
 
 But a creeping stillness reigns around ; 
 Except when the raven, with ominous croak, 
 
 On the ear does unwelcomely sound. 
 I know, I know what this silence means ; 
 
 I know what the raven saith — 
 Strike, oh, ye bards ! the melancholy harp 2C 
 
 For this is the eve of death. 
 
 Behold, how along the twilight air 
 
 The shades of our fathers glide ! 
 There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair. 
 
 And Colma with grey side. 
 No gale around its coolness flings, 
 
 Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees ; 
 And, hark ! how the harp's unvisited strings 
 
 Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze ! 
 'Tis done ! the sun he has set in blood ! 30 
 
 He will never set more to the brave ; 
 Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death — 
 
 For to-morrow he hies to the grave.
 
 SONG 
 
 SONG 
 
 Softly, softly blow, ye breezes. 
 
 Gently o'er my Edwy fly ! 
 Lo ! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly ; 
 Softly, zephyrs, pass him by ! 
 My love is asleep. 
 He lies by the deep. 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
 I have covered him with rushes, 
 Water-flags, and branches dry. 
 Edwy, long have been thy slumbers ; 
 Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye ! 
 My love is asleep, 
 He lies by the deep. 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
 Still he sleeps ; he will not waken, 
 
 Fastly closed is his eye ; 
 Paler is his cheek, and chiller 
 Than the icy moon on high. 
 Alas ! he is dead. 
 He has chose his death-bed 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
 57
 
 58 POEMS BEFORE 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 IV 
 
 Is it, is it so, my Edwy ? 
 
 Will thy slumbers never fly ? 
 Couldst thou think I would survive thee ? 
 No, my love, thou bid'st me die. 
 Thou bid'st me seek 
 Thy death-bed bleak 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
 I will gently kiss thy cold lips, 
 
 On thy breast I'll lay my head, 
 And the winds shall sing our death-dirge. 
 And our shroud the waters spread ; 
 The moon will smile sweet. 
 And the wild wave will beat, 
 Oh ! so softly o'er our lonely bed. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile, 
 
 Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring ; 
 But ah ! my soul far other scenes beguile, 
 
 Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. 
 Is it for me to strike the Idalian string — 
 
 Raise the soft music of the warbling wire. 
 While in my ears the howls of furies ' ring, 
 
 And melancholy wastes the vital fire? 
 
 ^ The early editions print ' fairies.' Ed.
 
 SONG 59 
 
 Away with thoughts like these. To some lone cave 
 Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the 
 wave, lo 
 
 Direct my steps ; there, in the lonely drear, 
 I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse 
 Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse, 
 
 And whisper sounds of comfoit in mine ear. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Sweet Jessy ! I would fain caress 
 That lovely cheek divine ; 
 
 Sweet Jessy, I'd give worlds to press 
 That rising breast to mine. 
 
 Sweet Jessy, I with passion burn 
 Thy soft blue eyes to see ; 
 
 Sweet Jessy, I would die to turn 
 Those melting eyes on me ! 
 
 Yet Jessy, lovely as . . . 
 
 Thy form and face appear, 
 I'd perish ere I would consent 
 
 To buy them with a tear.
 
 6o POEMS BEFORE 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 SONG 
 
 Oh, that I were the fragrant flower that kisses 
 My Arabella's breast that heaves on high ; 
 
 Pleased should I be to taste the transient blisses, 
 And on the melting throne to faint, and die. 
 
 Oh, that I were the robe that loosely covers 
 Her taper limbs, and Grecian form divine ; 
 
 Or the entwisted zones, like meeting lovers, 
 That clasp her waist in many an aery twine. 
 
 Oh, that my soul might take its lasting station 
 
 In her waved hair, her perfumed breath to sip; lo 
 
 Or catch, by chance, her blue eyes' fascination ! 
 Or meet, by stealth, her soft vermilion lip. 
 
 But, chain'd to this dull being, I must ever 
 Lament the doom by which I'm hither placed ; 
 
 Must pant for moments I must meet with never ; 
 And dream of beauties I must never taste.
 
 POEMS WRITTEN DURING OR 
 AFTER THE PUBLICATION 
 OF 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 
 Not in thy terrors clad ; 
 Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; 
 Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
 The restless and the bad. 
 But I recline 
 Beneath thy shrine. 
 And round my brow resigned, thy peaceful cypress 
 twine. 
 
 Though Fancy flies away 
 
 Before thy hollow tread, lO 
 
 Yet meditation, in her cell, 
 Hears with faint eye, the lingering knell, 
 That tells her hopes are dead ; 
 And though the tear 
 By chance appear, 
 Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. 
 6i
 
 62 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 
 Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, 
 Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven. 
 For thou severe were sent from heaven 
 To wean me from the world ; 
 To turn my eye 
 From vanity, 
 And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 
 
 What is this passing scene ? 
 
 A peevish April day ! 
 A little sun — a little rain, 
 And then night sweeps along the plain, 
 And all things fade away. 
 
 Man (soon discuss'd) 3 
 
 Yields up his trust, 
 And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 
 
 Oh, what is Beauty's power ? 
 
 It flourishes and dies ; 
 Will the cold earth its silence break, 
 To tell how soft how smooth a cheek 
 Beneath its surface lies .-' 
 Mute, mute is all 
 O'er Beauty's fall ; 
 Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her 
 pall. 40
 
 ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT 63 
 
 The most beloved on earth 
 
 Not long survives to-day ; 
 So music past is obsolete, 
 And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, 
 But now 'tis gone away. 
 Thus does the shade 
 In memory fade, 
 When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. 
 
 Then since this world is vain, 
 
 And volatile and fleet, 50 
 
 Why should I lay up earthly joys, 
 Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys. 
 And cares and sorrows eat ? 
 Why fly from ill 
 With anxious skill, 
 When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart 
 be still. 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 
 Thou art not stern to me ; 
 Sad Monitress ! I own thy sway, 
 A votary sad in early day, 60 
 
 I bend my knee to thee. 
 From sun to sun 
 My race will run, 
 I only bow, and say. My God, Thy will be done !
 
 64 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 ODE 
 
 ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R.A. 
 On seeing Engravings from his Designs 
 
 Mighty magician ! who on Torneo's brow, 
 When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, 
 Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light, 
 
 That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below ; 
 
 And listen to the distant death-shriek long 
 From lonely mariner foundering in the deep. 
 Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, 
 
 While the weird sisters weave the horrid song : 
 Or when along the liquid sky 
 Serenely chaunt the orbs on high, 
 Dost love to sit in musing trance. 
 And mark the northern meteor's dance, 
 (While far below the fitful oar 
 Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,) 
 And list the music of the breeze. 
 That sweeps by fits the bending seas ; 
 And often bears with sudden swell 
 The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell. 
 By the spirits sung, who keep 
 Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, 
 And guide the wakeful helms-man's eye 
 To Ilelice in northern sky :
 
 ODE TO H. FUSELI 65 
 
 And there upon the rock inclined 
 
 With mighty visions fill'st the mind, 
 
 Such as bound in magic spell 
 
 Him 1 who grasp'd the gates of Hell, 
 And bursting Pluto's dark domain. 
 Held to the day the terrors of his reign. 
 
 Genius of Horror and romantic awe, 
 
 Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, 30 
 
 Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep. 
 Can force the inmost soul to own its law ; 
 
 Who shall now, sublimest spirit, 
 
 Who shall now thy wand inherit, 
 
 From him" thy darling child who best 
 
 Thy shuddering images exprcst ? 
 
 Sullen of soul, and stern and proud, 
 
 His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd. 
 
 And now he lays his aching head 
 
 In the dark mansion of the silent dead. 40 
 
 Mighty magician ! long thy wand has lain 
 Buried beneath the unfathomable deep ; 
 And oh ! forever must its efforts sleep. 
 
 May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain ? 
 Oh ycs^ 'tis his ! — Thy other son ; 
 He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, 
 Fuesslin waves thy wand, — again they rise, 
 Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd 
 eyes, 
 
 1 Uante. - Ibid.
 
 66 POEMS AFTER ' CLIP JON GROVE 
 
 Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep 
 
 Wliere round his head the volley 'd lightnings 
 flung, 50 
 
 And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, 
 Wooed the stern infant to the arms of sleep. 
 
 Or on the highest top of Tenerifi"e 
 Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look 
 
 Where far below the weather-beaten skiff 
 On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. 
 Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear 
 
 The death-sob, and, disdaining rest. 
 Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, 
 And in his young hand couch 'd the visionary spear. 60 
 
 Then, Superstition, at thy call, 
 
 She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, 
 
 And set before his awe-struck sight 
 
 The savage feast and spectred fight ; 
 
 And summon'd from his mountain tomb 
 
 The ghastly warrior son of gloom, 
 
 His fabled Runic rhymes to sing. 
 
 While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing ; 
 
 Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, 
 
 Laid on the stormy Hebrides, 70 
 
 Which on the mists of evening gleam, 
 
 Or crowd the foaming desert stream ; 
 
 Lastly her storied hand she waves, 
 
 And lays him in Florentian caves ; 
 
 There milder fables, lovelier themes. 
 
 Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams. 
 
 There Pity's lute arrests his ear. 
 
 And draws the half-reluctant tear ;
 
 ODE TO H. FUSE LI 67 
 
 And now at noon of night he roves 
 
 Along the embowering moonlight groves, 80 
 
 And as from many a cavern'd dell 
 
 The hollow wind is heard to swell, 
 
 He thinks some troubled spirit sighs ; 
 
 And as upon the turf he lies 
 
 Where sleeps the silent beam of night, 
 
 He sees below the gliding sprite, 
 
 And hears in Fancy's organs sound 
 
 Aerial music warbling round. 
 
 Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole, 
 And breathes her polish o'er his soul ; 90 
 
 Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, 
 The wonderous work is now complete. 
 
 The Poet dreams : — The shadow flies, 
 
 And fainting fast its image dies. 
 
 But lo ! the Painter's magic force 
 
 Arrests the phantom's fleeting course ; 
 
 It lives— it lives — the canvass glows. 
 
 And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. 
 The Bard beholds the work achieved. 
 
 And as he sees the shadow rise, 100 
 
 Sublime before his wondering eyes, 
 Starts at the image his own mind conceived.
 
 68 POEMS AFTER « CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S 
 
 EVE 
 
 Down the sultry arc of day 
 
 The burning wheels have urged their way, 
 
 And eve along the western skies 
 
 Spreads her intermingling dyes. 
 
 Down the deep, the miry lane, 
 
 Creeking comes the empty wain, 
 
 And driver on the shaft-horse sits. 
 
 Whistling now and then by fits ; 
 
 And oft with his accustom'd call, 
 
 Urging on the sluggish Ball. 
 
 The barn is still, the master's gone, 
 
 And thresher puts his jacket on. 
 
 While Dick, upon the ladder tall, 
 
 Nails the dead kite to the wall. 
 
 Here comes shepherd Jack at last, 
 
 He has penn'd the sheep-cote fast, 
 
 For 'twas but two nights before, 
 
 A lamb was eaten on the moor : 
 
 His empty wallet Rover carries. 
 
 Now for Jack, when near home, tarries. 2 
 
 With lolling tongue he runs to try, 
 
 If the horse-trough be not dry. 
 
 The milk is settled in the pans. 
 
 And supper messes in the cans ; 
 
 In the hovel carts are wheeled, 
 
 And both the colts are drove a-field ;
 
 DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE 69 
 
 The horses are all bedded up. 
 
 And the ewe is with the tup, 
 
 The snare for Mister Fox is set, 
 
 The leaven laid, the thatching wet, 30 
 
 And Bess has slink'd away to talk 
 
 With Roger in the holly-walk. 
 
 Now, on the settle all, but Bess, 
 
 Are set to eat their supper mess ; 
 
 And little Tom, and roguish Kate, 
 
 Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
 
 Now they chat of various things, 
 
 Of taxes, ministers, and kings, 
 
 Or else tell all the village news. 
 
 How madam did the squire refuse ; 40 
 
 How parson on his tithes was bent, 
 
 And landlord oft distrained for rent. 
 
 Thus do they talk, till in the sky 
 
 The pale eyed moon is mounted high. 
 
 And from the ale house drunken Ned 
 
 Had reel'd — then hasten all to bed. 
 
 The mistress sees that lazy Kate 
 
 The happing coal on kitchen grate 
 
 Has laid — while master goes throughout, 
 
 Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out, 50 
 
 The candles safe, the hearths all clear, 
 
 And nought from thieves or fire to fear ; 
 
 Then Ijoth to bed together creep, 
 
 And join the general troop of sleep.
 
 70 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 TO CONTEMPLATION 
 
 Come, pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell 
 In some retired Lapponian cell, 
 Where, far from noise and riot rude, 
 Resides sequestered Solitude. 
 Come, and o'er my longing soul 
 Throw thy dark and russet stole, 
 And open to my duteous eyes, 
 The volume of thy mysteries. 
 
 I will meet thee on the hill. 
 Where, with printless footsteps still 
 The morning in her buskin gray, 
 Springs upon her eastern way ; 
 While the frolic zephyrs stir. 
 Playing with the gossamer, 
 And, on ruder pinions borne. 
 Shake the dew-drops from the thorn. 
 There, as o'er the fields we pass. 
 Brushing with hasty feet the grass. 
 We will startle from her nest 
 The lively lark with speckled breast, 
 And hear the floating clouds among 
 Her gale-transported matin song, 
 Or on the upland stile embower'd. 
 With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd. 
 Will sauntering sit, and listen still 
 To the herdsman's oaten quill,
 
 TO CONTEMPLATION 71 
 
 Wafted from the plain below ; 
 
 Or the heifer's frequent low ; 
 
 Or the milkmaid in the grove, 
 
 Singing of one that died for love. 30 
 
 Or when the noontide heats oppress, 
 
 We will seek the dark recess, 
 
 Where, in th' embower'd translucent stream. 
 
 The cattle shun the sultry beam, 
 
 And o'er us on the marge reclined. 
 
 The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, 
 
 While Echo, from her ancient oak. 
 
 Shall answer to the woodman's stroke ; 
 
 Or the little peasant's song. 
 
 Wandering lone the glens among, 40 
 
 His artless lip with berries dyed. 
 
 And feet through ragged shoes descried. 
 
 But oh ! when evening's virgin queen 
 
 Sits on her fringed throne serene, 
 
 And mingling whispers rising near. 
 
 Steal on the still reposing ear : 
 
 While distant brooks decaying round, 
 
 Augment the mixed dissolving sound. 
 
 And the zephyr flitting by. 
 
 Whispers mystic harmony, 50 
 
 We will seek the woody lane. 
 
 By the hamlet, on the plain, 
 
 Where the weary rustic nigh. 
 
 Shall whistle his wild melody, 
 
 And the croaking wicket oft 
 
 Shall echo from the neighbouring croft ;
 
 72 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 And as we trace the green path lone, 
 
 With moss and rank weeds overgrown, 
 
 We will muse on pensive lore 
 
 Till the full soul brimming o'er, 60 
 
 Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, 
 
 Embodied in a quivering tear. 
 
 Or else, serenely silent, set 
 
 By the brawling rivulet, 
 
 Which on its calm unruffled breast, 
 
 Bears the old mossy arch impress'd, 
 
 That clasps its secret stream of glass 
 
 Half hid in shrubs and waving grass. 
 
 The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, 
 
 Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, 70 
 
 We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid, 
 
 The rich vermilion slowly fade ; . . 
 
 Or catch, faint twinkling from afar. 
 
 The first glimpse of the eastern star, 
 
 Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light, 
 
 That heralds in imperial night ; 
 
 Meanwhile, upon our wandering ear, 
 
 Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, 
 
 The distant sounds of pastoral lute, 
 
 Invoking soft the sober suit So 
 
 Of dimmest darkness — fitting well 
 
 With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, 
 
 (So erst did music's silver tone 
 
 Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne.) 
 
 And haply then, with sudden swell. 
 
 Shall roar the distant curfew bell,
 
 TO C0N7-EMri.ATI0N 73 
 
 While in the castle's mouldering tower, 
 
 The hooting owl is heard to pour 
 
 Her melancholy song, and scare 
 
 Dull Silence brooding in the air. go 
 
 ]\Ieanwhile her dusk and slumbering car. 
 
 Black-suited Night drives on from far, 
 
 And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, 
 
 Arrests the waxing darkness drear, 
 
 And summons to her silent call, 
 
 Sweeping, in their airy pall. 
 
 The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance. 
 
 To join her moonshine morrice-dance ; 
 
 While around the mystic ring 
 
 The shadowy shapes elastic spring, 100 
 
 Then with a passing shriek they fly, 
 
 Wrapt in mists, along the sky. 
 
 And oft are by the shepherd seen. 
 
 In his lone night-watch on the green. 
 
 Then, hermit, let us turn our feet 
 
 To the low abbey's still retreat, 
 
 Embowered in the distant glen. 
 
 Far from the haunts of busy men. 
 
 Where, as we sit upon the tomb, 
 
 The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom, 1 10 
 
 And show to Fancy's saddest eye, 
 
 Where some lost hero's ashes lie. 
 
 And oh, as through the mouldering arch, 
 
 With Ivy fill'd and weeping larch. 
 
 The night-gale whispers sadly clear, 
 
 Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear.
 
 74 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 We'll hold communion with the shade 
 
 Of some deep-wailing, ruin'd maid — 
 
 Or call the ghost of Spencer down, 
 
 To tell of woe and fortune's frown ; 120 
 
 And bid us cast the eye of hope 
 
 Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. 
 
 Or if these joys, to us denied, 
 
 To linger by the forest's side ; 
 
 Or in the meadow, or the wood, 
 
 Or by the lone romantic flood ; 
 
 I^et us in the busy town. 
 
 When sleep's dull streams the people drown, 
 
 Far from drowsy pillows flee, 
 
 And turn the church's massy key ; 130 
 
 Then, as through the painted glass 
 
 The moon's faint beams obscurely pass ; 
 
 And darkly on the trophied wall, 
 
 Her faint ambiguous shadows fall ; 
 
 Let us, while the faint winds wail, 
 
 Through the long reluctant aisle. 
 
 As we pace with reverence meet, 
 
 Count the echoings of our feet ; 
 
 While from the tombs, with confess'd breath. 
 
 Distinct responds the voice of death. 140 
 
 If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend. 
 
 Thus on my footsteps to attend. 
 
 To thee my lonely lamp shall burn 
 
 By fallen Genius' sainted urn, 
 
 As o'er the scroll of Time I pore. 
 
 And sagely spell of ancient lore,
 
 PASTORAL SONG 
 
 75 
 
 Till I can rightly guess of all 
 
 That Plato could to memory call, 
 
 And scan the formless views of things, 
 
 Or with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, 150 
 
 Arrange the mystic trains that shine 
 
 In night's high philosophic mine ; 
 
 And to thy name shall e"er belong 
 
 The honours of undying song. 
 
 PASTORAL SONG 
 
 Come, Anna ! come, the morning dawns, 
 
 Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies : 
 Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, 
 And watch the early lark arise ; 
 While Nature, clad in vesture gay. 
 Hails the loved return of day. 
 
 Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade 
 
 Upon the moor, shall seek the vale ; 
 And then, secure beneath the shade, 
 We'll listen to the throstle's talc ; 
 And watch the silver clouds above, 
 As o'er the azure vault they rove. 
 
 Come, Anna ! come, and bring thy lute. 
 That with its tones, so softly sweet. 
 
 In cadence with my mellow flute, 
 We may beguile the noontide lical ;
 
 76 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 While near the mellow bee shall join, 
 To raise a harmony divine. 
 
 And then at eve, when silence reigns, 
 
 Except when heard the beetle's hum. 
 We'll leave the sober-tinted plains, 
 
 To these sweet heights again we'll come ; 
 And thou to thy soft lute shalt play 
 A solemn vesper to departing day. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 When pride and envy, and the scorn 
 
 Of wealth, my heart with gall embued, 
 I thought how pleasant were the morn 
 
 Of silence, in the solitude ; 
 To hear the forest bee on wing, 
 Or by the stream, or woodland spring, 
 To lie and muse alone — alone, 
 While the twinkling waters moan, 
 Or such wild sounds arise, as say, 
 Man and noise are far away. 
 
 Now, surely, thought I, there's enow 
 
 To fill life's dusty way ; 
 And who will miss a poet's feet, 
 
 Or wonder where he stray :
 
 ODE TO THOUGHT yy 
 
 So to the woods and waste Til go, 
 
 And I will build an osier bower ; 
 And sweetly there to me shall flow 
 
 The meditative hour. 
 
 And when the Autumn's withering hand 
 
 Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, 20 
 
 I'll to the forest caverns hie : 
 
 And in the dark and stormy nights 
 
 I'll listen to the shrieking sprites, 
 
 Who, in the wintery wolds and floods, 
 
 Keep jubilee, and shred the woods ; 
 
 Or, as it drifted soft and slow, 
 
 Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. 
 
 ODE TO THOUGHT 
 
 Written at midnight 
 
 Hen'CE away, vindictive Thought I 
 
 Thy pictures are of pain ; 
 The visions through thy dark eye caught, 
 Tliey with no gentle charms are fraught. 
 So prithee back again. 
 I would not weep, 
 I wish to sleep. 
 Then why, liiou busy foe, with mc thy vigils keep.-*
 
 78 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 II 
 Why dost o'er bed and couch recline ? 
 
 Is this thy new dehghl ? lo 
 
 Pale visitant, is it not thine 
 To keep thy sentry through the mine, 
 The dark vault of the night : 
 'Tis thine to die. 
 While o'er the eye 
 The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows lly. 
 
 Ill 
 Go thou, and bide with him who guides 
 
 His bark through lonely seas ; 
 And as reclining on his helm. 
 
 Sadly he remarks the starry realm, 20 
 
 To him thou mayst bring ease ; 
 But thou to me 
 Art misery. 
 So prithee, prithee, plume thy wings, and from my 
 pillow flee. 
 
 IV 
 
 And, Memory, pray what art thou ? 
 
 Art thou of pleasure born ? 
 Does bliss untainted from thee flow ? 
 The rose that gems thy pensive brow. 
 Is it without a thorn ? 
 
 With all thy smiles, 30 
 
 And witching wiles, 
 Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway 
 defiles.
 
 GENIUS 79 
 
 The drowsy night-watch has forgot 
 
 To call the solemn hour ; 
 Luird by the winds he slumbers deep, 
 While I in vain, capricious Sleep, 
 Invoke thy tardy power ; 
 And restless lie, 
 With unclosed eye. 
 And count the tedious hours as slow they minute 
 bv. 40 
 
 GENIUS 
 
 AN ODE 
 
 I. I 
 
 Many there be, who, through the vale of life, 
 
 With velvet pace, unnoticed, softh- go, 
 While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife 
 
 Awakes them not to woe. 
 By them unheeded, carking Care, 
 Green-eyed Grief, and dull Despair ; 
 Smoothly they pursue their way. 
 
 With even tenor and with equal breath, 
 Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, 
 
 Then sink in peace to death.
 
 So POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GRO VE ' 
 
 But, ah ! a few there be whom griefs devour, 
 
 And weeping Woe, and Disappointment keen, 
 Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour. 
 
 And self-consuming Spleen. 
 And these are Genius' favourites : these 
 Know the thought-throned mind to please, 
 And from her fleshy seat to draw 
 
 To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, 
 Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law. 
 
 The captivated soul. 20 
 
 Genius, from thy starry throne. 
 
 High above the burning zone, 
 In radient robe of light array 'd, 
 Oh ! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, 
 
 His melancholy moan. 
 He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows. 
 
 Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, 
 Pangs that his sensibility uprouse 
 
 To curse his being and his thirst for praise. 
 Thou gav'st to him with treble force to feel 
 
 The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's 
 scorn ; 
 And what o'er all does in his soul preside 
 
 Predominant, and tempers him to steel. 
 His high indignant pride.
 
 GENIUS 8i 
 
 I. 2 
 
 Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, 
 
 That Genius visits not your lowly shed ; 
 For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife 
 Distract his hapless head ! 
 For him awaits no balmy sleep, 
 He wakes all night, and wakes to weep ; 40 
 
 Or by his lonely lamp he sits 
 
 At solemn midnight when the peasant sleeps 
 In feverish study, and in moody fits 
 His mournful vigils keeps. 
 
 II. 2 
 
 And, oh ! for what consumes his watchful oil? 
 
 For what does thus he waste life's fleeting 
 breath ? 
 'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, 
 'Tis for untimely death. 
 Lo ! where dejected pale he lies. 
 Despair depicted in his eyes, 50 
 
 He feels the vital flame decrease, 
 
 He sees the grave wide-yawning for its prey, 
 Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace. 
 And cheer the expiring ray. 
 
 By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, 
 By gentle Otway's magic name. 
 By him, the youth, who smiled at death. 
 And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, 
 Will I thy pangs proclaim ; 
 
 F
 
 82 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 For slill to misery closely Ihou'rt allied, 60 
 
 Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, 
 
 And far-resounding Fame. 
 What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, 
 And to thy posthumous merit bend them low ; 
 Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe, 
 And thou at thy flash "d car dost nations draw, 
 Yet, ah ! unseen behind thee fly 
 
 Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain, 
 And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky : 
 
 A melancholy train. 70 
 
 Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, 
 Mocking thy derided state ; 
 Thee chill Adversity will still attend, 
 Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend, 
 
 And leaves thee all forlorn ; 
 While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs. 
 
 And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides, 
 And while the cup of affluence he quaffs 
 With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides, 
 Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, 80 
 
 To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering 
 in his grave.
 
 SOA'NETS 83 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 I 
 TO DECEMBER 
 
 Dark visaged visitor, who comest here 
 Clad in thy mournful tunic, to repeat 
 (While glooms and chilling rains enwrap thy feet) 
 
 The solemn requiem of the dying year, 
 
 Not undelightful to my list'ning ear 
 
 Sound thy dull show'rs, as, o'er my woodland seat, 
 Dismal, and drear, the leafless trees they beat : 
 
 Not undelightful, in their wild career. 
 
 Is the wild music of thy howling blasts. 
 
 Sweeping the grove's long aisle, while sullen 
 Time 10 
 
 Thy stormy mantle o'er his shoulder casts. 
 
 And, rock'd upon his throne, with chant sublime, 
 
 Joins the full-pealing dirge, and winter weaves 
 
 Her dark sepulchral wreath of faded leaves. 
 
 II 
 
 Poor little one ! most bitterly did pain. 
 And life's worst ills, assail thine early age ; 
 And, quickly tir'd with this rough pilgrimage. 
 
 Thy wearied spirit did its heaven regain.
 
 84 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE^ 
 
 Moaning, and sickly, on the lap of life 
 
 Thou laid'st thine aching head, and thou didst sigh 
 
 A little while, ere to its kindred sky 
 Thy soul return'd, to taste no more of strife ! 
 Thy lot was happy, little sojourner ! 
 
 Thou had'st no mother to direct thy ways ; lo 
 
 And fortune frown'd most darkly on thy days. 
 Short as they were. Now, far from the low stir 
 Of this dim spot, in heaven thou dost repose, 
 And look'st and smil'st on this world's transient 
 woes. 
 
 Ill 
 TO THE MOON 
 
 Written in November 
 
 Sublime, emerging from the misty verge 
 Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, 
 As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale 
 
 Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. 
 
 Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight. 
 
 And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, 
 
 Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night. 
 With double joy my homage do I pay. 
 When clouds disguise the glories of the day. 
 
 And stern November sheds her boisterous blight, 
 How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray 
 
 Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height, 
 And, still tmckangeci, back to the memory bring 
 The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.
 
 SONNETS 85 
 
 IV 
 
 As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care, 
 (Though young yet sorrowful,) I turn my feet 
 To the dark woodland, longing much to greet 
 The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there ; 
 Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, 
 
 Fills my sad breast ; and, tired with this vain coil, 
 I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. 
 And as amid the leaves the evening air 
 Whispers still melody, — I think ere long. 
 
 When I no more can hear, these woods will 
 speak ; 10 
 
 And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek. 
 And mournful phantasies upon me throng, 
 And I do ponder with most strange delight. 
 On the calm slumbers of the dead man's nicht. 
 
 V 
 TO APRIL 
 
 Embi.f.m of life I see changeful April sail 
 In varying vest along the shadowy skies. 
 Now bidding Summer's softest zephyrs rise. 
 
 Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale. 
 
 And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail ; 
 
 Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes, 
 W'hile Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, 
 
 Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail.
 
 86 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 So, to us, sojourners in Life's low vale, 
 The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive, 
 While still the Fates the web of Misery weave ; 
 So Hope exultant spreads her aery sail, 
 And from the present gloom the soul conveys 
 To distant summers and far happier days. 
 
 VI 
 
 Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies, 
 At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear. 
 Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear. 
 
 As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies, 
 When he who now invokes you low is laid,- 
 
 His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed. 
 
 Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head, 
 And chaunt a dirge to his reposing shade I 
 
 For he was wont to love your madrigals ; 
 
 And often by the haunted stream that laves ic 
 
 The dark sequestered woodland's inmost caves, 
 
 Would sit and listen to the dying falls. 
 
 Till the full tear would quiver in his eye. 
 
 And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy.
 
 SONNETS 87 
 
 VII 
 TO A TAPER 
 
 'Tis midnight — On the globe dead slumber sits, 
 
 And all is silence — in the hour of sleep ; 
 Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, 
 
 In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. 
 I wake alone to listen and to weep, 
 
 To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn 
 And, as still Memory does her vigils keep, 
 
 To think of days that never can return. 
 By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, 
 
 My eye surveys the solitary gloom ; 10 
 
 And the sad meaning tear, unmixt with dread. 
 
 Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. 
 Like thee I wane ; — like thine my life's last ray 
 Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away. 
 
 VIII 
 TO CONSUMPTION 
 
 GriNTl.Y, most gently, on thy victim's head. 
 Consumption, lay thine hand ! — let me decay. 
 Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away. 
 
 And softly go to slumber with the dead. 
 
 And if 'tis true, what holy men have said, 
 That strains angelic oft foretell the day 
 Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, 
 
 O let the aerial music round my bed.
 
 88 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 Dissolving sad in dying symphony, 
 
 Whiisper the solemn warning in mine ear : lo 
 
 That I may bid ray weeping friends good-bye 
 
 Ere I depart upon my journey drear : 
 And, smiling faintly on the painful past. 
 Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. 
 
 IX 
 
 When I sit musing on the chequer'd past, 
 (A term much darken'd with untimely woes,) 
 My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows 
 The tear, though half disown'd ; — and binding fast 
 Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, 
 I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, 
 When that was all my wealth. — 'Tis true my breast 
 Received from her this wearying, lingering smart, 
 Vet, ah ! I cannot bid her form depart ; 
 
 Though wrong'd, I love her — yet in anger love, lo 
 For she was most unworthy. — Then I prove 
 Vindictive joy ; and on my stern front gleams, 
 Throned in dark clouds, inflexible * * * 
 The native pride of my much injured heart. 
 
 OR SHOULD THE DAY 
 
 Or should the day be overcast. 
 We'll linger till the show'r be past ; 
 Where the hawthorn's branches spread 
 A fragrant covert o'er the head.
 
 NELSONI MORS 89 
 
 And list the rain-drops beat the leaves, 
 
 Or smoke upon the cottage eaves ; 
 
 Or silent dimpling on the stream 
 
 Convert to lead its silver gleam ; 
 
 And we will muse on human life. 
 
 And think, from all the storms of strife, 10 
 
 How sweet to find a snug retreat 
 
 Where we may hear the tempests beat. 
 
 Secure and fearless, — and provide 
 
 Repose for life's calm eventide. 
 
 NELSONI MORS 
 
 Vet once again, my Harp, yet once again, 
 
 One ditty more, and on the mountain ash 
 
 I will again suspend thee. I have felt 
 
 The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last. 
 
 At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, 
 
 I woke to thee the melancholy song. 
 
 Since then with Thoiightfidiicss, a maid severe, 
 
 I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks 
 
 Of frolic fancy to the line of truth ; 
 
 Not unrepining, for iny froward heart, 10 
 
 Still turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow 
 
 Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied haunts 
 
 Of my not songless boyhood. — Yet once more, 
 
 Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones. 
 
 My long neglected Harp. — He must not sink ;
 
 90 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 The good, the brave — he must not, shall not sink 
 Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
 
 Though from the Muses chalice I may pour 
 
 No precious dews of Aganippe's well. 
 
 Or Castaly, — though from the morning cloud 20 
 
 I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse : 
 
 Yet will I wreath a garland for his brows, 
 
 Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent 
 
 Of Britain, my loved country ; and with tears 
 
 Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe 
 
 Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm 
 
 And honest as the ebbing blood that flow"d 
 
 Fast from thy honesihtzxi. — Thou, Pity, too, 
 
 If ever I have loved, with faltering step. 
 
 To follow thee in the cold and starless night, 30 
 
 To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff ; 
 
 And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud 
 
 Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd 
 
 Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, 
 
 The dying soul's viaticum ; if oft 
 
 Amid the carnage of the field I've sate 
 
 With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung 
 
 To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, 
 
 With mercy and forgiveness — visitant 
 
 Of Heaven — sit thou upon my harp, 40 
 
 And give it feeling, which were else too cold 
 
 For argument so great, for theme so high. 
 
 How dimly on that morn the sun arose. 
 Kerchieft in mists, and tearful, when
 
 HYMNS 91 
 
 HYMNS 
 
 In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure 
 the splendours of the Deity 
 
 Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, 
 Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake ; 
 We sing the Saviour of our race, 
 The Lamb, our shield, and hiding place. 
 
 II 
 When God's right arm is bared for war, 
 And thunders clothe his cloudy car, 
 Where, where, oh where, shall man retire. 
 To escape the horrors of his ire? 
 
 'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly, 
 While the dread tempest passes by 
 God sees his Well-beloved's face; 
 And spares us in our hiding place. 
 
 Thus while we dwell in this low scene. 
 The Lamb is our unfailing screen ; 
 To him, though guilty, still we run. 
 And God still spares us for his Son.
 
 92 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 While yet we sojourn here below, 
 Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow ; 
 Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, 
 We deeply need a hiding place. 
 
 Yet courage — days and years will glide, 
 And we shall lay these clods aside ; 
 Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, 
 And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood. 
 
 Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, 
 We through the Lamb shall be decreed 
 Shall meet the Father face to face. 
 And need no more a hiding place. 
 
 II 
 
 A HYMN 
 
 FOR FAMILY WORSHIP 
 
 O Lord, another day is flown. 
 
 And we, a lonely band. 
 Are met once more before thy throne, 
 
 To bless thy fostering hand.
 
 tiYMNS 93 
 
 And wilt thou bend a listening ear, 
 
 To praises low as ours ? 
 Thou wilt ! for thou dost love to hear 
 
 The song which meekness pours. 
 
 And, Jesus, thou thy smiles will deign, 
 
 As we before thee pray ; 
 For thou didst bless the infant train, 
 
 And we are less than ihey. 
 
 Oh let thy grace perform its part, 
 And let contention cease ; 
 
 And shed abroad in every heart 
 Thine everlasting peace ! 
 
 Thus chasten'd, cleans'd, entirely thine, 
 
 A flock by Jesus led ; 
 The Sun of Holiness shall shine, 
 
 In glory on our head. 
 
 And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, 
 And thou wilt bless our way ; 
 
 Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 
 The dawn of lasting day.
 
 94 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 III 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 
 
 When marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
 The glittering host bestud the sky ; 
 
 One star alone, of all the train, 
 
 Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 
 
 Hark I hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
 From every host, from every gem ; 
 
 But one alone the Saviour speaks, 
 It is the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Once on the raging seas I rode, 
 
 The storm was loud, — the night was dark. 
 The ocean yawn'd — and rudely blow'd 
 
 The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. 
 
 Deep horror then my vitals froze, 
 
 Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; 
 When suddenly a star arose. 
 
 It was the Star of Bethlehem.
 
 HYMNS 95 
 
 It was my guide, my light, my all. 
 
 It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 
 
 And through the storm and dangers' thrall, 
 
 It led me to the port of peace. 20 
 
 VI 
 
 Now safely moor'd — my perils o'er, 
 
 I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 
 For ever and for evermore. 
 
 The star ! — The Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 IV 
 A HYMN 
 
 O Lord, my God, in mercy turn, 
 In mercy hear a sinner mourn ! 
 To thee I call, to thee I cry, 
 
 leave me, leave me not to die ! 
 
 1 strove against thee, Lord, I know, 
 
 I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law 
 The hour is past — the day's gone by, 
 And I am left alone to die. 
 
 O pleasures past, what are ye now 
 But thorns about my Ijleeding brow ! 
 Spectres that hover round my brain, 
 And aggravate and mock my pain.
 
 96 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 For pleasure I have given my soul ; 
 Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll ! 
 Now Vengeance smile — and with a blow, 
 Lay the rebellious ingrate low. 
 
 Yet, Jesus, Jesus ! there I'll cling, 
 I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing ; 
 I'll clasp the cross, and holding there. 
 Even me, oh bliss ! — his wrath may spare. 
 
 V 
 
 The Lord our God is full of might, 
 
 The winds obey his will : 
 He speaks, and in his heavenly height 
 
 The rolling sun stands still : 
 
 Rebel, ye waves, and o'er the land 
 With threatening aspect roar ! 
 
 The Lord uplifts his awful hand. 
 And chains you to the shore. 
 
 Ilowl, winds of night ; your force combine 
 
 Without his high behest. 
 Ye shall not, in the mountain-pine, 
 
 Disturb the sparrow's nest ! 
 
 His voice sublime is heard afar, 
 
 In distant peals it dies ; 
 He yokes the whirlwinds to his car, 
 
 And sweeps the howling skies.
 
 MELODY 97 
 
 Ye nations, bend, — in reverence bend ; 
 
 Ye monarchs, wait his nod ; 
 And bid the choral song ascend, 
 
 To celebrate your God. 20 
 
 MELODY 
 
 Inserted in a Collection of Selected and Original Songs, 
 published by the Rev. J. Plumptre, of Clare Hall, 
 Cambridge. 
 
 Yes, once more that dying strain, 
 Anna, touch thy lute for me ; 
 
 Sweet, when Pity's tones complain, 
 Doubly sweet is melody. 
 
 While the Virtues thus enweave 
 Mildly soft the thrilling song, 
 
 Winter's long and lonesome eve 
 Glides unfelt, unseen,' along. 
 
 Thus when life hath stolen away, 
 And the wintry night is near. 
 
 Thus shall Virtue's friendly ray 
 Age's closing evening cheer.
 
 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 Fanny ! upon thy breast I may not lie ! 
 
 Fanny ! thou dost not hear me when I speak ! 
 Where art thou, love ? — Around I turn my eye, 
 
 And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. 
 Was it a dream ? or did my love behold 
 
 Indeed my lonely couch ? — Methought the breath 
 Fann'd not her bloodless lip ; her eye was cold 
 
 And hollow, and the livery of death 
 Invested her pale forehead.— Sainted maid ! 
 
 My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, lo 
 
 Through the long wintry night, when wind and 
 wave 
 Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. 
 Yet, hush ! my fond heart, hush ! there is a shore 
 
 Of better promise ; and I know at last, 
 
 When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, 
 We two shall meet in Christ — to part no more. 
 
 ODE TO LIBERTY 
 
 Hence to thy darkest shades, dire Slavery, hence ! 
 
 Thine icy touch can freeze, 
 
 Swift as the polar breeze, 
 The proud defying port of human sense. 
 
 Hence to thine Indian cave, 
 To where the tall canes whisper o'er thy rest, 
 
 Like the murmuring wave 
 Swept by the dank wing of the rapid west ;
 
 ODE TO LIBERTY 
 
 And at the night's still noon, 
 The lash'd Angolan, in his grated cell, 
 
 Mix'd with the tiger's yell, 
 Howls to the dull ear of the silent moon. 
 
 But come, thou goddess, blithe and free, 
 Thou mountain-maid, sweet Liberty ! 
 With buskin'd knee, and bosom bare, 
 Thy tresses floating in the air ; 
 Come, — and treading on thy feet. 
 Independence let me meet. 
 Thy giant mate whose awful form 
 Has often braved the bellowing storm ; 
 And heard its angry spirit shriek, 
 Rear'd on some promontory's beak 
 Seen by the lonely fisher far. 
 By the glimpse of flitting star. 
 His awful bulk, in dusky shroud, 
 Commixing with the pitchy cloud ; 
 While at his feet the lightnings play, 
 And the deep thunders die away. 
 Goddess, come, and let us sail 
 On the fresh reviving gale ; 
 O'er dewy lawns, and forests lone, 
 Till, lighting on some mountain stone. 
 That scales the circumambient sky. 
 We see a thousand nations lie. 
 From Zembla's snows to Afric's heat, 
 Prostrate beneath our frolic feet. 
 
 From Italy's luxuriant plains. 
 Where everlasting summer reigns. 
 
 99
 
 lOO POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 Why, goddess, dost thou turn away ? 
 
 Didst thou never sojourn there ? 40 
 
 Oh, yes, thou didst — but fall'n is Rome, 
 
 The pilgrim weeps her silent doom, 
 
 As at midnight, murmuring low, 
 
 Along the mouldering portico, 
 
 He hears the desolate wind career, 
 
 While the rank ivy whispers near. 
 
 Ill-fated Gaul ! ambitious grasp 
 
 Bids thee again in slavery gasp ; 
 
 Again the dungeon walls resound 
 
 The hopeless shriek, the groan profound. 50 
 
 But, lo, in yonder happy skies, 
 
 Helvetia's airy mountains rise. 
 
 And, oh, on her tall cliffs reclined, 
 
 Gay fancy, whispering to the wind, 
 
 As the wild herdsman's call is heard, 
 
 Tells me, that she, o'er all preferr'd 
 
 In every clime, in every zone, 
 
 Is Liberty's divinest throne. 
 
 Yet, whence that sigh ? O goddess, say. 
 
 Has the tyrant's thirsty sway 60 
 
 Dared profane the sacred seat, 
 
 Thy long high-favour'd, best retreat ? 
 
 It has ! it has ! away, away, 
 
 To where the green isles woo the day, 
 
 Where thou art still supreme, and where 
 
 Thy prcans fill the floating air.
 
 / HAVE A WISH loi 
 
 I HAVE A WISH 
 
 I HAVE a wish, and near my heart 
 
 That wish lies buried ; 
 To keep it there's a foolish part, 
 
 For, oh ! it must not be, 
 
 It must not, must not, be. 
 
 Why, my fond heart, why beat'st thou so ? 
 
 The dream is fair to see — 
 But bid the lovely flatterer go ; 
 
 It must not, must not, be, 
 
 Oh ! no, it must not be. lo 
 
 'Tis well this tear in secret falls, 
 
 This weakness suits not me ; 
 I know where sterner duty calls — 
 
 It must not, cannot be, 
 
 Oh ! no, it cannot be.
 
 i02 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 FRAGMENTS 
 
 Lo ! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, 
 Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, 
 And from his tower of mist, 
 Night's watchman hurries down. 
 
 II 
 
 PALE art thou, my lamp, and faint 
 
 Thy melancholy ray : 
 When the still night's unclouded saint 
 
 Is walking on her way. 
 Through my lattice leaf embower'd. 
 Fair she sheds her shadowy beam, 
 And o'er my silent sacred room. 
 Casts a chequer'd twilight gloom ; 
 I throw aside the learned .sheet, 
 
 1 cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly 
 
 sweet. lo 
 
 Sad vestal, why art thou so fair, 
 Or why am I so frail }
 
 FRAGMENTS k 
 
 Methinks tliou lookest kindly on me, Moon, 
 
 And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards ! 
 Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak 
 Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd ; 
 So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud 
 Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far 
 From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave. 
 
 Ill 
 
 O GIVE me music — for my soul doth faint ; 
 
 I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear 
 Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint. 
 
 That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. 
 
 Hark how it falls ! and now it steals along, 
 Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, 
 
 When all is still ; and now it grows more strong, 
 As when the choral train their dirges weave, 
 
 Mellow and many-voiced ; where every close, 
 
 O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves 
 reflows. lo 
 
 Oh ! I am rapt aloft. My spirit soars 
 
 Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. 
 
 Lo ! angels lead me to the happy shores, 
 And floating paeans fill the buoyant wind. 
 
 Farewell ! base earth, farewell ! my soul is freed, 
 
 Far from its clayey cell it springs, —
 
 104 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 IV 
 
 When high romance o'er every wood and stream 
 
 Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire, 
 Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering 
 dream, 
 
 First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre. 
 All there was mystery then, the gust that woke 
 
 The midnight echo with a spirit's dirge, 
 And unseen fairies would the moon invoke, 
 
 To their light morris by the restless surge. 
 Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles, 
 
 Too much * * lo 
 
 The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, 
 And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. 
 
 V 
 
 Once more, and yet once more, 
 
 I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay ; 
 I heard the waters roar, 
 
 I heard the flood of ages pass away. 
 O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell 
 
 In thine eternal cell. 
 Noting, gray chronicler ! the silent years ; 
 
 I saw thee rise, — I saw the scroll complete, 
 
 Thou spakest, and at thy feet 
 
 The universe gave way. lo
 
 FRAGMENTS 105 
 
 VI 
 TIMEi 
 
 A POEM 
 
 Genius of musings, who, the midnight hour 
 
 Wasting in woods or haunted forests wild, 
 
 Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower, 
 
 Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance ; 
 
 Or when the vollied lightnings cleave the air, 
 
 And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm, 
 
 Sitt'st in some lonely watch-tower, where thy lamp, 
 
 Faint-blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far, 
 
 And, 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved 
 
 Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace 10 
 
 The vast effect to its superior source, — 
 
 Spirit, attend my lowly benison ! 
 
 For now I strike to themes of import high 
 
 The solitary lyre ; and, borne by thee 
 
 Above this narrow cell, I celebrate 
 
 The mysteries of Time ! 
 
 Ilim who, august. 
 Was ere these worlds were fashioned, — ere the sun 
 Sprang from the east, or Lucifer displayed 
 His glowing cresset in the arch of morn, 
 
 1 This Poem was begun either during the publication 
 of Clifton Grove, or shortly afterwards. Henry never 
 laid aside the intention of completing it, and some of the 
 detached parts were among his latest productions. S,
 
 io6 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. 20 
 
 Yea, He had been for an eternity ! 
 
 Had swept unvarying from eternity ! 
 
 The harp of desolation — ere his tones, 
 
 At God's command, assumed a milder strain, 
 
 And startled on his watch, in the vast deep, 
 
 Chaos's sluggish sentry, and evoked 
 
 From the dark void the smiling universe. 
 
 Chain'd to the grovelling frailties of the flesh, 
 
 Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross, 
 
 Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye, 30 
 
 The dim uncertain gulf, which now the muse, 
 
 Adventurous, would explore ; — but dizzy grown. 
 
 He topples down the abyss. — If he would scan 
 
 The fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse 
 
 Of its unfathomable depths, that so 
 
 His mind may turn with double joy to God, 
 
 His only certainty and resting place ; 
 
 He must put off awhile this mortal vest, 
 
 And learn to follow, without giddiness. 
 
 To heights where all is vision, and surprise, 40 
 
 And vague conjecture. — He must waste by night 
 
 The studious taper, far from all resort 
 
 Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat ; 
 
 High on the beetling promontory's crest. 
 
 Or in the caves of the vast wilderness. 
 
 Where, compass'd round with Nature's wildest 
 
 shapes, 
 He may be driven to centre all his thoughts 
 In the great Architect, who lives confest 
 In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes.
 
 FRAGMENTS 107 
 
 So has divine Philosophy, with voice 50 
 
 Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, 
 
 Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes, 
 
 Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy, 
 
 His faint, neglected song — intent to snatch 
 
 Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep 
 
 Of poesy, a bloom of such a hue. 
 
 So sober, as may not unseemly suit 
 
 With Truth's severer brow ; and one withal 
 
 So hardy as shall brave the passing wind 
 
 Of many winters, — rearing its meek head 60 
 
 In loveliness, when he who gather'd it 
 
 Is number'd with the generations gone. 
 
 Yet not to me hath God's good providence 
 
 Given studious leisure \ or unbroken thought. 
 
 Such as he owns, — a meditative man, 
 
 Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve 
 
 Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er. 
 
 Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din : 
 
 From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd 
 
 With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day 70 
 
 Hath duties which require the vigorous hand 
 
 Of steadfast application, but which leave 
 
 No deep improving trace upon the mind. 
 
 But be the day another's ; — let it pass ! 
 
 The night's my own — They cannot steal my niglit ! 
 
 When evening lights her folding-star on high, 
 
 I live and breathe, and in the sacred hours 
 
 Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies, 
 
 1 The author was then in an attorney's oflice.
 
 lo8 POEMS AFTER « CLIFTON GROVE'' 
 
 Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, 
 And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for 
 Heaven. 80 
 
 Hence do I love the sober-suited maid ; 
 
 Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my 
 
 theme. 
 And she shall aid me now to magnify 
 The night of ages,— «ow when the pale ray 
 Of star-light penetrates the studious gloom, 
 And, at my window seated, while mankind 
 Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze 
 Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, 
 Thotight, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, 
 Assumes her wonted sway. 
 
 Behold the world 90 
 
 Rests, and lier tired inhabitants have paused 
 From trouble and turmoil. The widow now 
 Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie 
 Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. 
 The man of sorrow has forgot his woes ; 
 The outcast that his head is shelterless, 
 His griefs unshared. — The mother tends no more 
 Her daughter's dying slumbers, but, surprised 
 With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch, 
 Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, luU'd 100 
 On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapt, 
 Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shuddering 
 
 nurse, 
 Poor victim ! smiles. Silence and deep repose 
 Keign o'er the nations ; and the warning voice
 
 FRAGMENTS log 
 
 Of Nature utters audibly within 
 
 The general moral : — tells us that repose, 
 
 Deathlike as this, but of far longer span, 
 
 Is coming on us — that the weary crowds, 
 
 Who now enjoy a temporary calm, 
 
 Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapt around iio 
 
 With grave-clothes : and their aching restless heads 
 
 Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved, 
 
 Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep. 
 
 Who needs a teacher to admonish him 
 
 That flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist ? 
 
 What are our joys but dreams ? and what our hopes 
 
 But goodly shadows in the summer cloud ? 
 
 There's not a wind that blows but bears with it 
 
 Some rainbow promise : — Not a moment flies 
 
 Rut puts its sickle in the fields of life, 120 
 
 And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. 
 
 'Tis but as yesterday since on yon stars. 
 
 Which now I view, the Chaldee Shepherd' gazed 
 
 In his mid-watch observant, and disposed 
 
 The twinkling hosts as fancy gave ihem shape. 
 
 Yet in the interim what mighty shocks 
 
 Have buffeted mankind — whole nations razed — 
 
 Cities made desolate, — the polish'd sunk 
 
 To barbarism, and once barbaric states 
 
 Swaying the wand of science and of arts ; 130 
 
 Illustrious deeds and memorable names 
 
 ' Alluding to the first astronomical observations made 
 by the Chaldean shepherds.
 
 no POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 Blotted from record, and upon the tongue 
 Of gray Tradition, voluble no more. 
 
 Where are the heroes of the ages past ? 
 
 Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones 
 
 Who flourish'd in the infancy of days ? 
 
 All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame 
 
 Exultant, mocking at the pride of man, 
 
 Sits grim Forgetftdness . — The warrior's arm 
 
 Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame ; 140 
 
 Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze 
 
 Of his red eye-ball. — Yesterday his name 
 
 Was mighty on the earth — To-day — 'tis what ? 
 
 The meteor of the night of distant years. 
 
 That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, 
 
 Musing at midnight upon prophecies, 
 
 Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam 
 
 Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly 
 
 Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up 
 
 Safe in the charnel's treasures. 
 
 O how weak 150 
 
 Is mortal man ! how trifling — how confined 
 His scope of vision ! Pufif'd with confidence. 
 His phrase grows big with immortality. 
 And he, poor insect of a summer's day ! 
 Dreams of eternal honours to his name ; 
 Of endless glory and perennial bays. 
 He idly reasons of eternity, 
 As of the train of ages, — when, alas ! 
 Ten thousand thousand of his centuries 
 Are, in comparison, a little point 160
 
 FRAGMENTS m 
 
 Too trivial for accompt, — O, it is strange, 
 
 'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies ; 
 
 Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, 
 
 Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, 
 
 And smile, and say, my name shall live with this 
 
 Till Time shall be no more ; while at his feet. 
 
 Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust 
 
 Of the fallen fabric of the other day 
 
 Preaches the solemn lesson. — He skoitld know 
 
 That time must conquer ; that the loudest blast 170 
 
 That ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trump 
 
 Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. 
 
 Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom 
 
 Of the gigantic pyramid ? or who 
 
 Rear'd its huge walls ? Oblivion laughs, and says, 
 
 The prey is mine. — They sleep, and never more 
 
 Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, 
 
 Their memory burst its fetters. 
 
 Where is Rome ? 
 She lives but in the tale of other times ; 
 Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home. 180 
 
 And her long colonnades, her public walks, 
 Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet, 
 Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace. 
 Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honour'd dust. 
 But not to Rome alone has fate confined 
 The doom of ruin ; cities numberless, 
 Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, 
 And rich Phoenicia — they are blotted out, 
 Half-razed from memory, and their very name 
 And being in dispute. — Has Athens fallen ? 190
 
 112 POEMS AFTER •' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 Is polish'd Greece become the savage seat 
 Of ignorance and sloth ? and shall toe dare 
 
 And empire seeks another hemisphere. 
 Where now is Britain ? — Where her laurell'd names, 
 Her palaces and halls ? Dash'd in the dust. 
 Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride, 
 And with one big recoil hath thrown her back 
 
 To primitive barbarity. Again, 
 
 Through her depopulated vales, the scream 
 
 Of bloody Superstition hollow rings, 200 
 
 And the scared native to the tempest howls 
 
 The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts, 
 
 Her crowded ports, broods Silence ; and the cry 
 
 Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash 
 
 Of distant billows, breaks alone the void. 
 
 Even as the savage sits upon the stone 
 
 That marks where stood her capitols, and hears 
 
 The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks 
 
 From the dismaying solitude. — Her bards 
 
 Sing in a language that hath perished ; 210 
 
 And their wild harps suspended o'er their graves. 
 
 Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain. 
 
 Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy. 
 Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance, 
 Some bold adventurer, fill'd with golden dreams. 
 Steering his bark through trackless solitudes, 
 Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow 
 Hath ever ploughed before, — espies the cliffs 
 Of fallen Albion. — To the land unknown
 
 FRAGMENTS 113 
 
 He journeys joyful ; and perhaps descries 220 
 
 Some vestige of her ancient stateliness : 
 
 Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind 
 
 Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived 
 
 At science in that solitary nook. 
 
 Far from the civil world ; and sagely sighs, 
 
 And moralizes on the state of man. 
 
 Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt, 
 
 Moves on our being. We do live and breathe, 
 
 And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. 
 
 We have our spring-time and our rottenness ; 230 
 
 And as we fall, another race succeeds. 
 
 To perish likewise. — Meanwhile Nature smiles — 
 
 The seasons run their round — The sun fulfils 
 
 His annual course — and Heaven and earth remain 
 
 Still changing, yet unchanged — still doom'd to feel 
 
 Endless mutation in perpetual rest. 
 
 Where are conceal'd the days which have elapsed ? 
 
 Hid in the mighty cavern oi the past, 
 
 They rise upon us only to appal. 
 
 By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, 240 
 
 Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. 
 
 Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch, 
 
 Wlien the rude rushing winds forget to rave. 
 
 And the pale moon, that through the casement high 
 
 Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour 
 
 Of utter silence, it is fearful then 
 
 To steer the mind, in deadly solitude. 
 
 Up the vague stream of probability ; 
 
 H
 
 114 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 To wind the mighty secrets of the past. 
 
 And turn the key of Time ? — Oh ! who can strive 250 
 
 To comprehend the vast, the awful truth, 
 
 Of the eternity that hath gone by. 
 
 And not recoil from the dismaying sense 
 
 Of human impotence ? The life of man 
 
 Is summ'd in birth-days and in sepulchres : 
 
 But the Eternal God had no beginning ; 
 
 He hath no end. Time had been with him 
 
 For everlasting, ere the daedal world 
 
 Rose from the gulf in loveliness. — Like him 
 
 It knew no source, like him 'twas uncreate. 260 
 
 What is it then ? The past Eternity ! 
 
 We comprehend s.fiiture without end ; 
 
 We feel it possible that even yon sun 
 
 May roll for ever : but we shrink amazed — • 
 
 We stand aghast, when we reflect that Time 
 
 Knew no commencement, — That heap age on age. 
 
 And million upon million, without end, 
 
 And we shall never span the void of days 
 
 That were, and are not but in retrospect. 
 
 The Past is an unfathomable depth, 270 
 
 Beyond the span of thought ; 'tis an elapse 
 
 Which hath no mensuration, but hath been 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 Change of days 
 To us is sensible ; and each revolve 
 Of the recording sun conducts us on 
 Further in life, and nearer to our goal. 
 Not so with Time, — mysterious chronicler. 
 He knoweth not mutation : — centuries
 
 FRAGMENTS I IS 
 
 Are to his being as a day, and days 
 
 As centuries. — Time past, and Time to come, 280 
 
 Are always equal ; when the world began 
 
 God had existed from eternity. 
 
 ■jt « * 
 
 Now look on man 
 Myriads of ages hence. — Hath time elapsed ? 
 Is he not standing in the self-same place 
 Where once we stood ? — The same eternity 
 Hath gone before him, and is yet to come ; 
 \Y\%past is not of longer span than ours, 
 Though myriads of ages intervened ; 
 For who can add to what has neither sum, 
 Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end ! 290 
 Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind ? 
 Who can unlock the secrets of the High ? 
 In speculations of an altitude 
 Sublime as this, our reason stands confest 
 Foolish, and insignificant, and mean. 
 Who can apply the futile argument 
 Of finite beings to infinity ? 
 He might as well compress the universe 
 Into the hollow compass of a gourd, 
 Scoop'd out by human art ; or bid the whale 300 
 
 Drink up the sea it swims in ! — Can the less 
 Contain the greater ? or the dark obscure 
 Enfold the glories of meridian day ? 
 What does Philosophy impart to man 
 But undiscover'd wonders ? — Let her soar 
 Even to her proudest heights — to where she caught 
 The soul of Newton and of Socrates,
 
 ii6 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 She but extends the scope of wild amaze 
 
 And admiration. All her lessons end 
 
 In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths. 310 
 
 Lo ! the unletter'd hind, who never knew 
 
 To raise his mind excursive to the heights 
 
 Of abstract contemplation, as he sits 
 
 On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, 
 
 What time the insect swarms are murmuring, 
 
 And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds 
 
 That fringe with leveliest hues the evening sky, 
 
 Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse 
 
 The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd 
 
 The goodly prospect ; he beholds the God 320 
 
 Throned in the west, and his reposing ear 
 
 Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze 
 
 That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy brake, 
 
 Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. 
 
 Go with the cotter to his winter fire, 
 
 Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, 
 
 And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon ; 
 
 Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar. 
 
 Silent, and big with thought ; and hear him bless 
 
 The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds 330 
 
 For his snug hearth, and all his little joys : 
 
 Hear him compare his happier lot with his 
 
 Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, 
 
 A poor night-traveller, while the dismal snow 
 
 Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path, 
 
 He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, 
 
 He hears some village-mastiff's distant howl,
 
 FRAGMENTS . lif 
 
 And sees, far-streaming, some lone cottage light ; 
 
 Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, 
 
 And clasps his shivering hands ; or, overpowered, 340 
 
 Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep, 
 
 From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. 
 
 Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise 
 
 And glowing gratitude, — he turns to bless. 
 
 With honest warmth, his Maker and his God ! 
 
 And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, 
 
 Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred 
 
 In want and labour, glows with nobler zeal 
 
 To laud his Maker's attributes, while he 
 
 Whom starry Science in her cradle rock'd, 350 
 
 And Castaly enchasten'd with its dews, 
 
 Closes his eyes upon the holy word. 
 
 And, blind to all but arrogance and pride. 
 
 Dares to declare his infidelity, 
 
 And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts ? 
 
 What is philosophy, if it impart 
 
 Irreverence for the Deity, or teach 
 
 A mortal man to set his judgment up 
 
 Against his Maker's will? — The Polygar, 
 
 Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him 360 
 
 Who thus preverts the talents he enjoys, 
 
 Is the most bless'd of men !— Oh ! I would walk 
 
 A weary journey, to the furthest verge 
 
 Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand. 
 
 Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, 
 
 Preserves a lowly mind ; and to his God, 
 
 Feeling the sense of his own littleness. 
 
 Is as a child in meek simplicity !
 
 lis POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE^ 
 
 What is the pomp of learning ? the parade 
 
 Of letters and of tongues ? E'en as the mists 370 
 
 Of the grey morn before the rising sun, 
 
 That pass away and perish. 
 
 Earthly things 
 Are but the transient pageants of an hour ; 
 And earthly pride is like tlie passing flower, 
 That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 
 'Tis as the tower erected on a cloud, 
 Baseless and silly as the school-boy's dream. 
 Ages and epochs that destroy our pride, 
 And then record its downfall, what are they 
 But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain ? 3S0 
 Hath Heaven its ages? or doth Heaven preserve 
 Its stated aras ? Doth the Omnipotent 
 Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays ? 
 There is to God nor future nor a past ; 
 Throned in his might, all times to him are present ; 
 He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come ; 
 He sees before him one eternal now. 
 Time moveth not ! — our being 'tis that moves : 
 And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream, 
 Dream of swift ages and revolving years, 390 
 
 Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days ; 
 So the young sailor in the gallant bark, 
 Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast 
 Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, 
 Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, 
 And that the land is sailing. 
 
 Such, alas ! 
 Are the illusions of this Proteus life ;
 
 FRAGMENTS 119 
 
 All, all is false : through every phasis still 
 
 'Tis shadowy and deceitful. It assumes 
 
 The semblances of things and specious shapes, 400 
 
 But the lost traveller might as soon rely 
 
 On the evasive spirit of the marsh, 
 
 Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, 
 
 O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, 
 
 As we on its appearances. 
 
 On earth 
 There is nor certainty nor stable hope. 
 As well as the weary mariner, whose bark 
 Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, 
 Where Storm and Darkness hold their drear 
 
 domain. 
 And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust 410 
 
 To expectation of serener skies, 
 And linger in the very jaws of death, 
 Because some peevish cloud were opening, 
 Or the loud storm had bated in its rage ; 
 As we look forward in this vale of tears 
 To permanent delight — from some slight glimpse 
 Of shadowy unsubstantial happiness. 
 
 The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond 
 
 The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep 
 
 Of mortal desolation. — He beholds, 420 
 
 Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride 
 
 Of rampant Ruin, or the unstable waves 
 
 Of dark Vicissitude. — Even in death. 
 
 In that dread hour, when with a giant pang, 
 
 Tearing the tender fibres of the heart,
 
 120 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 The immortal spirit struggles to be free, 
 
 Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not, 
 
 For it exists beyond the narrow verge 
 
 Of the cold sepulchre. — The petty joys 
 
 Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd, 430 
 
 And rested on the bosom of its God. 
 
 This is man's only reasonable hope ; 
 
 And 'tis a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, 
 
 Shall not be disappointed. — Even He, 
 
 The Holy One — Almighty — who elanced 
 
 The rolling world along its airy way. 
 
 Even He will deign to smile upon the good. 
 
 And welcome him to these celestial scats, 
 
 Where joy and gladness hold their changeless 
 
 reign. 
 Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault, 440 
 Survey the countless gems which richly stud, 
 The Night's imperial chariot ; — Telescopes 
 Will show thee myriads more innumerous 
 Than the sea sand ; — each of those little lamps 
 Is the great source of light, the central sun 
 Round which some other mighty sisterhood 
 Of planets travel, every planet stock'd 
 With living beings impotent as thee. 
 Now, proud man ! now, where is thy greatness 
 
 fled? 
 What art thou in the scale of universe ? 450 
 
 Less, less than nothing ! — Yet of thee the God 
 Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, 
 As well as of the mendicant who begs 
 The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou
 
 FRAGMENTS I2i 
 
 Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn 
 His heavenly providence ! Deluded fool, 
 Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death, 
 Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell. 
 
 How insignificant is mortal man, 
 
 Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour ; 460 
 
 How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit 
 
 Of infinite duration, boundless space ! 
 
 God of the universe ! Almighty One ! 
 
 Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds, 
 
 Or with the storm thy rugged charioteer, 
 
 Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, 
 
 Ridest from pole to pole ; Thou who dost hold 
 
 The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp, 
 
 And reinest in the earthquake, when thy wrath 
 
 Goes down towards erring man, I would address 470 
 
 To Thee my parting pivan ; for of Thee, 
 
 Great beyond comprehension, who thyself 
 
 Art Time and Space, sublime Infinitude, 
 
 Of Thee has been my song — With awe I kneel 
 
 Trembling before the footstool of thy state, 
 
 My God ! my Father ! — I will sing to Thee 
 
 A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle. 
 
 Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades 
 
 The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre. 
 
 And give its wild strings to the desert gale. 4S0 
 
 Rise, Son of Salem ! rise, and join the strain. 
 
 Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp. 
 
 And leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul 
 
 To exultation. Sing liosanna, sing,
 
 122 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 And hallelujah, for the Lord is great 
 
 And full of mercy ! He has thought of man ; 
 
 Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds, has 
 
 thought 
 Of we poor worms, that batten in the dews 
 Of morn, and perish ere the noon-day sun. 
 Sing to the Lord, for He is merciful : 490 
 
 He gave the Nubian lion but to live. 
 To rage its hour, and perish ; but on man 
 He lavish'd immortality, and Heaven. 
 The eagle falls from her aerial tower. 
 And mingles with irrevocable dust : 
 But man from death springs joyful, 
 Springs up to life and to eternity. 
 Oh, that, insensate of the favouring boon, 
 The great exclusive privilege bestow'd 
 On us unworthy trifles, men should dare 500 
 
 To treat with slight regard the proffer'd Heaven, 
 And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear 
 In wrath, 'They shall not enter in my rest.' 
 Might I address the supplicative strain 
 To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou 
 Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers. 
 And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock. 
 Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him, 
 Thy well-beloved, who, upon the cross. 
 Bled a dead sacrifice for human sin, 510 
 
 And paid, with bitter agony, the debt 
 Of primitive transgression. 
 
 Oh ! I shrink. 
 My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect
 
 FRAGMENTS 123 
 
 That the lime hastens, when in vengeance clothed, 
 Thou shall come down to stamp the seal of fate 
 On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels 
 Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves, 
 And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start 
 At the appalling summons. Oh ! how dread 
 'On the dark eye of miserable man, 520 
 
 Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, 
 Will burst the effulgence of the opening Heaven ; 
 When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar, 
 Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend, 
 Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word ! 
 The dead shall start astonish'd from their sleep I 
 The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey, 
 The bellowing floods shall disembogue their charge 
 Of human victims. — From the farthest nook 
 Of the wide world shall troop their risen souls, 530 
 From him whose bones are bleaching in the waste 
 Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse, 
 Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides, 
 Is wash'd on some Caribbean prominence. 
 To the lone tenant of some secret cell 
 In the Pacific's vast * " * realm, 
 Where never plummet's sound was heard to part 
 The wilderness of water ; they shall come 
 To greet the solemn advent of the Judge. 
 Thou first shall summon the elected saints, 540 
 
 To their apportion'd Heaven ! and thy Son, 
 At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joy 
 On all his past distresses, when for them 
 He bore humanity's severest pangs.
 
 124 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE'' 
 
 Then shalt thou seize ihe avenging cimeter, 
 
 And, with a roar as loud and horrible 
 
 As the stern earthquake's monitory voice, 
 
 The wicked shall be driven to their abode, 
 
 Down the immitigable gulf, to wail 
 
 And gnash their teeth in endless agony. 550 
 
 Rear thou aloft thy standard. — Spirit, rear 
 
 Thy flag on high !— Invincible, and throned 
 
 In unparticipated might. Behold 
 
 Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent svvaj-, 
 
 Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, 
 
 Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush 
 
 Of mighty generations, as they pass 
 
 To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp 
 
 Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. 
 
 Who shall contend with Time— unvanquish'd Time, 
 
 The conqueror of conquerors, and lord 561 
 
 Of desolation ? — Lo ! the shadows fly, 
 
 The hours and days, and years and centuries. 
 
 They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall. 
 
 The young are old, the old are in their graves. 
 
 Ileard'st thou that .shout ? It rent the vaulted skies ; 
 
 It was the voice of people, — mighty crowds, — 
 
 Again ! 'tis hush'd — Time speaks, and all is hush'd ; 
 
 In the vast multitude now reigns alone 
 
 Unruffled solitude. They all are still ; 570 
 
 All — yea, the wliole — the incalculable mass, 
 
 Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains.
 
 FRAGMENTS 125 
 
 Rear thou aloft thy standard. — Spirit, rear 
 
 Thy flag on high ! and glory in thy strength. 
 
 But do thou know the season yet shall come, 
 
 When from its base thine adamantine throne 
 
 Shall tumble ; when thine arm shall cease to strike, 
 
 Thy voice forget its petrifying power ; 
 
 When saints shall shout, and Tintr shall he no 
 
 more. 
 Yea, lie doth come — the .Mighty Champion 
 
 comes 5S0 
 
 Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death-wound, 
 Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors. 
 And desolate stern Desolation's lord. 
 Lo ! where He cometh ! the Messiah comes ! 
 The King ! the Comforter ! the Christ I — He comes 
 To burst the bonds of death, and overturn 
 The power of Time. — Hark ! the trumpet's blast 
 Rings o'er the heavens ! They rise, the myriads 
 
 rise — 
 Even from their graves they spring, and burst the 
 
 chains 
 Of torpor— He has ramson'd them, 590 
 
 ■iC- * -if- 
 
 Forgotten generations live again, 
 Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old, 
 Beyond the flood : — the righteous of their times 
 Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. 
 Thy sainted mother wakes, and in her lap 
 Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave. 
 And heritor with her of Heaven, — a flower 
 Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain
 
 126 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 Of native guilt, even in its early bud. 
 
 And, hark ! those strains, how solemnly serene 600 
 
 They fall, as from the skies — at distance fall — 
 
 Again more loud — The hallelujah's swell ; 
 
 The newly-risen catch the joyful sound ; 
 
 They glow, they burn ; and now with one accord 
 
 Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song 
 
 Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb 
 
 Who bled for mortals. 
 
 Yet there is peace for man. — Yea, there is peace 
 Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene ; 
 When from the crowd, and from the city far, 610 
 
 Haply he may be set (in his late walk 
 O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs 
 Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, 
 And with fixt eye, and wistful, he surveys 
 The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail, 
 And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time 
 Will waft him to repose, to deep repose. 
 Far from the unquietness of life — from noise 
 And tumult far — beyond the flying clouds. 
 Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, 620 
 
 Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no 
 more.
 
 FRAGMENTS 127 
 
 VII 
 
 Where yonder woods in gloomy pomp arise, 
 Embow'red, remote, a lowly cottage lies ; 
 Before the door a garden spreads, where blows 
 Now wild, once cultivate, the brier rose ; 
 Tho' chok'd with weeds, the lily there will peer, 
 And early primrose hail the nascent year ; 
 There to the walls did jess'mine wreaths attach. 
 And many a sparrow twitter'd in the thatch, 
 While in the woods that wave their heads on high 
 The stock-dove warbled murmuring harmony. 
 There, buried in retirement, dwelt a sage, 
 Whose reverent locks bespoke him far in age ; . 
 Silent he was, and solemn was his mien. 
 And rarely on his cheek a smile was seen. 
 The village gossips had full many a tale 
 About the aged ' hermit of the dale.' 
 Some called him wizard, some a holy seer, 
 Tho' all beheld him with an equal fear, 
 And many a stout heart had he put to flight. 
 Met in the gloomy wood-walk late at night. 
 
 Yet, well I ween, the sire was good of heart. 
 Nor would to aught one heedless pang impart ; 
 His soul was gentle, but he'd known of woe. 
 Had known the world, nor longer wish'd to know. 
 Here, far retir'd from all its busy ways. 
 He hop'd to spend the remnant of his days ;
 
 128 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 And here, in peace, he till'd his little ground, 
 
 And saw, unheeded, years revolving round. 
 
 Fair was his daughter, as the blush of day. 
 
 In her alone his hopes and wishes lay ; 30 
 
 His only care, about her future life. 
 
 When death should call him from the haunts of strife. 
 
 Sweet was her temper, mild as summer skies 
 
 When o'er their azure no thin vapour flies : 
 
 And but to see her aged father sad. 
 
 No fear, no care, the gentle Fanny had. 
 
 Still at her wheel, the live-long day she sung, 
 Till with the sound the lonesome woodlands rung. 
 And, 'till usurp'd his long unquestioned sway, 
 The solitary bittern wing'd its way, 40 
 
 Indignant rose, on dismal pinions borne. 
 To find, untrod by man, some waste forlorn ; 
 Where, unmolested, he might hourly wail, 
 And with his screams still load the heavy gale. 
 
 Once as I stray'd at eve, the woods among. 
 
 To pluck wild strawberries, — I heard her song; 
 
 And heard, enchanted, — oh, it was so soft, 
 
 So sweet, I thought the cherubim aloft 
 
 Were quiring to the spheres. Now the full note 
 
 Did on the downy wings of silence float 50 
 
 Full on the ravish'd sense, then died away, 
 
 Distantly on the ear, in sweet decay. 
 
 Then, first I knew the cot ; the simple pair ; 
 
 Tho' soon become a welcome inmate there : 
 
 At eve, I still would fly to hear the lay. 
 
 Which Fanny to her lute was wont to play ;
 
 FRAGMENTS 129 
 
 Or with the sire, would sit and talk of war, 
 
 For wars he'd seen, and bore full many a scar, 
 
 And oft the plan of gallant siege he drew. 
 
 And lov'd to teach me all the arts he knew. 60 
 
 VIII 
 
 Loud rage the winds without. — The wintry cloud 
 O'er the cold north star casts her flitting shroud ; 
 And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale. 
 Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale ; 
 Where now, shut out from every still retreat, 
 Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat. 
 Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood, 
 Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood ? 
 Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance 
 The drifted fleeces that around him dance, 10 
 
 And hurries on his half-averted form, 
 Stemming the fury of the side-long storm. 
 Him soon shall greet his snow-topt [cot of thatch,] 
 Soon shall his 'numb'd hand tremble on the latch, 
 Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame. 
 Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame ; 
 Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud. 
 What merry groups of vacant faces crowd ; 
 These hail his coming — these his meal prepare, 
 And boast in all that cot no lurking care. 20 
 
 I
 
 130 POEMS AFTER * CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 What, though the social circle be denied, 
 
 Even Sadness brightens at her own fire-side, 
 
 Loves, with fixed eye, to watch the fluttering blaze, 
 
 While musing Memory dwells on former days ; 
 
 Or Hope, blest spirit ! smiles — and still forgiven, 
 
 Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven. 
 
 Then heap the fire — shut out the biting air, 
 
 And from its station wheel the easy chair : 
 
 Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet 
 
 To hear without the bitter tempest beat 30 
 
 All, all alone — to sit, and muse, and sigh, 
 
 The pensive tenant of obscurity. 
 
 IX 
 
 ODE TO THE MOON 
 
 I 
 Mild orb who floatest through the realm of night, 
 
 A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, 
 Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light. 
 
 Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled. 
 Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, 
 Nocturnal study's still retreat. 
 It casts a mournful melancholy gleam. 
 And through my lofty casement weaves, 
 Dim through the vine's encircling leaves. 
 
 An intermingled beam. 10
 
 FRAGMENTS 131 
 
 These feverish dews that on my temples hang, 
 
 This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame : 
 These the dread signs of many a secret pang, 
 
 These are the meed of him who pants for fame ! 
 Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul : 
 
 Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high ; 
 My lamp expires ; — beneath thy mild control, 
 
 These restless dreams are ever wont to fly. 
 
 Come, kindred mourner, in my breast, 
 
 Soothe these discordant tones to rest, 20 
 
 And breathe the soul of peace ; 
 Mild visitor, I feel thee here. 
 It is not pain that brings this tear, 
 
 For thou hast bid it cease. 
 Oh ! many a year has passed away. 
 Since I beneath thy fairy ray. 
 
 Attuned my infant reed ; 
 When wilt thou. Time, those days restore. 
 Those happy moments now no more, 
 
 ■K- f: * 
 
 When on the lake's damp marge I lay, 30 
 
 And mark'd the northern meteor's dance, 
 liland Hope and Fancy, ye were there 
 To inspirate my trance. 
 
 Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign 
 \'our magic sweets on me to shed. 
 In vain your powers are now essay'd 
 
 To chase superior pain.
 
 132 POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 And art thou fled, thou welcome orb ? 
 
 So swiftly pleasure flies ; 
 So to mankind, in darkness lost, 40 
 
 The beam of ardour dies. 
 Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, 
 And now, encurtain'd in the main, 
 
 Thou sinkest into rest ; 
 But I, in vain, on thorny bed, 
 
 Shall woo the god of soft repose — 
 
 X 
 
 THE CHRISTIAD 
 
 A DIVINE POEM 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 I 
 I SING the Cross ! — Ye white-robed angel choirs. 
 
 Who know the chords of harmony to sweep, 
 Ve who o'er holy David's varying wires 
 
 Were wont of old your hovering watch to keep. 
 Oh, now descend ! and with your harpings deep, 
 Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream 
 
 Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep 
 Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, 
 And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious 
 theme.
 
 FRAGMENTS \-^i 
 
 Mourn ! Salem, mourn ! low lies thine humbled 
 state, lo 
 
 Thy glittering fanes are levell'd with the ground ! 
 Fallen is thy pride ! — Thine halls are desolate ! 
 
 Where erst was heard the timbrel's sprightly sound, 
 
 And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, 
 There breeds the wild fox lonely, — and aghast, 
 
 Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, 
 
 Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast 
 
 Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. 
 
 It is for this, proud Solyma ! thy towers 
 
 Lie crumbling in the dust ; for this forlorn 20 
 
 Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, 
 
 While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn. 
 That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born ; 
 
 And, with most bitter persecuting ire, 
 
 Pursued his footsteps till the last day-dawn 
 
 Rose on his fortunes — and thou saw'st the fire 
 That came to light the world, in one great flash 
 expire. 
 
 Oh ! for a pencil dippd in living light, 
 To paint the agonies that Jesus bore ! 
 
 Oh ! for the long-lost harp of Jesse's might, 30 
 
 To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore ; 
 While seraph hosts the lofty piwin pour,
 
 134 POEMS after' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim ! 
 
 May a frail mortal dare the theme explore ? 
 May he to human ears his weak song frame? 
 Oh I may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious naine ? 
 \ 
 Spirits of pity 1 mild Crusaders, come ! 
 
 Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float, 
 And give him eloquence who else were dumb, 
 And raise to feeling and to fire his note ! 40 
 
 And thou, Urania I who dost still devote 
 Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, 
 
 Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote. 
 Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine, 
 And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. 
 
 VI 
 
 When from the temple's lofty summit prone, 
 Satan o'ercome, fell down ; and 'throned there, 
 
 The Son of God confest, in splendour shone ; 
 Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air, 
 
 Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, 50 
 
 ♦ * * 
 
 Pled the stern king of Hell — and with the glare 
 Of gliding meteors, ominous and red. 
 Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head. 
 
 VII 
 
 Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late 
 The rude Massagetce adored, he bent 
 
 His northering course, while round, in dusky state. 
 The assembling fiends their summon'd troops 
 augment ;
 
 FRAGMENTS 135 
 
 Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went, 
 While, as they pass'd to regions more severe, 
 
 The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament 60 
 The solitary gale, and, fill'd with fear. 
 The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near. 
 
 Where the North Pole, in moody solitude, 
 
 Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around. 
 
 There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude, 
 Form a gigantic hall, where never sound 
 Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound 
 
 The smoke-frost mutter'd : there drear Cold for aye 
 Thrones him, — and, fix'd on his primeval mound. 
 
 Ruin, the giant, sits ; while stern Dismay 70 
 
 Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert 
 way 
 
 In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair, 
 
 No sweet remain of life encheers the sight ; 
 The dancing heart's l)lood in an instant there 
 Would freeze to marble. — Mingling day and night 
 (Sweet interchange, which makes our labours 
 light,) 
 Are there unknown ; while in the summer skies 
 
 The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height, 
 Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies, 
 And leaves the long bleak night of half the year 
 to rise. 80
 
 136 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 'Twas there, yet shuddering from the burning lake, 
 Satan had fix d their ne»ct consistory, 
 
 When parting last he fondly hoped to shake 
 Messiah's constancy, — and thus to free 
 The powers of darkness from the dread decree 
 
 Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent 
 The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see 
 
 The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent. 
 Discern the colours clear of every dark event. 
 
 Here the stern imonarch stay'd his rapid flight, 90 
 
 And his thick host, as with a jetty pall, 
 Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light, 
 Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call. 
 He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fall, 
 Dropt on the echoing ice. Instant the sound 
 Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the 
 ,hall, 
 Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound. 
 Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they 
 surround. 
 
 High on a solium of the solid wave, 
 
 Prankt with rude shapes by the fantastic frost, 100 
 He stood in silence ; — now keen thoughts engrave 
 
 Dark figures on his front ; and, tempest-tost,
 
 PR AG ME NTS I37 
 
 He fears to say that every hope is lost. 
 Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute : 
 
 So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast, 
 Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute. 
 Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute. 
 
 At length collected, o'er the dark Divan 
 
 The arch-fiend glanced, as by the Boreal blaze 
 
 Their downcast brows were seen, and thus began 1 10 
 His fierce harangue : — Spirits ! our better days 
 Are now elapsed ; Moloch and Belial's praise 
 
 Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod. 
 Lo ! the light breaks ! — The astonished nations 
 gaze ! 
 
 For us is lifted high the avenging rod ! 
 For, spirits, this is He, — this is the Son of God. 
 
 What then ! — shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear .? 
 
 Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign 
 Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear ? 
 Madness ! The very thought would make me 
 fain 1 20 
 
 To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain. 
 And hurl them at their Maker ! — Fix'd as fate 
 I am his Foe ! — Yea, though his pride should 
 deign 
 To soothe mine ire with half his regal state, 
 Still would I burn with fixt, unalterable hate.
 
 l^iS POEMS AFTER 'CLIFTON GROVE 
 
 Now hear the issue of my curst emprize, 
 When from our last sad synod I took flight, 
 
 Buoy'd with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise, 
 To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write 
 Ilis own self-condemnation ; in the plight 130 
 
 Of aged man in the lone wildnerness, 
 
 Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight, 
 
 And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to guess 
 What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess. 
 
 Then thus in homely guise I featly framed 
 
 My lowlyspeech : — ' Good sir, what leads this way 
 Your wandering steps? must hapless chance be 
 blamed 
 That you so far from haunt of mortals stray? 
 Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day, 
 Nor trace of man have seen ; but how ! me- 
 thought 140 
 
 Thou wert the youth on whom God"s holy ray 
 I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught 
 That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.' 
 
 'I am that man,' said Jesus, 'I am He ! 
 
 But truce to questions — Canst thou point my feet 
 To some low hut, if haply such there be 
 
 In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet
 
 /•'KAGMENTS 139 
 
 Wilh homely grcetinp;, and may sit and cal ; 
 For forty days I have tarried fasting here, 
 
 Hid in lire dark t^lens (jf this lone retreat, 150 
 And now I iuinger ; and my fainlinf; ear 
 Longs much Itj greet tlic sound of fountains gusliing 
 near.' 
 
 Then tiius I answer'd wily : ' If, indeed. 
 
 Son of our Ood thou iie'st, what need to seek 
 For food from men ? — Lo ! on these Hint stones feed, 
 Hid them be hread ! Open thy lips and speak, 
 And hving rills from yon parcii'd rock will l)reak.' 
 Instant as I had sjjoke, iiis piercing eye 
 
 Fix'd on my face ; —the blood forsook my cheek, 
 
 I could not bear his gaze ; — my mask slipp'd 
 
 by ; 1 60 
 
 1 would have shunn'd liis look, but liad not power 
 
 to fly. 
 
 TJien he rebu]<ed me with the holy word — 
 Accursed sounds ! but ncjw my native pride 
 
 Keturn'd, and by no foolish (lualm deterr'd, 
 I bore him from the mountain's woody side, 
 Up to the summit, where extending wide 
 
 Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes, 
 
 iJright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried. 
 
 And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains, 
 Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculaled 
 swains. 1 70
 
 140 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE 
 
 ' Behold,' I cried, ' these glories ! scenes divine ! 
 
 Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays, 
 And these, O rapture ! these shall all be thine. 
 
 If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise. 
 
 Hath he not given to indigence thy days? 
 Is not thy portion peril here and pain ? 
 
 Oh ! leave his temples, shun his wounding ways ! 
 Seize the tiara ! these mean weeds disdain. 
 Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and 
 splendour gain.' 
 
 ' Is it not written," sternly he replied, i8o 
 
 ' Tempt not the Lord thy God ! ' Frowning he 
 spake. 
 And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide, 
 
 Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake, 
 And caught me up aloft, till in one flake, 
 The sidelong volley met my swift career, 
 
 And smote me earthward. — Jove himself might 
 quake 
 At such a fall ; my sinews crack'd, and near. 
 Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in mine ear. 
 
 Senseless and stunn'd I lay ; till, casting round 
 My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe 190 
 
 Borne on a car of roses to the ground, 
 By volant angels ; and as sailing slow
 
 FRAGMENTS 14 1 
 
 He sunk, the hoary battlement below, 
 While on the tall spire slept the slant sun-beam, 
 Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the flow 
 Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem. 
 On star-light hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's 
 dream. 
 
 I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength ; 
 I smote the ether with my iron wing, 
 
 And left the accursed scene. — Arrived at length 2co 
 In these drear halls, to ye, my peers ! I bring 
 The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king 
 
 Thrice vanquish'd, baffled, smitten, and dismay'd ! 
 O shame ! Is this the hero who could fling 
 Defiance at his Maker, while array'd, 
 High o'er the walls of light rebellion's banners 
 play'd ! 
 
 Vet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph 
 long; 
 Hell yet shall have revenge. — O glorious sight, 
 Prophetic visions on my fancy throng, 
 
 I see wild Agony's lean finger write 210 
 
 Sad figures on his forehead ! — Keenly bright 
 Revenge's flambeau burns ! Now in his eyes 
 
 Stand the hot tears, — immantled in the night, 
 Lo ! he retires to mourn ! — I hear his cries ! 
 He faints — he falls — and lo ! — 'tis true, ye powers, 
 he dies.
 
 142 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 Thus spake the chieftain, — and as if he view'd 
 
 The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced 
 And chest inflated, motionless he stood, 
 While under his uplifted shield he glanced, 
 With straining eye-ball fix"d, like one en- 
 tranced, 220 
 On viewless air ; — thither the dark platoon 
 
 Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there 
 danced 
 The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon, 
 Darken'd the disk of the descending moon. 
 
 Silence crept stilly through the ranks. — The breeze 
 Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands. 
 
 When all the midnight gasping from the seas 
 Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands 
 High on the shrouds the spirit that commands 
 
 The ocean-farer's life ; so stiff — so sear 230 
 
 Stood each dark power ; — while through their 
 numerous bands 
 
 Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear 
 Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear. 
 
 One there was there, whose loud defying tongue 
 Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell 
 
 Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long 
 
 His passion mock"d, and long he stroved to tell
 
 FRAGMENTS 143 
 
 His labouring ire ; still syllable none fell 
 From his pale quivering lip, but died away 
 
 For very fury ; from each hollow cell 240 
 
 Half sprang his eyes, thai cast a flamy ray, 
 And * * * 
 
 ' This comes,' at length burst from the furious chief, 
 
 ' This comes of distant counsels I Here behold 
 The fruits of wily cunning I the relief 
 Which coward policy would fain unfold. 
 To soothe the powers that warr'd with Heaven 
 of old ! 
 O wise ! O potent ! O sagacious snare ! 
 
 And lo ! our prince — the mighty and the bold, 
 There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air, 250 
 While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her 
 standard there.' 
 
 Here, as recovered, Satan fixed his eye 
 
 Full on the speaker ; dark it was and stern ; 
 He wrapt his black vest round him gloomily, 
 And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts 
 
 concern. 
 Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again to turn 
 His soul to rage. ' Behold, behold,' he cried, 
 
 'The lord of Hell, who bade these legions spurn 
 Almighty rule — behold he lays aside 
 The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man 
 defied.' 260
 
 144 POEMS AFTER ' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 Thus ended Moloch, and his [burning] tongue 
 Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat 
 
 In slaughter. So, his native wilds among, 
 The famished tiger pants, when, near his seat, 
 Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet. 
 
 Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword 
 Had from its scabbard sprung ; but toward the 
 
 seat 
 Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord, 
 
 As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. 
 
 * « * 
 
 Ve powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved 
 this of old : who led your forces against the armies 
 of Jehovah ? Who coped with Ithuriel and the 
 thunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunned 
 and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first 
 awoke, and collected your scattered powers ? Lastly, 
 who led you across the unfathomable abyss to this 
 delightful world, and established that reign here 
 which now totters to its base ? How, therefore, 
 dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a strain on Satan's 
 bravery ? he who preys only on the defenceless — who 
 sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in acts 
 of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention. Away 
 with the boaster who never joins in action, but, like 
 a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed upon the 
 wounded, and overwhelm the dying. True bravery 
 is as remote from rashness as from hesitation ; let 
 us counsel coolly, but let us execute our counselled
 
 FRAGMENTS 145 
 
 purposes determinately. In power we have learned, 
 by that experiment which lost us Heaven, that we 
 are inferior to the Thunder-hearer : — In subtlety — 
 in subtlety alone we are his equals. Open war is 
 impossible. 
 
 Thus we shall pierce our Conqueror, through the 
 race 270 
 
 Which as himself he loves ; thus if we fall, 
 We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace 
 Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call 
 Of vengeance rings^ within me ! Warriors all, 
 The word is vengeance, and the spur despair. 
 Away with coward wiles ! — Death's coal-black 
 pall 
 Be now our standard ! — Be our torch the glare 
 Of cities fired ! our fifes, the shrieks that fill 
 the air ! 
 
 Ilim answering rose Mecashpim, who of old, 
 
 Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves, 280 
 
 Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms untold 
 And mystery. His wandering spirit roves. 
 Now vainly searching for the flame it loves, 
 
 And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire, 
 Where stood his temple, and where fragrant 
 cloves 
 
 And cinnamon upheap'd the sacred pyre, 
 And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire. 
 
 1 The Southey volume misprints ' wrings.' Ed. 
 
 K
 
 146 POEMS AFTER' CLIFTON GROVE' 
 
 He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast, 
 And sighing — his papyrus scarf survey'd. 
 
 Woven with dark characters ; then thus address'd 290 
 The troubled council. 
 
 Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme 
 
 With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung 
 Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 
 
 The lyre which I in early days have strung ; 
 
 And now my spirits faint, and I have hung 
 The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour. 
 
 On the dark cypress ! and the strings which rung 
 With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, 
 Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard 
 no more. 300 
 
 And must the harp of Judah sleep again ? 
 
 Shall I no more reanimate the lay ? 
 Oh ! thou who visitest the sons of men, 
 
 Thou who dost listen when the humble pray 
 
 One little space prolong my mournful day ! 
 One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 
 
 I am a youthful traveller in the way, 
 And this slight boon would consecrate to thee. 
 Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am 
 free.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE 
 FRAGMENTS
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 NoUiiighani, September, i7gy 
 Dear IJiotlier, 
 
 iNconseijuence of your repealed .solicitations, I now 
 sit down to write to you, although I never received 
 an answer to the last letter which I wrote, nearly 
 six months ago ; but, as I never heard you mention 
 it in any of my mother's letters, I am induced to 
 think it has miscarried, or been mislaid in your 
 office. 
 
 It is now nearly four months since I entered into 
 Mr Coldham's office ; and it is with pleasure I can 
 assure you, that I never yet found anything dis- 
 agreeable, but, on the contrary, everything I do 
 seems a pleasure to me, and for a very obvious 
 reason — it is a business which I like — a business 
 which I chose before all others ; and I have two 
 good-tempered, easy masters, but who will, never- 
 theless, see that their business is done in a neat 
 and proper manner. The study of the law is well 
 known to be a dry, difficult task, and requires a 
 149
 
 150 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 comprehensive, good understanding ; and I hope 
 you will allow me (without charging me with 
 egotism) to have a tolerable one ; and I trust with 
 perseverance, and a very large law library to refer 
 to, I shall be able to accomplish the study of so 
 much of the laws of England, and our system of 
 jurisprudence, in less than five years, as to enable 
 me to be a country attorney ; and then, as I shall 
 have two more years to serve, I hope I shall attain 
 so much knowledge in all parts of the law, as to 
 enable me, with a little study at the inns of court, 
 to hold an argument on the nice points in the law 
 with the best attorney in the kingdom. A man 
 that understands the law is sure to have business ; 
 and in case I have no thoughts, in case that is, 
 that I do not aspire to hold the honourable place 
 of a barrister, I shall feel sure of gaining a genteel 
 livelihood at the business to which I am articled. 
 
 I attend at the office at eight in the morning, and 
 leave at eight in the evening ; then attend my Latin 
 until nine, which, you may be sure, is pretty close 
 confinement. 
 
 Mr Coldham is clerk to the commercial com- 
 missioners, which has occasioned us a deal of extra- 
 ordinary work. I worked all Sunday, and until 
 twelve o'clock on Saturday night, when they were 
 hurried to give in the certificates to the bank. We 
 had also a very troublesome cause last assizes. The 
 Corporation versus Gee, which we (the attorneys 
 for the corporation) lost. It was really a very 
 fatiguing day (I mean the day on which it was
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 151 
 
 tried). I never got anything to eat, from five in 
 the afternoon the preceding day, until twelve the 
 next night, when the trial ended. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Nottingham, 26th June, iSoo 
 Dear Brother, 
 
 * -:r * 
 
 My mother has allowed me a good deal lately for 
 books, and I have a large assortment (a retailer's 
 phrase). But I hope you do not suppose they 
 consist of novels — no — I have made a firm resolu- 
 tion never to spend above one hour at this amuse- 
 ment. Though I have been obliged to enter into 
 this resolution in consequence of a vitiated taste 
 acquired by reading romances, I do not intend to 
 banish them entirely from my desk. After long 
 and fatiguing researches in Blackstone or Coke, when 
 the mind becomes weak, through intense applica- 
 tion, Tom Jo7ies, or Robinson Crusoe, will afford a 
 pleasing and necessary relaxation. 
 
 Apropos — now we are speaking of Robinson 
 Crusoe, I shall observe, that is allowed to be the 
 best novel for youth in the English language. De 
 Foe, the author, was a singular character ; but as 
 I make no doubt you have read his life, I will 
 not trouble you with any further remarks. 
 
 The books which I now read with attention, arc 
 Blackstone, Knox's Essays, Plutarch, Chesterfield's
 
 152 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 Letters, four large volumes, Virgil, Homer, and 
 Cicero, and several others. Blackstone and Knox, 
 Virgil and Cicero, I have got ; the others I read 
 out of Mr Coldham's library. I have finished RoUin's 
 Ancient History, Blair's Lectures, Smith's Wealth of 
 Nations, Hume's England, and British Ncpos, lately. 
 When I have read Knox I will send it you, and 
 recommend it to your attentive perusal ; it is a 
 most excellent work. I also read now the British 
 Classics, the common edition of which I now take 
 in ; it comes every fortnight ; I dare say you have 
 seen it ; it is Cooke's edition. I would recommend 
 you also to read these ; I will send them to you. 
 I have got The Citizen of the World, Idler, Gold- 
 smith's Essays, and part of The Rambler. I will 
 send you soon the fourth number of The Monthly 
 Preceptor. I am noticed as worthy of commendation, 
 and as affording an encouraging prospect of future 
 excellence. — You will laugh. I have also turned 
 poet, and have translated an Ode of Horace into 
 English verse, also for The Monthly Preceptor, but, 
 unfortunately, when I sent it, I forgot the title, so 
 it wont be noticed. 
 
 I do not forsake the flowery paths of poesy, for 
 that is my chief delight ; I read the best poets. 
 Mr Coldham has got Johnson's complete set, with 
 their lives ; these of course I read. 
 
 With a little drudgery, I read Italian — Have got 
 some good Italian works, as Pastor Fido, &c., &c. 
 I taught myself, and have got a grammar. 
 
 I must now beg leave to return you my sincere
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 153 
 
 thanks for your kind present. I like La Bruyere 
 the Less very much ; I have read the original Za 
 Bruyere : I think him like Rouchefoucault. Madame 
 de Genlis is a very able woman. 
 
 Bui I must now attempt to excuse my neglect in 
 not writing to you. First, I have been very busy 
 with these essays and poems for The Monthly 
 Preceptor. Second, I was rather angry at your last 
 letter — I can bear anything but a sneer, and it was 
 one continued grin from beginning to end, as were 
 all the notices you made of nie in my mother'.s letters, 
 and I could not, nor can I now, brook it. I could 
 say much more, but it is very late, and must beg 
 leave to wish you good night. 
 
 I am, dear brother, 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 H. K. WHITE 
 
 P. S. You may expect a regular correspondence 
 from me in future, but no sneers ; and shall be 
 very obliged by a long letter. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Nottingham, 25th June, 1800 
 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 ♦ -* ■» 
 
 You are inclined to flatter me when you compare 
 my application with yours ; in truth, I am not half
 
 154 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 so assiduous as you, and I am conscious I waste a 
 deal of time unwitting!"}'. But, in reading, I am 
 upon the continual search for improvement : I thirst 
 after knowledge, and though my disposition is 
 naturally idle, I conquer it when reading a useful 
 book. The plan which I pursued, in order to subdue 
 my disinclination to dry books, was this, to begin 
 attentively to peruse it, and continue thus one hour 
 every day ; the book insensibly, by this means, 
 becomes pleasing to you ; and even when reading 
 Blackstone's Commentaries, which are very dry, I lay 
 down the book with regret. 
 
 With regard to The Monthly Preceptor, I certainly 
 shall be agreeable to your taking it in, as my only 
 objection was the extreme impatience which I feel 
 to see whether my essays have been successful ; but 
 this may be obviated by your speedy perusal, and not 
 neglecting to forward it. But you must have the 
 goodness not to begin till August, as my bookseller 
 
 cannot stop it this month. 
 
 « * * 
 
 I had a ticket given me to the boxes, on Monday 
 night, for the benefit of Campbell, from Drury-Lane, 
 and there was such a riot as never was experienced 
 here before. He is a democrat, and the soldiers 
 planned a riot in conjunction with the mob. We 
 heard the shouting of the rabble in the street before 
 the //a;' was over ; the moment the curtain dropped, 
 an officer went into the front box, and gave the word 
 of command ; immediately about sixty troopers started 
 up, and six trumpeters in the pit played ' God save
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 155 
 
 the King '. The noise was astonishing. The officers 
 in the boxes then drew their swords; and at another 
 signal the privates in the pit drew their bludgeons, 
 which they had hitherto concealed, and attacked all 
 indiscriminately, that had not an uniform : the officers 
 did the same with their swords, and the house was 
 one continued scene of confusion : one pistol was 
 fired, and the ladies were fainting in the lobby. The 
 outer doors were shut to keep out the mob, and the 
 people jumped on the stage as a last resource. One 
 of these noble officers, seeing one man stand in the 
 pit with his hat on, jumped over the division, and 
 cut him with his sword, which the man instantly 
 wrenched from him, and broke, whilst the officer 
 sneaked back in disgrace. They then formed a troop, 
 and having emptied the play-house, they scoured the 
 streets with their swords, and returned home victorious. 
 The players are, in consequence, dismissed ; and we 
 have informations in our office against the officers. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Nottingham, nth April, iSoi 
 Dear Neville, 
 On opening yours, I was highly pleased to find 
 two and a half sheets of paper, and nothing could 
 exceed my joy at so apparently long a letter, but 
 upon finding it consisted of sides filled after the 
 rate of five words in a line, and nine lines in a page,
 
 156 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 I could not conceal my chagrin ; and I am sure 
 I may very modestly say, that one of my ordinary 
 pages contains three of yours : if you knew half the 
 pleasure I feel in your correspondence, I am confident 
 you would lengthen your letters. You tantalize me 
 with the hopes of a prolific harvest, and I find, alas ! 
 a thin crop, whose goodness only makes me lament 
 its scantiness. 
 
 I had almost forgot to tell you, that I have obtained 
 the first prize (of a pair of Adams's twelve-inch globes, 
 value three guineas) in the first class of The Monthly 
 Preceptor. The subject was an imaginary tour from 
 London to Edinburgh. It is printed consequently, 
 and shall send it to you the very first opportunity. 
 The proposals stated, that the essay was not to exceed 
 three pages when printed — mine takes seven ; there- 
 fore I am astonished they gave me the first prize. 
 There was an extraordinary number of candidates ; 
 and they said they never had a greater number of 
 excellent ones, and they wished they could have 
 given thirty prizes. You will find it (in a letter) 
 
 addressed to N , meaning yourself 
 
 « * * 
 
 Warton is a poet from whom I have derived the 
 most exquisite pleasure and gratification. He abounds 
 in sublimity and loftiness of thought, as well as 
 expression. His Pleasures of Melancholy is truly 
 a sublime poem. The following passage I particularly 
 admire :
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 157 
 
 Nor undelightful in the solemn noon 
 Of night, where, haply wakeful from my couch 
 I start, lo, all is motionless around ! 
 Roars not the rushing wind ; the sons of men, 
 And every beast, in mute oblivion lie : 
 All Nature's hush'd in silence, and in sleep. 
 Oh, then, how fearful is it to reflect, 
 That through the still globe's awful solitude 
 No being wakes but me. 
 How affecting are the latter lines ! it is impossible to 
 withstand the emotions which rise on its perusal, and 
 I envy not that man his insensibility who can read 
 them with apathy. Many of the pieces of the Bible 
 are written in this sublime manner : one psalm, 
 think the i8th, is a perfect master-piece, and has been 
 imitated by many poets. Compare these, or the 
 above quoted from Warton, with the finest piece in 
 Pope, and then judge of the rank which he holds as a 
 poet. Another instance of the sublime in poetry I 
 will give you, from Akenside's admirable Pleasures 
 of Imagination, where, speaking of the soul he says, 
 she 
 
 Rides on the vollied lightning through the heavens. 
 And yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast. 
 Sweeps the long tract of day. 
 
 Many of these instances of sublimity will occur to you 
 in Thomson. 
 
 James begs leave to present you with Bloomfield's 
 Fartner^s Boy. Bloomfield has no grandeur or 
 height ; he is a pastoral poet, and the simply sweet
 
 158 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 is what you are to expect from him ; nevertheless, his 
 descriptions are sometimes little inferior to Thomson. 
 
 * * * 
 
 How pleased should I be, Neville, to have you 
 with us at Nottingham ! Our fire-side would be 
 delightful. I should profit by your sentiments and 
 experience, and you possibly might gain a little from 
 my small bookish knowledge. But I am afraid that 
 time will never come ; your time of apprenticeship 
 is nearly expired, and, in all appearance, the small 
 residue that yet remains will be passed in hated 
 London. When you are emancipated, you will have 
 to mix in the bustle of the world, in all probability, 
 also, far from home ; so that when we have just 
 learned how happy we might mutually make our- 
 selves, we find scarcely a shadow of a probability 
 of ever having the opportunity. Well, well, it is 
 in vain to resist the immutable decrees of fate. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Nottingham, April, 1801 
 Dear Neville, 
 As I know you will participate with me in the 
 pleasure I receive from literary distinctions, I hasten 
 to inform you, that my poetical Essay on Gratitude is 
 printed in this month's Preceptor ; that my remarks 
 on Warton are promised insertion in the next month's 
 Mirror ; and that my Essay on Truth is printed in
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 159 
 
 the present (April) Monthly Visitor. The Preceptor I 
 shall not be able to send you until the end of this 
 month. The Visitor you will herewith receive. The 
 next month's Mirror I shall consequently buy. I 
 wish it were not quite so expensive, as I think it a 
 very good work. Benjamin Thomson, Capel Lofft, 
 Esq., Robert Bloomfield, Thomas Dermody, Mr 
 Gilchrist, under the signature of Octavius, Mrs Blore, 
 a noted female writer, under the signature of Q. Z., 
 are correspondents ; and the editors are not only men 
 of genius and taste, but of the greatest respectability. 
 As I shall now be a regular contributor to this works 
 and as I think it contains much good matter, I have 
 half an inclination to take it in, more especially as you 
 have got the prior volumes : but in the present state 
 of my finances it will not be prudent, unless you accede 
 to a proposal, which, I think, will be gratifying 
 to yourself. — It is, to take it in conjunction with 
 ine ; by which means we shall both have the same 
 enjoyment of it, with half the expense. It is of 
 little consequence who takes them, only he must be 
 expeditious in reading them. If you have any the 
 least objection to this scheme, do not suppress it 
 through any regard to punctilio. I have only pro- 
 posed it, and it is not very material whether you 
 concur or not ; only exercise your own discretion. 
 
 You say, (speaking of a passage concerning you 
 in my last), ' this is compliment sufficient ; the rest 
 must be flattery'. — Do you seriously, Neville, think 
 me capable of flattery? 
 
 As you well know I am a carping, critical little
 
 i6o LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 dog, you will not be surprised at my observing that 
 there is one figure in your last that savours rather 
 of the ludicrous, when you talk of a ' butterfly 
 hopping from book to book '. 
 
 As to the something that I am to find out, that is a 
 perpetual bar to your progress in knowledge, &c., I 
 am inclined to think. Doctor, it is merely conceit. 
 You fancy that you cannot write a letter — you dread 
 its idea ; you conceive that a work of four volumes 
 would require the labours of a life to read through ; 
 you persuade yourself that you cannot retain what you 
 read, and in despair do not attempt to conquer these 
 visionary impediments. Confidence, Neville, in one's 
 own abilities, is a sure forerunner (in similar circum- 
 stances with the present) of success. As an illustra" 
 tion of this, I beg leave to adduce the example of 
 Pope, who had so high a sense, in his youth, or 
 rather in his infancy, of his own capacity, that there 
 was nothing of which, when once set about, he did 
 not think himself capable ; and, as Dr Johnson has 
 observed, the natural consequence of this minute 
 perception of his own powers, was his arriving at as 
 high a pitch of perfection as it was possible for a 
 man with his few natural endowments to attain. 
 
 When you wish to read Johnson's Lives of the 
 Poets, send for them : I have lately purchased them. 
 I have now a large library. My mother allows me 
 ten pounds per annum for clothes. I always dress 
 in a respectable and even in a genteel manner, yet 
 I can make much less than this sum suffice. Mv
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS i6i 
 
 father generally gives me one coat in a year, and 
 I make two serve. I then receive one guinea per 
 annum for keeping my mother's books ; one guinea 
 per annum pocket-money : and by other means I 
 gain, perhaps, two guineas more per annum : so 
 that I have been able to buy pretty many ; and 
 when you come home, you will find me in my study 
 surrounded with books and papers. I am a perfect 
 garreteer : great part of my library, however, consists 
 of professional books. Have you read Burke On the 
 Sublime ? Knox's Winter Evening ? — Can lend them 
 to you, if you have not. 
 
 Really, Neville, were you fully sensible how much 
 my time is occupied, principally about my profession, 
 as a primary concern, and in the hours necessarily set 
 apart to relaxation, on polite literature, to which, as 
 a hobby-horse, I am very desirous of paying some 
 attention, you would not be angry at my delay in 
 writing, or my short letters. It is always with joy 
 that I devote a leisure hour to you, as it affords you 
 gratification ; and rest assured, that I always partici- 
 pate in your pleasure, and poignantly feel every 
 adverse incident which causes you pain. 
 
 Permit me, however, again to observe, that one 
 of my sheets is equal to two of yours ; and I cannot 
 but consider this is a kind of fallacious deception, for 
 you always think that your letters contain so much 
 more than mine because they occupy more room. If 
 you were to count the words, the difference would 
 not be so great. You must also take in account the 
 unsealed communications to periodical works, which 
 
 L
 
 i62 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 I now reckon a part of my letter ; and therefore you 
 must excuse my concluding on the first sheet, by 
 assuring you that I still remain 
 
 Your friend and brother, 
 
 H. K. WHITE 
 
 P. S. A postscript is a natural appendage to a 
 letter. — I only have to say, that positively you shall 
 receive a six or eight sheet letter, and that written 
 legibly, ere long. 
 
 TO MR BOOTH 
 
 Nottingham, 12th August, iSoi 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 I MUST beg leave to apologize for not having 
 returned my sincere acknowledgments to yourself 
 and Mrs Booth, for your very acceptable presents, 
 at an earlier period. I now, however, acquit myself 
 of the duty ; and assure you, that from both of the 
 works I have received much gratification and edifica- 
 tion, but more particularly from one on the Trinity 1, 
 a production which displays much erudition, and a 
 very laudable zeal for the true interests of religion. 
 Religious polemics, indeed, have seldom formed a 
 part of my studies ; though, whenever I happened 
 accidentally to turn my thoughts to the subject of 
 
 ' Tones on the Triuitv.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 163 
 
 the Protestant doctrine of the Godhead, and compared 
 it with Arian and Socinian, many doubts interfered, 
 and I even began to think that the more nicely the 
 subject was investigated, the more perplexed it would 
 appear, and was on the point of forming a resolution 
 to go to heaven in my own way, without meddling 
 or involving myself in the inextricable labyrinth of 
 controversial dispute, when I received and perused 
 this excellent treatise, which finally cleared up the 
 mists which my ignorance had conjured around me, 
 and clearly pointed out the real truth. The intention 
 of the author precluded the possibility of his employ- 
 ing the ornaments and graces of composition in his 
 work ; for as it was meant for all ranks, it must be 
 suited to all capacities ; but the arguments are drawn 
 up and arranged in so forcible and perspicuous a 
 manner, and are written so plainly, yet pleasingly, 
 that I was absolutely charmed with them. 
 
 The Evangelical Clergyman is a very smart 
 piece ; the author possesses a considerable portion 
 of sarcastic spirit, and no little acrimony, perhaps 
 not consistent with the Christian meekness which 
 he wishes to inculcate. I consider, however, that 
 London would not have many graces, or attractions, 
 if despoiled of all the amusements to which, in one 
 part of his pamphlet, he objects. In theory, the 
 destruction of these vicious recreations is very fine : 
 but in practice, I am afraid he would find it quite 
 different, * * * The other parts of this piece are 
 very just, and such as every person must subscribe lo. 
 Clergymen, in general, are not what they ought to
 
 I64 i-ETTkRS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 be ; and 1 think Mr has pointed out their 
 
 duties very accurately. But I am afraid I shall be 
 deemed impertinent and tiresome, in troubling you 
 with ill-timed and obtrusive opinions, and beg leave, 
 therefore, to conclude, with respects to yourself and 
 Mrs Booth, by assuring you that I am, according to 
 custom from time immemorial, and in due form, 
 Dear sir, your obliged humble servant, 
 
 IIENRV KIRKE WHITE 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Nottinghain. loth Felnuary, 1S03 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 * * » 
 
 Now with regard to the subscription, I shall 
 certainly agree to this mode of publication, and I 
 am very much obliged to you for what you saj- 
 regarding it. But we must wait (except among your 
 private friends) until we get Lady Derby's answer, 
 and Proposals are printed. I think we shall readily 
 raise 350, though Nottingham is the worst place 
 imaginable for anything of that kind. Even envy 
 will interfere. I shall send proposals to Chesterfield, 
 to my uncle ; to Sheffield, to Miss Gales's (book- 
 sellers), whom I saw at Chesterfield, and who have 
 lately sent me a pressing invitation to S , ac- 
 companied with a desire of Montgomery (the Poet 
 Paul Positive) to see me ; to Newark — Allen and
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 165 
 
 Wright, my friends there (the latter a bookseller) ; 
 and I think if they were stitched up with all the 
 Monthly Mirrors, it would promote the subscription. 
 You are not to take any money ; that would be 
 absolute begging : the subscribers put down their 
 names, and pay the bookseller of whom they get 
 the copy. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Nottingham, loth March, 1803 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 I AM cured of patronage hunting ; I will not expose 
 myself to any more similar mortifications, but shall 
 thank you to send the manuscripts to Mr Hill, with 
 a note, stating that I had written to the Duchess, 
 and receiving no answer, you had called, and been 
 informed by a servant, that in all probability she 
 never read the letter, as she desired to know what the 
 book was left therefor ; that you had, in consequence, 
 come away with the manuscripts, under a conviction 
 that your brother would give Her Grace no further 
 trouble. State also, that you have received a letter 
 from me, expressing a desire that the publication 
 might be proceeded on without any further solicita- 
 tion or delay. 
 
 A name of eminence was, nevertheless, a most 
 desirable thing to me in Nottingham, as it would
 
 i66 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 attach more respectability to the subscription ; but 
 I see all further efforts will only be productive of 
 procrastination. 
 
 I think you may as well begin to obtain subscribers 
 amongst friends now, though the proposals may not 
 lie issued at present. 
 
 I have got twenty-three, without making the affair 
 public at all, among my immediate acquaintance : 
 and mind, I neither solicit nor draw the conversation 
 to the subject, but a rumour has got abroad, and has 
 been received more favourably than I expected. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Nottingham, 2nd May, iSot 
 Dear Neville, 
 I HAVE just gained a piece of intelligence which 
 much vexes me. Robinson, the bookseller, knovTS 
 that I have written to the Duchess of Devonshire, 
 and he took the liberty (certainly an unwarrantable 
 one) to mention it to * * *, whose * * * was 
 inscribed to Her Grace. Mr * * * said, that unless 
 I had got a friend to deliver the poems, personally, 
 into the hands of Her Grace, it was a hundred to one 
 that they ever reached her ; that the porter at the 
 lodge burns scores of letters and packets a day, and 
 particularly all letters by the twopenny post are
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 167 
 
 consigned to the fire. The rest, if they are not 
 particularly excepted, as inscribed with a pass natne 
 on the back, are thrown into a closet, to be reclaimed 
 at leisure. He said, the way he proceeded was this : 
 He left his card at her door, and the next day called, 
 and was admitted. Her Grace then gave him per- 
 mission, with this proviso, that the dedication was 
 as short as possible, and contained no compliments, 
 as the Duke had taken offence at some such 
 compliments. 
 
 Now, as my letter was delivered by you at the 
 door, I have scarcely a doubt that it is classed with 
 the penny-post letters, and burnt. If my manuscripts 
 are destroyed, I am ruined, but I hope it is otherwise. 
 However, I think you had better call immediately, 
 and ask for a parcel of Mr H. White, of Nottingham. 
 They will, of course, say they have no such parcel : 
 and then, perhaps, you may have an opportunity of 
 asking whether a packet, left in the manner you left 
 mine, had any probability of reaching the Duchess. 
 If you obtain no satisfaction, there remains no way of 
 re-obtaining my volume but this (and I fear you will 
 never agree to put in execution) ; to leave a card, 
 with your name inscribed (Mr J. N. White), and call 
 the next day. If you are admitted, you will state 
 to Her Grace the purport of your errand, ask for a 
 volume of poems in manuscript, sent by your brother 
 a fortnight ago, with a letter (say from Nottingham, 
 as a reason why I do not wait on her), requesting 
 permission of dedication to her ; and that as you 
 found Her Grace had not received them, you had
 
 i6S LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 taken the liberty, after many inquiries at her door, 
 to request to see her in person. 
 
 I hope your diffidence will not be put to this test ; 
 I hope you will get the poems without trouble : as 
 for begging patronage, I am tired to the soul of it, 
 and shall give it up. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVHXE 
 
 Nottingham, 1803 
 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 I WRITE you, with intelligence of a very important 
 nature. You some time ago had an intimation of my 
 wish to enter the church, in case my deafness was not 
 removed. — About a week ago I became acquainted 
 
 with the Rev. , late of St John's College, 
 
 Cambridge, and in consequence of what he has 
 said, I have finally determined to enter myself of 
 Trinity College, Cambridge, with the approbation 
 of all my friends. 
 
 Mr says that it is a shame to keep me away 
 
 from the university, and that circumstances are of 
 no importance. He says, that if I am entered of 
 Trinity, where they are all select men, I must 
 necessarily, with my abilities, arrive at preferment. 
 He says he will be answerable that the first year I 
 shall obtain a scholarship, or an exhibition adequate 
 to my support. That by the time I have been of
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 169 
 
 five years' standing, I shall of course become a 
 Fellow (200/. a-year) ; that with the Fellowship I 
 may hold a Professorship, (500/. per annum), and 
 a living or curacy, until better preferments occur. 
 He says, that there is no tmcertainty in the church 
 to a truly pious man, and a man of abilities and 
 eloquence. That those who are unprovided for, are 
 generally men who, having no interest, are idle 
 drones, or dissolute debauchees, and therefore ought 
 not to expect advancement. That a poet, in parti- 
 cular, has the means of patronage in his pen : and 
 that, in one word, no young man can enter the 
 church (except he be of family) with better prospects 
 than myself. On the other hand, Mr Enfield has 
 himself often observed, that my deafness will be an 
 insuperable obstacle to me as an attorney, and has 
 said how unfortunate a thing it was for me not to 
 have known of the growing defect, in my organs 
 of hearing, before I articled myself. Under these 
 circumstances, I conceive I should be culpable did 
 I let go so good an opportunity as now occurs. 
 
 Mr will write to all his university friends, 
 
 and he says there is so much liberality there, that 
 they will never let a young man of talents be turned 
 from his studies by want of cash. 
 
 Yesterday I spoke to Mr Enfield, and he, with 
 unexampled generosity, said that he saw clearly what 
 an advantageous thing it would be for me ; that I 
 must be sensible what a great loss he and Mr 
 Coldham would suffer; but that he was certain 
 neither he, nor Mr C , could oppose themselves
 
 170 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 to anything which was so much to my advantage. 
 
 When Mr C returns from London, the matter 
 
 will be settled with my mother. 
 
 All my mother's friends seem to think this an 
 excellent thing for me, and will do all in their 
 power to forward me. 
 
 Now we come to a very important part of the 
 business — the tncans. I shall go with my friend 
 Robert, in the capacity of Sizar, to whom the 
 expense is not more than 60/. per annum. Towards 
 this sum my mother will contribute 20/, being what 
 she allows me now for clothes ; (by this means she 
 will save my board :) and, for the residue, I must 
 trust to getting a Scholarship, or Chapel Clerk's 
 post. But, in order to make this residue certain, 
 I shall, at the expiration of twelve months, publish a 
 second volume of poems by subscription. 
 
 My friend, Mr says, that so far as his means 
 
 will go, I shall never ask assistance in vain. He 
 has but a small income, though of great family. He 
 has just lost two rectories by scruples of conscience, 
 
 and now preaches at for 80/. a - year. The 
 
 following letter he put into my hand as I was 
 leaving him, after having breakfasted with him 
 yesterday. He put it into my hand, and requested 
 me not to read it until I got home. It is a breach 
 of trust letting you see it, but I wish you to know 
 his character.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 171 
 
 ' My dear Sir, 
 ' I sincerely wish I had it in my power to render 
 you any essential service, to facilitate your passing 
 through College : believe me, I have the will, but 
 not the means. Should the enclosed be of any 
 service, either to purchase books, or for other 
 pocket expenses, I request your acceptance of it ; 
 but must entreat you not to notice it, either to 
 myself, or any living creature. I pray God that 
 you may employ those talents that he has given 
 you to his glory, and to the benefit of his people. 
 I have great fears for you ; the temptations of 
 College are great. 
 
 Believe me very sincerely yours, 
 
 * * * 
 
 The enclosure was 2/. 2s. I could not refuse what 
 was so delicately offered, though I was sorry to 
 take it : he is truly an amiable character. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Nottingham, 1803 
 
 Dear Neville, 
 You may conceive with what emotions I read your 
 brotherly letter ; I feel a very great degree of aversion 
 to burthening my family any more than I have done, 
 and now do ; but an offer so delicate and affectionate 
 I cannot refuse, and if I should need pecuniary
 
 172 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 assistance, which I am in hopes I shall not, at 
 least after the first year, I shall without a moment's 
 hesitation apply to my brother Neville. 
 
 My college schemes yet remain in a considerable 
 degree of uncertainty ; I am very uneasy thereabouts. 
 I have not heard from Cambridge yet, and it is 
 very doubtful whether there be a vacant Sizarship 
 in Trinity : so that I can write you no further 
 information on this head. 
 
 I suppose you have seen my review in this month's 
 Mirror, and that I need not comment upon it ; such 
 a review I neither expected, nor in fact deserve. 
 
 I shall not send up the Mirror, this month, on 
 this account, as it is policy to keep it ; and you have, 
 no doubt, received one from Mr Hill. 
 
 The errors in the Greek quotation I perceived the 
 moment I got down the first copies, and altered them, 
 in most, with the pen ; they are very unlucky ; I have 
 sent up the copies for the reviews myself, in order that 
 I might make the correction in them. 
 
 I have got now to write letters to all the reviewers, 
 and hope you will excuse my abrupt conclusion of 
 this letter on that score. 
 
 I am, dear Neville, affectionately yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE 
 
 I shall write to Mr Hill now the fust thing ; I owe 
 much to him.
 
 Letters and prose fragments 173 
 to mr b. maddock 
 
 Nottingham, 
 
 My Dear Ben, 
 
 And now, my dear Ben, I must confess your 
 letter gave me much pain ; there is a tone of 
 despondence in it which I must condemn, inasmuch 
 as it is occasioned by circumstances which do not 
 involve your own exertions, but which are utterly 
 independent of yourself: if you do your duty, why 
 lament that it is not productive ? In whatever situa- 
 tion we may be placed, there is a duty wc owe to 
 God and religion : it is resignation ; — nay, I may 
 say, contentment. All things are in the hands of 
 God ; and shall we mortals (if we do not absolutely 
 repine at his dispensations) be fretful under them ? 
 I do beseech you, my dear Ben, summon up the 
 Christian within you, and steeled with holy fortitude 
 go on your way rejoicing ! There is a species of 
 morbid sensibility to which I myself have often been 
 a victim, which preys upon my heart, and, without 
 giving birth to one actively useful or benevolent 
 feeling, does but brood on selfish sorrows, and 
 magnify its own misfortunes. The evils of such a 
 sensibility, I pray to God you may never feel ; but I 
 would have you beware, for it grows on persons of a 
 certain disposition before they are aware of it. 
 
 I am sorry my letter gave you pain, and I trust my 
 suspicions were without foundation. Time, my dear
 
 174 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 Ben, is ihe discoverer of hearts, and I feel a sweet 
 confidence that he will knit ours yet more closely 
 together. 
 
 I believe my lot in life is nearly fixed ; a month 
 will tell me whether I am to be a minister of Christ, 
 in the established church, or out. One of the two, I 
 am now finally resolved, if it please God, to be. I 
 know my own unworthiness : I feel deeply that I am 
 far from being that pure and undefiled temple of the 
 Holy Ghost that a minister of the word of life ought 
 to be, yet still I have an unaccountable hope that the 
 Lord will sanctify my efforts, that he will purify me, 
 and that I shall become his devoted servant. 
 
 I am at present under atBictions and contentions of 
 spirit, heavier than I have yet ever experienced. I 
 think, at times, I am mad, and destitute of religion. 
 My pride is not yet subdued : the unfavourable review 
 (in The Monthly) of my unhappy work, has cut deeper 
 than you could have thought ; not in a literary point 
 of view, but as it affects my respectability. It repre- 
 sents me actually as a beggar, going about gather- 
 ing money to put myself at College, when my book is 
 worthless ; and this with every appearance of candour. 
 They have been sadly misinformed respecting me : 
 this Review goes before me wherever I turn my steps ; 
 it haunts me incessantly, and I am persuaded it is 
 an instrument in the hands of Satan to drive me to 
 distraction. I must leave Nottingham. If the answer 
 of the Elland .Society be unfavourable, I purpose 
 writing to the Marquis of Wellesley, to offer myself 
 as a student at the academy he has instituted at Fort
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 175 
 
 William, in Bengal, and at the proper age to take 
 orders there. The missionaries at that place have 
 done wonders already, and I should, I hope, be a 
 valuable labourer in the vineyard. If the Marquis take 
 no notice of my application, or do not accede to my 
 proposal, I shall place myself in some other way of 
 making a meet preparation for the holy office, either 
 in the Calvanistic Academy, or in one of the Scotch 
 Universities, where I shall be able to live at scarcely 
 any expense. 
 
 TO .-.MR R. A 
 
 Nottingham, i8th April, 1804 
 
 My Dear Robert, 
 I HAVE just received your letter. Most fervently do 
 I return thanks to God for this providential opening ; 
 it has breathed new animation into me, and my breast 
 expands with the prospect of becoming the minister of 
 Christ where I most desired it ; but where I almost 
 feared all probability of success was nearly at an end. 
 Indeed, I had begun lo turn my thoughts to the 
 dissenters, as people of whom I was destined, not 
 by choice, but necessity, to become the pastor. Still, 
 although I knew I should be happy anywhere, so that 
 I were a profitable labourer in the vineyard, I did, by 
 no means, feel that calm, that indescribable satisfaction 
 which I do, when I look toward that church, which I
 
 176 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 think, in the main, formed on the apostolic model, 
 and from which I am decidedly of opinion there is no 
 positive grounds for dissent. I return thanks to God 
 for keeping me so long in suspense, for I know it has 
 been beneficial to my soul, and I feel a considerable 
 trust that the way is now about to be made clear, and 
 that my doubts and fears on this head will, in due 
 time, be removed. 
 
 Could I be admitted to St John's, I conclude, from 
 what I have heard, that my provision would be 
 adequate, not otherwise. From my mother I could 
 depend on 15 or 20/. a-year if she live, toward 
 college expenses, and I could spend the long vacation 
 at home. The 20/. per annum from my brother 
 would suffice for clothes, &c. ; so that if I could 
 procure 20/. a-year more, as you seem to think I 
 may, by the kindness of Mr Martyn, I conceive I 
 might, with economy, be supported at College ; of 
 this, however, you are the best judge. 
 
 You may conceive how much I feel obliged by Mr 
 Martyn on this head, as well as to you, for your 
 unwearying exertions. Truly, friends have risen up 
 to me in quarters where I could not have expected 
 them, and they have been raised, as it were, by the 
 finger of God. I have reason, above all men, to be 
 grateful to the Father of all mercies for his loving- 
 kindness towards me ; surely no one can have had 
 more experience of the fatherly concern with which 
 God watches over, protects, and succours his chosen 
 seed, than I have had ; and surely none could have
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 177 
 
 less expected such a manifestation of his grace, and 
 none could have less merited its continuance. 
 
 In pursuance of your injunction, I shall lay aside 
 Grotius, and take up Cicero and Livy, or Tacitus. 
 In Greek I must rest contented for the ensuing 
 fourteen days with the Testament ; I shall then have 
 conquered the Gospels, and, if things go on smoothly, 
 the Acts. I shall then read Homer, and perhaps 
 Plato's Phicdon, which I lately picked up at a stall. 
 My classical knowledge is very superficial ; it has very 
 little depth or solidity ; but I have really so small a 
 portion of leisure, that I wonder at the progress I do 
 make. I believe I must copy the old divines, in 
 rising at four o'clock : for my evenings are so much 
 taken up with visiting the sick, and with young men 
 who come for religious conversation, that there is but 
 little time for study. 
 
 TO MR B. MADDOCK 
 
 Nottingham, 24lh April, 1S04 
 
 My Dear Ben, 
 Truly I am grieved, that whenever I undertake to 
 be the messenger of glad tidings, I should frustrate 
 my own design, and communicate to my good intelli- 
 gence a taint of sadness, as it were by contagion. Most 
 joyfully did I sit down to write my last, as I knew 
 
 M
 
 178 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 I had wherewith to administer comfort to you ; and 
 yet, after all, I find that, by gloomy anticipations, I 
 have converted my balsam into bitterness, and I have 
 by no means imparted that unmixed pleasure which 
 I wished to do. 
 
 Forebodings and dismal calculations are, I am con- 
 vinced, very useless, and I think very pernicious 
 speculations — ' Sufficient for the day is the evil 
 thereof.' — And yet how apt are we, when imminent 
 trials molest us, to increase the burden by melancholy 
 ruminations on future evils !— evils which exist only 
 in our own imaginations — and which, should they be 
 realized, will certainly arrive in time to oppress us 
 sufficiently without our adding to their existence by 
 previous apprehension, and thus voluntarily incurring 
 the penalty of misfortunes yet in perspective, and 
 trials yet unborn. Let us guard, then, I beseech you, 
 against these ungrateful divinations into the womb 
 of futurity — we know our affairs are in the hands of 
 one who has wisdom to do for us beyond our narrow 
 prudence, and we cannot, by taking thought, avoid 
 any afflictive dispensation which God's providence 
 may have in store for us. Let us therefore enjoy 
 with'thankfulness the present sunshine, without advert- 
 ing to the coming storm. Few and transitory are 
 the intervals of calm and settled day with which we 
 are cheered in the tempestuous voyage of life ; we 
 ought therefore to enjoy them, while they last, with 
 unmixed delight, and not turn the blessing into a 
 curse by lamenting that it cannot endure without 
 interruption. We, my beloved friend, are united in
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 179 
 
 our affections by no common bands — bands which, I 
 trust, are too strong to be easily dissevered — yet we 
 know not what God may intend with respect to us, 
 nor have we any business to inquire — we should rely 
 on the mercy of our Father, who is in heaven — and if 
 we are to anticipate, we should hope the best, I 
 stand self-accused therefore for my prurient, and, I 
 may say, irreligious fears. A prudent foresight, as 
 it may guard us from many impending dangers, is 
 laudable ; but a morbid propensity to seize and brood 
 over future ills, is agonizing, while it is utterly useless, 
 and therefore ought to be repressed. 
 
 I have received intelligence, since writing the 
 above, which nearly settles my future destination. 
 
 A informs me that Mr Martyn, a Fellow of St 
 
 John's, has about 20/. a-year to dispose of towards 
 keeping a religious man at College — and he seems 
 convinced that if my mother allows me 20/. a-year 
 more, I may live at St John's provided I could gain 
 admittance, which, at that college, is difficult, unless 
 you have previously stood in the list for a year. Mr 
 Martyn thinks, if I propose myself immediately, I 
 shall get upon the foundation, and by this day's post I 
 have transmitted testimonials of my classical acquire- 
 ments. In a few days, therefore, I hope to hear that 
 I am on the l)oards of St John's. 
 
 Mr Dashwood has informed me, that he also has 
 received a letter from a gentleman, a magistrate near 
 Cambridge, offering me all the assistance in his power 
 towards getting through College, so as there be no 
 obligation. My way therefore is now pretty clear.
 
 I So LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 I have just risen from my knees, returning thanks 
 to our heavenly Father for this providential opening — 
 my heart is quite full. Help me to be grateful to him, 
 aiid pray that I may be a faithful minister of his word. 
 
 TO MR R. A 
 
 NotLingham, 7th May, 1S04 
 Dear Robert, 
 
 You don't know how I long to hear how your 
 declamation was received, and ' all about it ', as 
 we say in these parts. I hope to see it, when I 
 see its author and pronouncer. Themistocles, no 
 doubt, received due praise from you for his valour and 
 subtlety ; but I trust you poured down a torrent 
 of eloquent indignation upon the ruling principles 
 of his actions and the motive of his conduct, while 
 you exalted the mild and unassuming virtues of his 
 more amiable rival. The object of Themistocles was 
 the ^grandizement of himself, that of Aristides 
 the welfare and prosperity of the state. The one 
 endeavoured to swell the glory of his country ; the 
 other to promote its security, external and internal, 
 foreign and domestic. While you estimated the 
 services which Themistocles rendered to the state, 
 in opposition to those of Aristides, you of course 
 remembered that the former had the largest scope 
 for action, and that he influenced his countrymen
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS i8i 
 
 to fall into all his plans, while they banished his 
 competitor, not by his superior wisdom or goodness, 
 but by those intrigues and factious artifices which 
 Aristides would have disdained. Themistocles cer- 
 tainly did use bad means to a desirable end : and 
 if we may assume it as an axiom, that Providence 
 will forward the designs of a good sooner than those 
 of a bad man ; whatever inequality of abilities there 
 may be between the two characters, it will follow 
 that, had Athens remained under the guidance of 
 Aristides, it would have been better for her. The 
 difference between Themistocles and Aristides seems 
 to me to be this : That the former was a wise and 
 a fortunate man ; and that the latter, though he 
 had equal wisdom, had not equal good fortune. 
 We may admire the heroic qualities and the crafty 
 policy of the one, but to the temperate and dis- 
 interested patriotism, the good and virtuous disposi- 
 tions of the other, we can alone give the meed of 
 heart-felt praise. 
 
 I only mean by this, that we must not infer 
 Themistocles to have been the better or the greater 
 man, because he rendered more essential services 
 to the state than Aristides, nor even that his sj'Stem 
 was the most judicious — but only, that, by decision 
 of character, and by good fortune, his measures 
 
 succeeded best. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The rules of composition are, in my opinion, very 
 few. If we have a mature acquaintance with our 
 subject, there is little fear of our expressing it as we
 
 i82 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 ought, provided we have had some little experience 
 in writing. The first thing to be aimed at is 
 perspicuity. Thai is the great point, which, once 
 attained, will make all other obstacles smooth to us. 
 In order to write perspicuously, we should have a 
 perfect knowledge of the topic on which we are 
 about to treat, in all its bearings and dependencies. 
 We should think well beforehand what will be the 
 clearest method of conveying the drift of our design. 
 This is similar to what the painters call the massing, 
 or getting the effect of the more prominent lights 
 and shades by broad dashes of the pencil. When 
 our thesis is well arranged in our mind, and we 
 have predisposed our arguments, reasonings, and 
 illustrations, so as they shall all conduce to the 
 object in view, in regular sequence and gradation, 
 we may sit down and express our ideas in as clear 
 a manner as we can, always using such words as 
 are most suited to our purpose ; and when two 
 modes of expression, equally luminous, present them- 
 selves, selecting that which is the most harmonious 
 and elegant. 
 
 It sometimes happens that writers, in aiming at 
 perspicuity, overreach themselves, by employing too 
 many words, and perplex the mind by a multiplicity 
 of illustrations. This is a very fatal error. Circum- 
 locution seldom conduces to plainness ; and you may 
 take it as a maxim, that, when once an idea is 
 clearly expressed, every additional stroke will only 
 confuse the mind, and diminish the effect. 
 
 \^'hen you have once learned to express yourself
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 183 
 
 with clearness and propriety, you will soon arrive 
 at elegance. Everything else, in fact, will follow 
 as of course. But I warn you not to invert the 
 order of things, and be paying your addresses to the 
 Graces, when you ought to be studying perspicuity. 
 Young writers, in general, are too solicitous to 
 round off their periods, and regulate the cadences 
 of their style. Hence the feeble pleonasms and 
 idle repetitions which deform their pages. If you 
 would have your compositions vigorous, and mascu- 
 line in their tone, let every word tell ; and when 
 you detect yourself polishing off a sentence with 
 expletives, regard yourself in exactly the same 
 predicament with a poet who should eke out the 
 measure of his verses with titum, titom, tee, sir. 
 So much for style 
 
 TO I\IR R. A 
 
 Nottingham, gth May, 1804 
 My Dear Friend, 
 
 -:;■ * * 
 
 I HAVE not spoken as yet to Messrs Coldham and 
 Enfield. Your injunction to suspend so doing, has 
 left me in a state of mind, which, I think, I am 
 blamable for indulging, but which is indescribably 
 painful. I had no sleep last night, partly from 
 anxiety, and partly from the effects of a low fever.
 
 1 84 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 which has preyed on my nerves for the last six or 
 seven days. I am afraid, Robert, my religion is 
 very superficial. I ought not to feel this distrust 
 of God's providence. Should I now be prevented 
 from going to College, I shall regard it as a just 
 punishment for my want of faith. 
 
 I conclude Mr Martyn has failed in procuring the 
 aid he expected ? Is it so ? 
 
 ■s ■:.- * 
 
 On these contingencies, Robert, you must know 
 from my peculiar situation, I shall never be able to 
 get to college. My mother, at all times averse, 
 has lately been pressed by one of the deacons of 
 Castlegate Meeting, to prevail on me to go to Dr 
 Williams. This idea now fills her head, and she 
 would feel no small degree of pleasure in the failure 
 of my resources for College. Besides this, her 
 natural anxiety for my welfare will never allow her 
 to permit me to go to the university depending 
 almost entirely on herself, knowing not only the 
 inadequacy, but the great uncertainty, of her aid. 
 Coldham and Enfield must likewise be satisfied that 
 my way is clear : I tremble, I almost despair, A 
 variety of contending emotions, which I cannot 
 particularize, agitate my mind. I tremble lest I 
 should have mistaken my call : these are solemn 
 warnings : but no— I cannot entertain the thought. 
 To the ministry I am devoted I believe, by God ; 
 in what way must be left to his providence.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 185 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Nottingham, June, 1804 
 Dear Neville, 
 In answer to your question, whether the Sizars 
 have any duties to perform, I answer. No. Some- 
 body, perhaps, has been hinting that there are 
 servile offices to be performed by Sizars. It is a 
 common opinion, but perfectly erroneous. The 
 Oxford servitors, I believe, have many unpleasant 
 duties ; but the Sizars at Cambridge only differ 
 from the rest in name. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 VVilford, near Nottingham, , 1804 
 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 I HAVE run very much on the wrong side of the 
 post here ; for having sent copies round to such 
 persons as had given me in their names, as sub- 
 scribers, with compliments, they have placed them 
 to the account of presents ! 
 
 * •::- * 
 
 And, now my dear Neville, I must give you the 
 most ingenious specimen of the invention of petty
 
 1 86 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 envy you perhaps ever heard of. When Addison 
 produced Cato, it was currently received, that he 
 had bought it of a vicar for 40/. The Nottingham 
 gentry, knowing me too poor to buy my poems, 
 thought they could do no better than place it to the 
 account of family affection, and, lo ! Mrs Smith is 
 become the sole author, who has made use of her 
 brother's name as a feint ! I heard of this report 
 first covertly : it was said that Mrs Smith was the 
 principal writer : next it was said that I was the 
 author of one of the inferior smaller pieces only 
 {My Study) ; and, lastly, on mentioning the circum- 
 stances to Mr A , he confessed that he had 
 
 heard several times that my ' sister was the sole 
 quill-driver of the family, and that master Henry, in 
 particular, was rather shallow', but that he had 
 refrained from telling me, because he thought it 
 would vex me. Now, as to the vexing me, it only 
 has afforded me a hearty laugh. I sent my compli- 
 ments to one great lady, whom I heard propagating 
 this ridiculous report, and congratulated her on her 
 ingenuity, telling her, as a great secret, that neither 
 my sister or myself had any claim to any of the 
 poems, for the right author was the Great Mogul's 
 cousin-german. The best part of the story is, that 
 my good friend, Benj Maddock, found means to get 
 me to write verses extempore, to prove whether I 
 could tag rhymes or not, which, it seems, he 
 doubted.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 187 
 TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 
 
 Nottingham, 9th July, 1804 
 * >.', * 
 
 I CAN now inform you, that I have reason to 
 believe my way through college is clear before me. 
 From what source I know not ; but through the 
 hands of Mr Simeon I am provided with 30/. per 
 annum ; and while things go on so prosperously as 
 they do now, I can command 20/. or 30/. more 
 from my friends, and this, in all probability, until I 
 take my degree. The friends to whom I allude are 
 my mother and brother. 
 
 My mother has, for these five years past, kept a 
 boarding school in Nottingham : and, so long as her 
 school continues in its present state, she can supply 
 me with 15/. or 20/. per annum, without incon- 
 venience ; but shouW she die, (and her health is, I 
 fear, but infirm,) that resource will altogether fail. 
 Still, I think, my prospect is so good as to preclude 
 any anxiety on my part ; and perhaps my income will 
 be more than adequate to my wants, as I shall be a 
 Sizar of St John's where the college emoluments are 
 more than commonly large. 
 
 In this situation of my affairs, you will perhaps 
 agree with me in thinking that a subscription for 
 a volume of poems will not be necessary ; and, 
 certainly, that measure is one which will be better 
 avoided, if it may be. I have lately looked over
 
 1 88 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 what poems I have by me in manuscript, and find 
 them more numerous than I expected ; but many of 
 them would perhaps be styled mopisli and mawkish, 
 and even misanthropic, in the language of the world ; 
 though, from the latter sentiment, I am sure I can 
 say, no one is more opposite than I am. These 
 poems, therefore, will never see the light, as, from 
 a teacher of that word which gives all strength to the 
 feeble, more fortitude and christian philosophy may, 
 with justice, be expected than they display. The 
 remainder of my verses would not possess any great 
 interest : mere description is often mere nonsense : 
 and I have acquired a strange habit, whenever I 
 do point out a train of moral sentiment from the 
 contemplation of a picture, to give it a gloomy and 
 querulous cast, when there is nothing in the occasion 
 but what ought to inspire joy and gratitude. I have 
 one poem, however, of some length, which I shall 
 preserve ; and I have another of considerable magni- 
 tude in design, but of which only a part is written, 
 which I am fairly at a loss whether to commit to the 
 flames, or at some future opportunity to finish. The 
 subject is the death of Christ. I have no friend 
 whose opinion is at ail to be relied on, to whom I 
 could submit it, and, perhaps, after all, it may be 
 absolutely worthless. 
 
 With regard to that part of my provision which 
 is derived from my unknown friend, it is of course 
 conditional : and as it is not a provision for a poet, 
 but for a ca7ididate for orders, I believe it is expected, 
 and indeed it has Vjeen hinted as a thing advisable,
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 189 
 
 that I should barter the Muses for mathematics, and 
 abstain from writing verses at least until I take my 
 degree. If I find that all my time will be requisite, 
 in order to prepare for the important office I am 
 destined to fill, I shall certainly do my duty, how- 
 ever severely it may cost me : but if I find I may 
 lawfully and conscientiously relax myself at intervals, 
 with those delightful reveries which have hitherto 
 formed the chief pleasure of my life, I shall, without 
 scruple, indulge myself in them. 
 
 I know the pursuit of Truth is a much more 
 important business than the exercise of the imagina- 
 tion ; and amid all the quaintness and stift method 
 of the mathematicians, I can even discover a source 
 of chaste and exalted pleasure. To their severe but 
 salutary discipline, I must now ' subdue the vivid 
 shapings of my youth ' ; and though I shall cast 
 many a fond lingering look to Fancy's more allur- 
 ing paths, yet I shall be repaid by the anticipation 
 of days, when I may enjoy the sweet satisfaction of 
 being useful, in no ordinary degree, to my fellow- 
 mortals. 
 
 TO MR B. MADDOCK 
 
 Nottingham, September, 1804 
 My Dear Ben, 
 By the lime you will open this letter, we shall 
 have parted, God only knows whether ever to meet
 
 igo LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 again. The chances and casualties of human life 
 are such as to render it always questionable whether 
 three months may not separate us forever from an 
 absent friend. 
 
 For my part, I shall feel a vacuum when you are 
 gone, which will not easily be filled up. I shall 
 miss my only intimate friend — the companion of my 
 walks — the interrupter of my evening studies. I 
 shall return, in a great measure, to my old solitary 
 habits. I cannot associate with " * nor yet with 
 ■"' * * has no place in my affections, though he has 
 in my esteem. It was to you alone I looked as my 
 adopted brother, and (although, for reasons you 
 may hereafter learn, I have not made you my 
 perfect confidant) my comforter. — Heumihi amice. 
 Vale, longum Vale! I hope you will sometimes 
 think of me, and give me a portion in your 
 prayers. 
 
 Perhaps it may be that I am not formed for 
 friendship, that I expect more than can ever be 
 found. Time will tutor me ; I am a singular being 
 under a common outside : I am a profound dis- 
 sembler of my inward feelings, and necessity has 
 taught me the art. I am long before I can unbosom 
 to a friend, yet, I think, I am sincere in my friend- 
 ship : you must not attribute this to any suspicious- 
 ness of nature, but must consider that I lived 
 seventeen years my own confidant, my own friend, 
 full of projects and strange thoughts, and confiding
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS igi 
 
 them to no one. I am habitually reserved, and 
 habitually cautious in letting it be seen that I hide 
 anything. Towards you I would fain conquer these 
 habits, and this is one step towards effecting the 
 conquest. 
 
 I am not well, Ben, to-night, as my hand-writing 
 and style will show ; I have rambled on, however, 
 to some length ; my letter may serve to beguile a 
 few moments on your way. I must say good-by to 
 you, and may God bless you, and preserve you, 
 and be your guide and director forever ! Remember 
 he is always with you ; remember that in him you 
 have a comforter in every gloom. In your wakeful 
 nights, when you have not me to talk to, his ear 
 will be bent down on your pillow ; what better 
 bosom friend has a man than the merciful and 
 benignant Father of all ? Happy, thrice happy, 
 are you in the privilege of his grace and acceptance. 
 Dear Ben, I am your true friend, 
 
 H. K. WHITE 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER 
 
 Winteringham, i6th December, 1804 
 
 My Dear Mother, 
 
 SiN'CE I wrote to you last I have been rather ill, 
 
 having caught cold, which brought on a slight fever. 
 
 Thanks to excellent nursing, I am now pretty much 
 
 recovered, and only want strength to be perfectly
 
 192 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 re-established. Mr Grainger is himself a very good 
 physician, but when I grew worse, he deemed it 
 necessary to send for a medical gentleman from 
 Barton ; so that, in addition to my illness, I expect 
 an apothecary's bill. This, however, will not be a 
 very long one, as Mr Grainger has chiefly supplied 
 me with drugs. It is judged absolutely necessary 
 that I should take wine, and that I should ride. 
 It is with very great reluctance that I agree to incur 
 these additional expenses, and I shall endeavour to 
 cut them off as soon as possible. Mr and Mrs 
 Grainger have behaved like parents to me since I 
 have been ill : four and five times in the night has 
 Mr G. come to see me ; and had I been at home, 
 I could not have been treated with more tenderness 
 and care. Mrs Grainger has insisted on my drink- 
 ing their wine, and was very angry when I made 
 scruples ; but I cannot let them be at all this addi- 
 tional expense — in some way or other I must pay 
 them, as the sum I now give, considering the mode 
 in which we are accommodated, is very trifling. Mr 
 Grainger does not keep a horse, so that I shall be 
 obliged to hire one ; but there will be no occasion 
 for this for any length of time, as my strength seems 
 to return as rapidly as it was rapidly reduced. Don't 
 make yourself in the least uneasy about this, I pray, 
 as I am quite recovered, and not at all apprehensive 
 of any consequences. I have no cough, nor any 
 symptom which might indicate an affection of the 
 lungs. I read very little at present. 
 
 I thought it necessary to write to you on this
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 193 
 
 subject now, as I feared you might have an ex- 
 aggerated account from Mr Almond's friends, and 
 alarm yourself. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Winteringham, 20th May, 1805 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 My first business must be to thank you for 
 the * * *, which I received by Mr K. Swann ; 
 you must not suppose that I feel reluctance to lie 
 under obligations to so affectionate a brother, when 
 I say, that I have felt uneasy ever since on more 
 accounts than one. I am convinced, in the first 
 place, that you have little to spare ; and I fear, in 
 the second, that I shall prove a hinderance to a 
 measure which I know to be necessary for your 
 health : I mean your going to some watering-place 
 for the benefit of sea-bathing. I am aware of the 
 nature of injuries received at the joints, especially 
 the knee ; and I am sure nothing will strengthen 
 your knee more for the present, and prevent the 
 recurrence of disease in it for the future. I would 
 have you, therefore, if by any means you can be spared 
 in London, go to one of the neighbouring coasts, 
 and take sufficient time to recover your strength. 
 You may pitch upon some pleasant place, where 
 there will be suflicient company to amuse you, an 
 
 N
 
 194 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 not so much as to create bustle, and make a toil of 
 reflection, and turn retirement into riot. Since you 
 must be as sensible as I am, that this is necessary 
 for your health, I shall feel assured, if you do not 
 go, that I am the cause, a consideration I would 
 gladly spare myself. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Nottingh.im. June, 1S05 
 
 My Dear Brother, 
 
 I WROTE you a long letter from Winteringham 
 some time ago, which I now apprehend you have 
 never received, or, if you have, some more important 
 concerns have occupied your time than writing to 
 me on general subjects. Feeling, however, rather 
 weary to-night, I have determined to send this sheet 
 to you, as a proof that, if I am not a punctual, I 
 am certainly far from a ceremonious correspondent. 
 
 Our adventure on the Humber you should have 
 learned from K. Swann, who, with much minuteness, 
 filled up three sides of a letter to his friend with 
 the account. The matter was simply this : He, 
 Almond, and myself, made an excursion about 
 twelve or fourteen miles up the Humber; on our 
 return ran aground, were left by the tide on a sand- 
 bank, and were obliged to remain six hours in an 
 pen boat exposed to a heavy rain, high wind, and
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 195 
 
 piercing cold, until the tide rose, when two men 
 brought a boat to our assistance. We got home 
 about twelve o'clock at night : no evil consequences 
 ensued, owing to our usin^ every exertion we could 
 think of to keep warmth in our bodies. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 Winterinsham, 20th August, 1805 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 ■;:- * ^ 
 
 I AM very sensible of all your affection, in your 
 anxiety that I should not diminish my books ; but 
 I am by no means relieved from the anxiety which, 
 on more accounts than one, I am under, as to my 
 present situation, so great a burthen to the family, 
 when I ought to be a support. My father made 
 some heavy complaints when I was at home ; and 
 though I am induced to believe that he is enough 
 harassed to render it very excusable, yet I cannot but 
 feel strongly the peculiarity of my situation ; and, 
 at my age, feel ashamed that I should add to his 
 burdens. At present I have my hands completely 
 tied behind me. When I get to college, I hope to 
 have more opportunities of advantage, and, if I am 
 fortunate, I shall probably relieve my father and 
 mother from the weight which I now lay upon them. 
 I wish you, if you read this letter to my mother, to 
 omit this part.
 
 196 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 
 
 Winteringham, loth September, 1805 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 Your letter has at length reached me at this place, 
 where I have been for the last ten months employed 
 in classical reading with Mr Grainger. It gives me 
 pleasure to hear of you, and of poetry : for, since I 
 came here, I have not only been utterly shut out 
 from all intercourse with the lettered world, but have 
 totally laid aside the pen of inspiration. I have been 
 actuated to this by a sense of duty ; for I wish to 
 prove that I have not coveted the ministerial office 
 through the desire of learned leisure, but with an 
 ardent wish to do my duty as a teacher of the truth. 
 I should blush to present myself as a candidate for 
 that office in an unqualified and unprepared state ; 
 and as I have placed my idea of the necessary 
 qualifications very high, all the time between now 
 and my taking my degree will be little enough for 
 these purposes alone. I often, however, cast a 
 look of fond regret to the darling occupations of 
 my younger hours, and the tears rush into my eyes, 
 as I fancy I see the few wild flowers of poetic genius, 
 with which I have been blessed, withering with 
 neglect. Poetry has been to me something more 
 than amusement ; it has been a cheering companion 
 when I have had no other to fly to, and a delightful 
 solace when consolation has been in some measure
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGAIENTS 19? 
 
 needful. I cannot, therefore, discard so old and 
 faithful a friend without deep regret, especially 
 when I reflect that, stung by my ingratitude, he 
 may desert me forever ! 
 
 With regard to your intended publication, you do 
 me too much honour by inserting my puerilities along 
 with such good company as I know I shall meet 
 there. I wish I could present you with some sonnets 
 worthy of your work. I have looked back amongst 
 my old papers, and find a few verses under that name, 
 which were written between the time when Clifton 
 Grove was sent to the press, and its final appearance. 
 The looking over these papers has recalled a little of 
 my old warmth, and I have scribbled some lines, 
 which, as they owe their rise to your letter, I may 
 fairly (if I have room) present to you. I cannot read 
 the sonnets which I have found amongst my papers 
 with pleasure, and therefore I shall not presume to 
 show them to you. I shall anxiously expect the 
 publication of your work. 
 
 I shall be in Cambridge next month, being 
 admitted a Sizar at St John's. Trinity would have 
 suited my plans better, but the expenses of that 
 college are greater. 
 
 With thanks for your kind remembrance to mc, I 
 remain, dear sir, very respectfully and thankfully 
 yours, II. K. WHITE
 
 igS LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, vvander'd far 
 
 From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy ! 
 
 And many a flower, which in the passing time 
 
 My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill 
 
 Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. 
 
 Heart-soothing Poesy ! — Though thou hast ceased 
 
 To hover o'er the many-voiced strings 
 
 Of my long silent lyre, 3'et thou canst still 
 
 Call the warm tear from its thrice-hallow'd cell. 
 
 And with recalled images of bliss 
 
 Warm my reluctant heart.— Yes, I would throw, 
 
 Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand 
 
 O'er the responding chords. — It hath not ceased — 
 
 It cannot, will not cease ; the heavenly warmth 
 
 Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek ; 
 
 Still, though unbidden, plays. — Fair Poesy ! 
 
 The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, 
 
 Sunshine, and storm, with various interchange. 
 
 Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month, 
 
 Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, 
 
 Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. — Sorceress ! 
 
 I cannot burst thy bonds ! — It is but lift 
 
 Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault, 
 
 Wreath thy enchanted tresses round thine arm. 
 
 And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, 
 
 And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, 
 
 Up to the regions of thrice-chastened fire. 
 
 Or in the caverns of the ocean flood, 
 
 Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. 
 
 Yet other duties call me, and mine ear 
 
 Must turn away from the high minstrelsy 
 
 Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly 
 
 Must turn away ; there are severer strains, 
 
 (And surely they are sweet as ever smote 
 
 The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 199 
 
 Released and disembodied), there are strains, 
 
 Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, 
 
 Through the probation of revolving years, 
 
 And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, 
 
 Have purged and purified. — To these my soul 
 
 Aspireth ; and to this sublimer end 
 
 I gird m3'self, and climb the toilsome steep 
 
 With patient expectation. — Yea, sometimes 
 
 Foretaste of bliss rewards me ; and sometimes 
 
 Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait. 
 
 And minister strange music, which doth seem 
 
 Now near, now distant, now on high, now low, 
 
 Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete. 
 
 And full fruition filling all the soul. 
 
 Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe 
 
 The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude 
 
 Of toil ; and but that my fond heart 
 
 Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, 
 
 When by clear fountain, or embowered brake, 
 
 I lay a listless muser, prizing, far 
 
 Above all other lore, the poet's theme ; 
 
 But for such recollections I could brace 
 
 My stubborn spirit for the arduous path 
 
 Of science unregretting ; eye afar 
 
 Philosophy upon her steepest height, 
 
 And with bold step, and resolute attempt, 
 
 Pursue her to the innermost recess, 
 
 Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. 
 
 These verses form nearly the only poetical efifort of 
 this year. Pardon their imperfections.
 
 200 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 TO MR B. MADDOCK 
 
 St John's, i8th October, 1805 
 
 My dear Ben, 
 
 I AM at length finally settled in my rooms, and, 
 according to my promise, I write to you to tell you 
 so. I did not feel quite comfortable at first here ; 
 but I now begin to feel at home, and relish my silent 
 and thoughtful cup of tea more than ever. Amongst 
 our various occupations, that of attending chapel is 
 to me not the least irksome, for the service is read in 
 general below the span of my auditory nerve ; but 
 when they chant, I am quite charmed, for our organ 
 is fine, and the voices are good. This is, however, 
 only on high days and festivals, in which number the 
 present day is to be reckoned (St Luke's). 
 
 My mathematical studies do not agree with me, 
 and you may satisfy yourself I shall never be a senior 
 wrangler. Many men come up with knowledge 
 enough for the highest honours, and how can a man 
 be expected to keep up with them who starts without 
 any previous fund ? Our lectures begin on Monday, 
 and then I shall know more of college difficulties. 
 
 My rooms are in the top story of the farthest court 
 of St John's (which you perhaps remember) near the 
 cloisters. They are light, and tolerably pleasant ; 
 though, as there was no furniture in them, and I 
 have not yet bought many necessary articles, they 
 look very bare. Your phiz over the chimney-piece
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 201 
 
 has been recognized by two of my fellow students ; 
 the one recollected its likeness to Mr Maddock of 
 Magdalene ; and the other said it was like a young 
 man whom he had seen with Mr Maddock, and 
 whom he supposed to be his brother. 
 
 Of my new acquaintances, I have become intimate 
 with a Mr * * *, who, I hope, will be senior 
 wrangler, tie is a very serious and friendly man, 
 and a man of no common mathematical talents. He 
 lives in the same court with me. Besides him, I 
 know of none whose friendship I should value ; and 
 including him, no one whose hand I would take in 
 preference to that of my old friend, so long as I see 
 my old friend with his old face. When you have 
 learned to be other than what you are, I shall not 
 regret that B. M. is no longer my friend, but that my 
 former friend is now no more. 
 
 I walked through Magdalene the other day, and I 
 could not help anticipating the time when I should 
 come to drink your tea, and swallow your bread and 
 butter, within the sacred walls. You must know our 
 college was originally a convent for Black Friars ; 
 and if a man of the reign of Henry the Sixth were 
 to peep out of his grave, in the adjoining church- 
 yard, and look into our portals, judging by our dress 
 and appearance, he might deem us a convent of 
 Black Friars still. Some of our brethren, it is true, 
 would seem of very unsightly bulk ; but many of 
 them, with eyes sunk into their heads, from poring
 
 202 LETTERS AMD PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 over the mathematics, might pass very well for the 
 fasting and mortified shadows of penitent monks. 
 
 With regard to the expenses of our college, I can 
 now speak decisively ; and I can tell you, that I 
 shall be here an independent man. I am a Senior 
 Sizar, under very favourable fcircumstances, and, I 
 believe, the profits of my situation will nearly equal 
 the actual expenses of the college. But this is no 
 rule for other colleges. I am on the best side (there 
 are two divisions) of St John's, and the expenses here 
 are less than anywhere else in the university. 
 
 I have this week written some very elaborate verses 
 for a college prize, and I have at length learned 
 that I am not qualified for a competitor, not being 
 a Lady Margaret's scholar; so that I have lost my 
 labour. — Compared with the other men of this large 
 college, I find I am a respectable classic, and if I 
 had time to give to the languages, I think I should 
 ultimately succeed in them in no small degree ; but 
 the fates forbid ; mathematics I must read, and in 
 mathematics I know I never shall excel. These are 
 harassing reflections for a poor young man gaping for 
 a fellowship ! 
 
 If I chose I could find a good deal of religious 
 society here, but I must not indulge myself with it 
 too much. Mr Simeon's preaching strikes me much. 
 
 I beg you will answer a thousand such questions as 
 these without my asking them. 
 
 This is a letter of intelligence : — next shall be
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 203 
 
 sentiment, (or Gothic arch, for they are synonymous 
 according to Mr M.). 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER 
 
 St John's, 26lh October, 1805 
 
 Dear Mother, 
 
 » * * 
 
 You seem to repose so little confidence in what 
 I say with regard to my college expenses, that I 
 am not encouraged to hope you will give me much 
 credit for what I am about to say, namely, that 
 had I no money at all, either from my friends or 
 Mr Simeon, I could manage to live here. My situa- 
 tion is so very favourable, and the necessary expenses 
 so very few, that I shall want very little more than 
 will suffice for clothes and books. I have got the 
 bills of Mr * *, a Sizar of this college, now before 
 mc, and from them, and his own account, I will 
 give you a statement of what my college bills will 
 amount to. 
 
 Thus my college expenses will not be more than 
 111. or 15/. a-year at the most. I shall not have 
 any occasion for the whole sum I have a claim upon 
 Mr Simeon for ; and if things go well, I shall be 
 able to live without being dependent on any one. 
 The Mr * *, whose bills I have borrowed, has been 
 at college three years. He came over from * '' with
 
 204 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 lol. in his pocket, and has no friends, or any income 
 or emolument whatever, except what he receives 
 for his Sizarship ; yet he does support himself, and 
 that, too, very genteelly. It is only men's extrava- 
 gance that makes college life so expensive. There 
 are Sizars at St John's wlio spend 150/. a -year: 
 but they are gay, dissipated men, who choose to be 
 Sizars in order that they may have more money to 
 lavish on their pleasures. Our dinners and suppers 
 cost us nothing ; and if a man choose to eat milk- 
 breakfasts, and go without tea, he may live absolutely 
 for nothing ; for his college emoluments will cover 
 the rest of his expenses. Tea is indeed almost super- 
 fluous, since we do not rise from dinner till half past 
 three, and the supper bell rings a quarter before nine. 
 Our mode of living is not to be complained of, for 
 the table is covered with all possible variety ; and 
 on feast-days, which our fellows take care are pretty 
 frequent, we have wine. 
 
 You will now, I trust, feel satisfied on this subject, 
 and will no longer give yourself unnecessary un- 
 easiness on my account. 
 
 * * i\- 
 
 I was unfortunate enough to be put into unfurnished 
 rooms, so that my furniture will cost me a little more 
 than I expected; I suppose about 15I., or perhaps 
 not quite so much. I sleep on a hair mattress, which 
 I find just as comfortable as a bed ; it only cost me 
 4/., along with blankets, counterpane, and pillows, 
 &c. I have three rooms — a sitting-room, a bed- 
 room, and a kind of scullery or pantry. My sitting-
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 205 
 
 room is very light and pleasant, and what does not 
 often happen, the walls are in good case, having 
 been lately stained green. 
 
 I must commission my sister to make me a pair of 
 letter racks, but they must not be fine, because my 
 furniture is not very fine. I think the old shape 
 (or octagons, one upon another) is the neatest, and 
 white the best colour. I wish ]Maria would paint 
 vignettes in the squares, because then I should see 
 how her drawing proceeds. You must know that 
 these are not intended as mere matters of show, but 
 are intended to answer some purpose ; there are so 
 many particular places to attend on particular days, 
 that unless a man is very cautious, he has nothing 
 else to do than to pay forfeits for non-attendance. A 
 few cards, and a little rack, will be a short way of 
 helping the memory. 
 
 I think I must get a supply of sugar from London ; 
 for if I buy it here, it will cost me is. 6d. per pound, 
 which is rather too much. I have got tea enough to 
 last the term out. 
 
 Although you may be quite easy on the subject of 
 my future support, yet you must not form splendid 
 ideas of my success at the university, for the lecturers 
 all speak so low, and we sit at such a distance, that I 
 cannot hear a .syllable. I have, therefore, no more 
 advantage than if I were stud\ing at home. 
 
 I beg we may have no more doubts and fears, at 
 least on my score. I think I am now very near being 
 off your hands ; and, since my education at the
 
 2o6 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 university is quite secure, you need not entertain 
 gloomy apprehensions for the future ; my mainte- 
 nance will, at all events, be decent and respectable : 
 and you must not grieve yourself because I cannot be 
 as rich as an alderman. 
 
 » * * 
 
 Do not show this letter to all comers, nor leave 
 it about, for people will have a very mean idea of 
 university education, when they find it costs so little ; 
 but if they are saucy on the subject, tell them — I have 
 a lord just under me. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN DASHWOOD 
 
 St John's, 26th October, 1805 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 It is now many months since I wrote to you, and 
 I have not received any answer. I should not have 
 troubled you with this letter, but that, considering 
 how much I owe to you, I thought the rules and 
 observances of strict etiquette might with moral 
 propriety be dispensed with. 
 
 Suffer me therefore to tell you, that I am quietly 
 and comfortably settled at St John's, silently con- 
 forming myself to the habits of college life, and 
 pursuing my studies with such moderation as I think 
 necessary for my health, I feel very much at home.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 207 
 
 and tolerably happy ; although the peculiar advan- 
 tages of university education will in a great measure 
 be lost to me, since there is not one of the lecturers 
 whom I am able to hear. 
 
 My literary ambition is, I think, now fast sub- 
 siding, and a better emulation springing up in its 
 room. I conceive that, considering the disadvantages 
 under which I labour, very little can be expected from 
 me in the Senate House. I shall not, however, 
 remit my exertions, but shall at least strive to acquit 
 myself with credit, though I cannot hope for the 
 more splendid honours. 
 
 With regard to my college expenses, I have the 
 pleasure to inform you, that my situation is so 
 favourable, that I shall be obliged, in strict rectitude, 
 to wave the offers of many of my friends. I shall not 
 even need the sum Mr Simeon mentioned, after the 
 first year ; and it is not impossible that I may be able 
 to live without any assistance at all. I confess I feel 
 pleasure in the thought of this, not through any vain 
 pride of independence, but because I shall then give a 
 more unbiassed testimony to the Truth, than if I were 
 supposed to be bound to it by any ties of obligation 
 or gratitude. I shall always feel as much indebted 
 for intended, as for actually afforded assistance ; and 
 though I should never think a sense of thankfulness 
 an oppressive burthen, yet I shall be happy to evince 
 it, when, in the eyes of the world, the obligation to it 
 has been discharged.
 
 2o8 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 I hope you will ere long relieve me from the painful 
 thought that I lie under your displeasure ; and believe 
 me, dear sir, most sincerely and affectionately yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 St John's, Cambridge, loth December, 1805 
 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 I AM so truly hurt that you should again complain 
 of my long silence, that I cannot refrain from sending 
 this by the post, although I shall send you a parcel 
 to-morrow. The reason of my not having sent you the 
 cravats sooner, is the difficulty I have found in getting 
 them together, since part were in the hands of my 
 laundress, and part dirty. I do not know whether 
 you will find them right, as my linen is in other 
 respects deficient, and I have a cause at issue with 
 my washerwoman on that score. This place is literally 
 a den of thieves ; my bed-maker, whom we call a gyp, 
 from a Greek word signifying a vulture, runs away 
 with everything he can lay his hands on, and when 
 he is caught, says he only borrows them. He stole 
 a sack of coals a-week, as regularly as the week came, 
 when first I had fires ; but I have stopped the run of 
 this business, by a monstrous large padlock, which is 
 hung to the staple of the bin. His next trick was 
 to bring me four candles for a pound instead of six ; 
 and this trade he carried on for some time, until
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 209 
 
 I accidentally discovered the trick : he then said he 
 had always brought me right until that time, and 
 that then he had brought mt Jives, but had given 
 Mr H. (a man on the same staircase) one, because he 
 thought he understood I had borrowed one of him ; 
 on inquiring of Mr H. he had not given him one 
 according to his pretence : but the gentleman was not 
 caught yet, for he declared he had lent one to the bed- 
 maker of Lord B. in the rooms below. His neatest 
 trick is going to the grocer every now and then for 
 articles in your name, which he converts to his own 
 use. I have stopped him here too, by keeping a 
 cheque book. Tea, sugar, and pocket-handkerchiefs, 
 are his natural perquisites, and I verily believe he will 
 soon be filling his canister out of mine before my face. 
 There is no redress for all this ; for if you change, you 
 are no better off : they are all alike. They know you 
 regard them as a pack of thieves, and their only 
 concern is to steal so dexterously that they may not be 
 confronted with direct proof. 
 
 Do not be surprised at any apparent negligence 
 in my letters : my time has so many calls for it, that 
 half my duties are neglected. Our college examina- 
 tion comes on next Tuesday, and it is of the utmost 
 moment that I acquit myself well there. A month 
 after will follow the scholarship examination. My 
 time, therefore, at present, will scarcely permit the 
 performance of my promise with respect to the 
 historical papers, but I have them in mind, and I am 
 
 O
 
 210 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 much bent on perfecting them in a manner superior to 
 their commencement. 
 
 I would fain write to my brother James, who must 
 by no means think I forget him ; but I fear I shall 
 see him before I write to him on the accounts above 
 stated. The examination for the scholarship is 
 distinct from that of our college, which is a very 
 important one ; and while I am preparing for the one 
 I necessarily neglect the other. 
 
 I wish very much to hear from you on religious 
 topics ; and remember, that although my leisure at 
 present will not allow me to write to you all I wish, 
 yet it will be the highest gratification to me to read 
 your letters, especially when they relate to your 
 Christian progress. I beseech you not to relax, as you 
 value your peace of mind, and the repose of a dying 
 bed. I wish you would take in the Christian Observer, 
 which is a cheap work, and will yield you much 
 profitable amusement. I have it here for nothing, 
 and can send you up some of the numbers if you like. 
 
 Remember, and let my mother know, that I have 
 no chance for the university scholarship, and that I only 
 sit for the purpose of letting the university know that 
 I am a decent proficient in the languages. 
 
 There is one just vacant which I can certainly get, 
 but I should be obliged to go to Peter-house in conse- 
 quence, which will not be advisable — but I must make 
 inquiries about it. I speak with certainty on this 
 subject, because it is restricted to candidates who are 
 in their first year, amongst whom I should probably 
 be equal to any. The others are open to bachelors.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 211 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 St John's, 19th December, 1805 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 1 WAS sorry to receive your letter, desiring me to 
 defer my journey ; and I am sorry to be forced to tell 
 you the reason of my coming to town sooner than you 
 wish me. I have had an attack of my old nervous 
 complaint, and my spirits have been so wretchedly 
 shattered, that my surgeon says I shall never be well 
 till I have removed somewhere, where I can have 
 society and amusement. It is a very distressing thing 
 to be ill in college, where you have no attendance, 
 and very little society. Mr Catton, my tutor, has 
 prevailed upon me, by pressing wishes, to go into the 
 hall to be examined vv ith the men of my year : I have 
 gone through two examinations, and I have one to 
 come ; after that is over, he told me I had better 
 go to my friends directly, and relieve myself with 
 complete relaxation from study. Under these circum- 
 stances, the object of my journey to London will be 
 answered, by the mere residence in my aunt's family, 
 and by a cessation from reading. While I am here, I 
 am wretched ; I cannot read, the slightest application 
 makes me faint ; I have very little society, and that is 
 quite a force upon my friends. I am determined, 
 therefore, to leave this place on Saturday morning, 
 and you may rest satisfied that the purpose of my
 
 212 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 journey will be fully accomplished by the prattle of 
 my aunt's little ones, and her care. I am not an 
 invalid, since I have no sickness or ailment, but I am 
 weak and low-spirited, and unable to read. The last 
 is the greatest calamity I can experience of a worldly 
 nature. My mind preys upon itself. Had it not been 
 for Leeson, of Clare Hall, I could not have gone 
 through this week. I have been examined twice, and 
 almost without looking over the subjects, and I have 
 given satisfaction ; but I am obliged to be kept up 
 by strong medicines to endure this exertion, which is 
 very great. 
 
 I am happy, however, to tell you, I am better ; 
 and Mr Parish, the surgeon, says, a few days will 
 re-establish me when I get into another scene, and 
 into society. 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER 
 
 London, 24th December, 1805 
 
 My Dear Mother, 
 You will, no doubt, have been surprised at not 
 having heard from me for so long a time, and you 
 will be no less so to find that I am writing this at my 
 aunt's in this far-famed city. I have been so much 
 taken up with our college examinations of late, that I 
 could not find time to write even to you, and I am 
 now come to town, in order to give myself every
 
 Letters and prose fragments 213 
 
 relaxation and amusement I can ; for I had read so 
 much at Cambridge, that my health was rather 
 affected, and I was advised to give myself the respite 
 of a week or a fortnight, in order to recover strength. 
 I arrived in town on Saturday night, and should have 
 written yesterday, in order to remove any uneasiness 
 you might feel on my account-, but there is no post on 
 Sunday. 
 
 I have now to communicate some agreeable 
 intelligence to you. Last week being the close of 
 the Michaelmas term, and our college examination, 
 our tutor, who is a very great man, sent for me, and 
 told me he was sorry to hear I had been ill : he 
 understood I was low-spirited, and wished to know 
 whether I frightened myself about college expenses. 
 I told him, that they did contribute some little to 
 harass me, because I was as yet uncertain what the 
 bills of my first year would amount to. His answer 
 was to this purpose : ' Mr White, I beg you will not 
 trouble yourself on this subject : your emoluments 
 will be very great, very great indeed, and I will take 
 care your expenses are not very burdensome. — Leave 
 that to me ! ' He advised me to go to my friends, and 
 amuse myself with a total cessation from reading. 
 After our college examination (which lasted six days) 
 was over, he sent for mo again, and repeated what he 
 had said before about the expenses of the college ; 
 and he added, that if I went on as I had begun, and 
 made myself a good scholar, I might rely on being 
 provided for by the college ; for if the county should be 
 full, and they could not elect me a fellow, they would
 
 214 
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 recommend me to another college, where they would 
 be glad to receive a clever man from their hands ; or, 
 at all events, they could always get a young man a 
 situation as a private tutor in a nobleman's family : 
 or could put him in some handsome way of prefer- 
 ment. ' We make it a rule (he said) of providing for 
 a clever man, whose fortune is small ; and you may 
 therefore rest assured, Mr White, that, after you have 
 taken your degree, you will be provided with a genteel 
 competency by the college.^ lie begged I would be 
 under no apprehensions on these accounts : he shook 
 hands with me very affectionately, and wished me a 
 speedy recovery. These attentions from a man like 
 the tutor of St John's are very marked ; and Mr 
 Catton is well known for doing more than he says. 
 I am sure, after these assurances from a principal of 
 so respectable a society as St John's, I have nothing 
 more to fear ; and I hope you will never repine on 
 my account again : according to every appearance, 
 my lot in life is certain. 
 
 TO MR B. MADDOCK 
 
 London, Xmas, 1805 
 
 My Dear Ben, 
 
 Vou would have had no reason to complain of 
 
 my long silence, had I preferred my self-justificatiun 
 
 to your case. I wrote you a letter, which now lies 
 
 in my drawer at St John's, but in such a weak stale
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 215 
 
 of body, and in so desponding and comfortless a 
 tone of mind, that I knew it would give you pain, 
 and therefore I chose not to send it. I have indeed 
 been ill ; but, thanks to God, I am recovered. My 
 nerves were miserably shattered by over-application, 
 and the absence of all that could amuse, and the 
 presence of many things which weighed heavy upon 
 my spirits. When I found myself too ill to read, 
 and too desponding to endure my own reflections, 
 I discovered that it is really a miserable thing to be 
 destitute of the soothing and supporting hand when 
 nature most needs it. I wandered up and down from 
 one man's room to another, and from one college 
 to another, imploring society, a little conversation, 
 and a little relief of the burden which pressed upon 
 my spirits ; and I am sorry to say, that those who, 
 when I was cheerful and lively, sought my society 
 with avidity, now, when I actually needed con- 
 versation, were too busy to grant it. Our college 
 examination was then approaching, and I perceived 
 with anguish that I had read for the university 
 scholarship, until I had barely time to get up our 
 private subjects, and that as I was now too ill to read, 
 all hope of getting through the examination with 
 decent respectability was at an end. This was an 
 additional grief. I went to our tutor, with tears 
 in my eyes, and told him I must absent myself from 
 the examination — a step which would have precluded 
 me from a station amongst the prize men until the 
 second year. He earnestly entreated me to run the 
 risk. My surgeon gave me strong stimulants and
 
 2i6 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 supporting medicines during the examination week, 
 and I passed, I believe, one of the most respectable 
 examinations amongst them. As soon as ever it was 
 over, I left Cambridge, by the advice of my surgeon 
 and tutor, and I feel myself now pretty strong. I 
 have given up the thought of sitting for the university 
 scholarship in consequence of my illness, as the 
 course of my reading was effectually broken. In 
 this place I have been much amused, and have been 
 received with an attention in the literary circles 
 which I neither expected nor deserved. But this 
 does not affect me as it once would have done : my 
 views are widely altered ; and I hope that I shall 
 in time learn to lay my whole heart at the foot of 
 the cross. 
 
 I have only one thing more to tell you of about 
 my illness ; it is, that I have found in a young 
 man, with whom I had a little acquaintance, that 
 kind care and attention, which I looked for in vain 
 from those who professed themselves my nearest 
 friends. At a time when * * * could not find 
 leisure to devote a single evening to his sick friend, 
 even when he earnestly implored it, William Leeson 
 constantly, and even against my wishes, devoted 
 every evening to the relieving of my melancholy, 
 and the enlivening of my solitary hours. With the 
 most constant and affectionate assiduity, he gave 
 me my medicines, administered consolation to my 
 broken spirits, and even put me to bed.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 217 
 
 TO MR P. THOMSON 
 
 London, ist January, 1806 
 Sir, 
 
 I OWE it both to my feelings and my duly, that I 
 should thank you for the kind inquiries you have 
 thought it worth while to make concerning me and 
 my affairs. I have just learned the purport of a letter 
 received from you by Mr Robinson, the bookseller ; 
 and it is a pleasing task to me, at the same time that 
 I express my sense of your benevolent concern in 
 my behalf, to give you, myself, the information you 
 require. 
 
 The little volume which, considered as the pro- 
 duction of a very young man, may have interested 
 you, has not had a very great sale, although it may 
 have had as much countenance as it deserved. The 
 last report I received from the publishers, was 450 
 sold. So far it has answered the expectations I had 
 formed from it, that it has procured me the acquaint- 
 ance, and, perhaps, I may say, the friendship of men 
 equally estimable for their talents and their virtues. 
 Rewarded by their countenance, I am by no means 
 dissatisfied with my little book ; indeed 1 think its 
 merits have, on the whole, rather been over-rated 
 than otherwise, which I attributed to the lenity so 
 readily afforded to the faults of youth, and to the 
 promptitude with which benevolent minds give
 
 2i8 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 encouragement where encouragement seems to be 
 wanted. 
 
 With regard to my personal concerns, I have 
 succeeded in placing myself at Cambridge, and 
 have already kept one term. My College is St 
 John's, where, in the rank of Sizar, I shall probably 
 be enabled to live almost independently of external 
 support : but should I need that support, I have it 
 in my power to draw on a friend, whose name I am 
 not permitted to mention, for any sum not exceeding 
 30/. per annum. With habits of frugality, I shall 
 never need this sum : so that I am quite at ease 
 with respect to my college expenses, and am at full 
 leisure to pursue my studies with a free and vacant 
 mind. 
 
 I am at present in the great city, where I have 
 come, in consequence of a little injudicious applica- 
 tion, a suitor to health, variety, and amusement. 
 In a few days I shall return to Cambridge, where 
 (should you ever pass that way) I hope you will not 
 forget that I reside there three-fourths of the year. 
 It would, indeed, give me pleasure to say personally 
 how much I am obliged by your inquiries. 
 
 I hope you will put a favourable construction 
 both on the minuteness and the length of this letter, 
 and permit me to subscribe myself, sir, very thank- 
 fully and obediently yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 219 
 
 TO MR B. HADDOCK 
 
 St John's, 17th February, 1S06 
 Dear Ben, 
 
 * * -x- 
 
 Do not think I am reading hard : I believe it is 
 all over with that. I have had a recurrence of my 
 old complaint within this last four or five days, 
 which has half unnerved me for everything. The 
 state of my health is really miserable ; I am well 
 and lively in the morning, and overwhelmed with 
 nervous horrors in the evening. I do not know 
 how to proceed with regard to my studies : — a 
 very slight over-stretch of the mind in the day-time 
 occasions me not only a sleepless night, but a night 
 of gloom and horror. The systole and diastole of 
 my heart seem to be playing at ball — the stake, my 
 life. I can only say the game is not yet decided : 
 I allude to the violence of the palpitation. 
 
 I am going to mount the Gog-magog hills this 
 morning, in quest of a good night's sleep. The 
 Gog-magog hills for my body, and the Bible for 
 my mind, are my only medicines. I am sorry to 
 say, that neither are quite adequate. Cui, igitur ; 
 dandiun est vitio H Mihi prorsus. I hope, as the 
 summer comes, my spirits (which have been with 
 the swallows a winter's journey) will come with it. 
 When my spirits are restored, my health will be 
 restored : — they^wj mali lies there. Give me serenity 
 and equaUlily of mind, and all will be well there.
 
 220 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 TO MR P. THOMSON 
 
 Nottingham, Sth April, 1806 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I SINCERELY beg your pardon for my ungrateful 
 disregard of your polite letter. The intervening 
 period has been so much taken up, on the one hand, 
 by ill health, and on the other by occupations of 
 the most indispensable kind, that I have neglected 
 almost all my friends, and you amongst the rest. 
 I am now at Nottingham, a truant from study, and 
 a rejected votary at the shrine of Health ; a few days 
 will bring me back to the margin of the Cam, and 
 bury me once more in the busy routine of college 
 exercises. Before, however, I am again a man of 
 bustle and occupation, I snatch a few moments to 
 tell you how much I shall be gratified by your corre- 
 spondence, and how greatly I think myself flattered 
 by your esteeming mine worth asking for. 
 
 The little sketch of your past occupations and 
 present pursuits interested me. Cultivate, with all 
 assiduity, the taste for letters which you possess. 
 It will be a source of exquisite gratification to you : 
 and if directed as it ought to be, and I hope as it 
 will be directed, it will be more than gratification, 
 (if we understand pleasure alone by that word), since 
 it will combine with it utility of the highest kind. 
 If polite letters were merely instrumental in cheer- 
 ing the hours of elegant leisure, in afifording refined
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 221 
 
 and polished pleasures, uncontaminated with gross 
 and sensual gratifications, they would still be valu- 
 able ; but in a degree infinitely less than when they 
 are considered as the handmaids of the virtues, the 
 correctors as well as the adorners of society. But 
 literature has, of late years, been prostituted to all 
 the purposes of the bagnio. Poetry, in particular, 
 arrayed in her most bewitching colours, has been 
 taught to exercise the arts of the Leno, and to charm 
 only that she may destroy. The Muse, who once 
 dipped her hardy wing in the chastest dews of 
 Castalia, and spoke nothing but what had a tendency 
 to confirm and invigorate the manly ardour of a 
 virtuous mind, now breathes only the voluptuous 
 languishings of the harlot, and, like the brood of 
 Circe, touches her charmed chords with a grace, 
 that while it ravishes the ear, deludes and beguiles 
 the sense. I call to witness Mr Moore, and the 
 tribe of imitators which his success has called forth, 
 that my statement is true. Lord Strangford has 
 trodden faithfully in the steps of his pattern. 
 
 -::- -X- * 
 
 I hope, for the credit of poetry, that the good 
 sense of the age will scout this insidious school ; and 
 what may we not expect, if Moore and Lord Strang- 
 ford apply themselves to a chaster muse ? — They are 
 both men of uncommon powers. You may remember 
 the reign of Darwinian poetry, and the fopperies of 
 Delia Crusca. To these succeeded the school of 
 Simplicity, in which Wordsworth, Southey, and 
 Coleridge are so deservedly eminent. I think that
 
 222 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 the new tribe of poets endeavour to combine these 
 two opposite sects, and to unite richness of language, 
 and warmth of colouring, with simplicity and pathos. 
 They have certainly succeeded ; but Moore unhappily 
 wished to be a Catullus, and from him has sprung 
 the licentiousness of the new school. Moore's poems 
 and his translations will, I think, have more influence 
 on the female society of this kingdom, than the stage 
 has had in its worst period, the reign of Charles II, 
 Ladies are not ashamed of having the delectable Mr 
 Little on their toilet, which is a pretty good proof 
 that his voluptuousness is considered as quite veiled 
 liy the sentimental garb in which it is clad. But 
 voluptuousness is not the less dangerous for having 
 some slight resemblance of the veil of modesty. On 
 the contrary, her fascinations are infinitely more 
 powerful in this retiring habit, than when she boldly 
 protrudes herself on the gazer's eye, and openly 
 solicits his attention. The broad indecency of 
 Wycherly, and his contemporaries, was not half so 
 dangerous as this insinuating and half-covered mock- 
 delicacy, which makes use of the blush of modesty 
 in order to heighten the charms of vice. 
 
 I must conclude somewhat abruptly, by begging 
 you will not punish my negligence towards you by 
 retarding the pleasure I shall receive from your 
 answer. I am, very truly yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE 
 
 Address to me, St John's College, Cambridge.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 223 
 
 TO HIS SISTER 
 
 St John's, 25th June, i8o5 
 
 My Dear Sister, 
 
 * * * 
 
 The intelligence you gave me of Mr Forest's 
 illness, &c., &c., cannot affect me in any way 
 whatever. The mastership of the school must be 
 held by a clergyman ; and I very well recollect that 
 he is restrained from holding any curacy, or other 
 ministerial office. The salary is not so large as you 
 mention : and if it were, the place would scarcely be 
 an object to me : for I am very certain, that if I 
 choose, when I have taken my degree, I may have 
 half-a-dozen pupils to prepare for the university, with 
 a salary of 100/. per annum, which would be more 
 respectable, and more consonant to my habits and 
 studies, than drilling the fry of a trading town, in 
 learning which they do not know how to value. 
 Latin and Greek are nothing like so much respected 
 in Nottingham as Wingate's Arithmetic. 
 
 * * * 
 
 It is well for you that you can still enjoy the 
 privilege of silting under the sound of the Gospel : 
 and the wants of others, in these respects, will, 
 perhaps, teach you how to value the blessing. All 
 our comforts, and almost all our hopes here, lie at 
 the mercy of every succeeding hour. Death is always 
 at hand to bereave us of some dear connexion, or
 
 224 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 to snatch us away from those who may need our 
 counsel and protection. I do not see how any 
 person, capable of reflection, can live easily and 
 fearlessly in these circumstances, unless he have a 
 well-grounded confidence in the providing care of 
 the Almighty, and a strong belief that his hand is 
 in every event, and that it is a hand of mercy. The 
 chances and changes of mortal life are so many and 
 various, that a person cannot possibly fortify himself 
 against the contingencies of futurity without some 
 such hold as this, on which to repose amidst the 
 contending gales of doubt and apprehension. This 
 I say as affecting the present life : — our views of 
 the future can never be secure, they can never be 
 comfortable or calm, without a solid faith in the 
 Redeemer. Men may reason about the divine 
 benevolence, the certainty of a future state, and 
 the probable means of propitiating the Great Judge, 
 but their speculations will only entangle them in 
 the mazes of doubt, perplexity, and alarm, unless 
 they found their hopes on that basis which shall 
 outstand the tide of ages. If we take this away, 
 the poor bark of mortality loses its only stay, and 
 we steer at random, we know not how, we know 
 not whither. The religion of Jesus Christ is strength 
 to the weak, and wisdom to the unwise. It requires 
 no preparative of learning nor study, but is, if 
 possible, more obvious and easy to the illiterate 
 than to the erudite. No man, therefore, has any 
 excuse if he neglect it. The way is plain before him, 
 and he is invited to enter. He has only to kneel
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 225 
 
 at the foot of the cross, and cry, with the poor 
 publican, ' Lord have mercy upon me, a miserable 
 sinner.' If "he do this, and examine his own heart, 
 and mortify the body of sin within him, as far as he 
 is able, humbly and earnestly imploring the assist- 
 ance of God's holy Spirit, we cannot doubt but he 
 will meet with the approbation and assistance of the 
 Almighty. In this path we must all tread. In this 
 path I hope that you, my dear sister, are now pro- 
 ceeding. You have children ; to whom can you 
 commit them, should Providence call you hence, 
 with more confidence than the meek and benevolent 
 Jesus? What legacy can you leave them more 
 certainly profitable, than the prayers of a pious 
 mother? And if, taught by your example, as well 
 as by your instructions, they should become them- 
 selves patterns of a holy and religious life, how 
 sweetly will the evening of your days shine upon 
 your head, as you behold them treading in those 
 ways which you know, by experience, to be ways of 
 pleasantness and peace ! I need not press this subject. 
 I know you feel all that I say, and more than I can 
 express. I only fear that the bustle of family cares, 
 as well as many anxieties of mind on other accounts, 
 should too much divert you from these important 
 objects. Let me only remind you, that the prayers 
 of the afflicted arc particularly acceptable to God. 
 The sigh -of the penitent is not too light to reach 
 his ear. The eye of God is fixed as intently upon 
 your soul at all times, as it is upon the revolution 
 of the heavenly bodies and the regulation of systems. 
 
 P
 
 226 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 God surveys all things, and he contemplates them 
 with perfect attention ; and, consequently, he is as 
 intently conversant about the smallest as about the 
 greatest things. For if he were not as perfectly 
 intent on the soul of an individual being as he is 
 about the general concerns of the universe, then he 
 would do one thing less perfectly than another : 
 which is impossible in God. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 St John's, 30th June, 1806 
 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 I RECEIVED your letter yesterday ; and I hope 
 you will not think my past silence at all in need 
 of apology, when you know that our examination 
 only closed on Saturday. 
 
 I have the satisfaction of informing you, that after 
 a week's scrutiny, I was deemed to be the first man. 
 I had very little hopes of arriving at so distinguishing 
 a station, on account of my many checks and interrup- 
 tions. It gave me great pleasure to observe how all 
 the men rejoiced in my success. It was on Monday 
 that the classes were published. I am a prize-man 
 both in the mathematical and logical, or general 
 examination, and in Latin composition. 
 
 Mr Catton has expressed his great satisfaction at 
 my progress : and he has offered to supply me with 
 a private tutor for the four months of the vacation.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 227 
 
 free of any expense. This will cost the college 
 twelve or fifteen guineas at least. My last term bill 
 amounts only to 4/., 51. 3^^. after my exhibitions 
 are deducted. 
 
 I had engaged to take charge of a few classical 
 pupils, for a clergyman in Warwickshire, during one 
 month of the vacation, for which I was to receive, 
 besides my board, ,&c. &c. ten guineas ; but Mr 
 Catton says this is a piece of extreme folly, as it 
 will consume time, and do me no good. He told 
 me, therefore, positively, that he would not give 
 me an exeat, without which no man can leave his 
 college for the night. 
 
 I cannot, therefore, at all events, visit Nottingham 
 with my aunt, nor meet her there. 
 
 I could now, if I chose, leave St John's College, 
 and go to another with great eclat ; but it would be 
 an unadvisable step. I believe, however, it will be 
 impossible for them to elect me a fellow at St John's, 
 as my county is under particular restrictions. They 
 can give me a fellowship of smaller value, but I had 
 rather get one at another college : at all events, the 
 smaller colleges will be glad to elect me from vSt 
 John's. 
 
 * -:;- ♦ 
 
 With regard to cash, I manage pretty well, though 
 my fund is at present at its lowest ebb. My bills, 
 however, are paid ; and I have no occasion for 
 money, except as a private convenience. The 
 question therefore is, whether it will be more in- 
 convenient to you than convenient to me for you
 
 228 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 to replenish my purse. Decide impartially. I have 
 not drawn upon my mother since Christmas, except 
 for the expense of my journey up from Nottingham 
 to Cambridge ; nor do I mean to do it till next 
 Christmas, when, as I have ordered a suit of clothes, 
 I shall have a good many calls for money. 
 Let me have a long letter from you soon. 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER 
 
 St John's, gth July, iSo6 
 
 My Dear Mother, 
 
 I HAVE scarcely time to write you a long letter ; 
 but the pleasing nature of my intelligence will, I 
 hope, make up for its shortness. 
 
 After a week's examination, I am decided to be 
 the first man of my year at St John's : an honour 
 I had scarcely hoped for, since my reading has 
 been so very broken and interrupted. The con- 
 test was very stiff, and the men all acquitted them- 
 selves very well. We had thirteen men in the 
 first class, though there are seldom more than six 
 or eight who attain that rank in common. 
 
 I have learned also, that I am a prize-man in 
 classical composition, though I do not yet know 
 whereabouts I stand. It is reported that here too 
 I am first. 
 
 Before it was known that I was the first man, 
 Mr Catton, our college tutor, told me that he was
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 229 
 
 so satisfied with the manner in which I had passed 
 through the examination, that if I chose to stay up 
 during the summer, I should have a private tutor 
 in the mathematics, and that it should be no expense 
 to me. I could not hesitate at such a proposal, 
 especially as he did not limit the time for my 
 keeping the private tutor, but will probably continue 
 it as long as I like. Vou may estimate the value 
 of this favour, when I tell you that a private tutor, 
 for the whole vacation, will cost the college at least 
 twelve or fourteen guineas, and that during term 
 time they receive ten guineas the term. 
 
 I cannot of course leave the college this summer 
 even for a week, and shall therefore miss the pleasure 
 
 of seeing my aunt G at Nottingham. I have 
 
 written to her. 
 
 It gave me much pleasure to observe the joy 
 all the men seemed to feel at my success. I had 
 been on a water excursion, with a clergyman in the 
 neighbourhood, and some ladies, and just got home 
 as the men were assembling for supper ; you can 
 hardly conceive with what pleasure they all flocked 
 round me, with the most hearty congratulations, and 
 I found that many of them had been seeking me 
 all over the college, in order to be the first to 
 communicate the good tidings.
 
 ±10 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 TO MR B. 
 
 St John's, July, i8 
 
 My Dear Friend, 
 I HAVE good and very bad news to communicate 
 to you. Good, that Mr Catton has given me an 
 exhibition, which makes me up a clear income of 
 63/. per annum, and that I am consequently more 
 than independent ; bad, that I have been very ill, 
 notwithstanding regular and steady exercise. Last 
 Saturday morning I rose early, and got up some rather 
 abstruse problems in mechanics for my tutor, spent 
 an hour with him, between eight and nine got my 
 breakfast, and read the Greek History (ai breakfast) 
 till ten, then sat down to decipher some logarithm 
 tables, I think I had not done anything at them, 
 when I lost myself. At a quarter past eleven my 
 laundress found me bleeding in four different places 
 in my face and head, and insensible. I got up, 
 and staggered about the room, and she, being 
 frightened, ran away, and told my Gyp to fetch a 
 surgeon. Before he came, I was sallying out with 
 my flannel gown on, and my academical gown over 
 it : he made me put on my coat, and then I* went 
 to Mr Parish's : he opened a vein, and my recollec- 
 tion returned. My own idea was, that I had fallen 
 out of bed, and so I told Mr Farish at first ; but 
 I afterwards remembered that I had been to Mr 
 Fiske, and breakfasted.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 231 
 
 Mr Catton has insisted on my consulting Sir Isaac 
 Pennington, and the consequence is, that I am to 
 go through a course of blistering, &c. which, after 
 the bleeding, will leave me weak enough. 
 
 I am, however, very well, except as regards the 
 doctors ; and yesterday I drove into the country 
 to Saffron Walden in a gig. My tongue is in a 
 bad condition, from a bite which I gave it either 
 in my fall, or in the moments of convulsion. My 
 nose has also come badly off. I believe I fell against 
 my reading desk. My other wounds are only rubs 
 and scratches on the carpet. 
 
 I am ordered to remit my studies for awhile, by 
 the common advice both of doctors and tutors. Dr 
 Pennington hopes to prevent any recurrence of the 
 fit. He thinks it looks towards epilepsy, of the 
 horrors of which malady I have a very full and precise 
 idea ; and I only pray that God will spare me as 
 respects my faculties, however else it may seem 
 good to him to afflict me. Were I my own master, 
 I know how I should act ; but I am tied here by 
 bands which I cannot burst. I know that change 
 of place is needful ; but I must not indulge in the 
 idea. The college must not pay my tutor for nothing. 
 Dr Pennington and Mr Farish attribute the attack 
 to a too continued tension of the faculties. As I 
 am much alone now, I never get quite off study, and 
 I think incessantly. I know nature will not endure 
 this. They both proposed my going home, but 
 Mr * * did not hint at it, although much concerned ; 
 and, indeed, I know home would be a bad place for
 
 232 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 me in my present situation. I look round for a 
 resting place, and I find none. Yet there is one, 
 which I have long too, too much disregarded, and 
 thither I must now betake myself. There are many 
 situations worse than mine, and I have no business 
 to complain. If these afflictions should draw the 
 bonds tighter which hold me to my Redeemer, it 
 will be well. 
 
 You may be assured that you have here a plain 
 statement of my case, in its true colours, without any 
 palliation. I am now well again, and have only to 
 fear a relapse, which I shall do all I can to prevent, 
 by a relaxation in study. I have now written too 
 much. I am very sincerely yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE 
 
 P. S. I charge you, as you value my peace, not 
 to let my friends hear, either directly or indirectly 
 of mv illness. 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER 
 
 St John's, August, iSo6 
 
 My Dear Mother, 
 I HAVE no hesitation in declining the free school, 
 on the ground of its precluding the exercise of the 
 ministerial duties. I shall take the liberty of writing 
 
 Mr to thank him for having thought of me, and 
 
 to recommend to his notice Mr .
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 233 
 
 But do not fret yourself, my dear mother ; in a few 
 years we shall, I hope, be in happier circumstances. 
 I am not too sanguine in my expectations, but I shall 
 certainly be able to assist you, and my sisters, in a 
 few years. * * " *. As for Maria and Kate, if 
 they succeed well in their education, they may, 
 perhaps, be able to keep a school of a superior kind, 
 where the profits will be greater, and the labour less. 
 I even hope that this may not be necessary, and that 
 you, my father and they, may come and live with me 
 when I get a parsonage. You would be pleased to 
 
 see how comfortably Mr lives with his mother 
 
 and sisters, at a snug little rectory about ten miles 
 from Cambridge. So much for castle-building. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 St John's, i2th August, 1806 
 
 Dear Neville, 
 
 I CAN but just manage to tell you, by this post, 
 what I am sure you will be glad to learn, even at 
 the expense of seven-pence for an empty sheet, that 
 Mr Catton has given me an exhibition, which makes 
 my whole income sixty guineas a year. My last 
 term's bill was 13/., 13^., and I had 7/., \2s. to 
 receive ; but the expenses of this vacation will leave 
 me bare until Christmas. 
 
 I have the pleasure of not having solicited either
 
 234 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 this or any other of the favours which Mr Catton 
 has so liberally bestowed upon me : and though I 
 have been the possessor of this exhibition ever since 
 March last, yet Mr Catton did not hint it to me until 
 this morning, when he gave me my bill. 
 
 I have, of course, signified to Mr Simeon, that I 
 shall have no need whatever of the stipend which I 
 have hitherto received through his hands. He was 
 extremely kind on the occasion, and indeed his con- 
 duct towards me has ever been fatherly. It was 
 Mr * * * who allowed me 20/. per annum, and 
 Mr Simeon added 10/. He told me, that my con- 
 duct gave him the most heartfelt joy ; that I was 
 so generally respected, without having made any 
 compliances, as he understood, or having, in any 
 instance, concealed my principles. Indeed, this is 
 a praise which I may claim, though I never con- 
 ceived that it was at all an object of praise. I have 
 always taken some pains to let those around me 
 know my religious sentiments, as a saving of trouble, 
 and as a mark of that independence of opinion, which, 
 I think, every one ought to assert : and as I have 
 produced my opinions with frankness and modesty, 
 and supported them (if attacked) with coolness and 
 candour, I have never found them any impediment to 
 my acquaintance with any person whose acquaintance 
 I coveted.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 235 
 
 TO MR P.. MADDOCK 
 
 St John's, Cambridge, 22nd September, iSo6 
 
 My Dear Friend, 
 
 •K * * 
 
 You charge me with an accession of gallantry 
 of late ; I plead guilty. I really began to think of 
 marriage (very prematurely, you'll say) ; but if I 
 experience any repetition of the fit, I shall drop the 
 idea of it forever. It would be folly and cruelty 
 to involve another in all the horrors of such a 
 calamity. 
 
 I thank you for your kind exhortations to a 
 complete surrender of my heart to God, which are 
 contained in your letter. In this respect I have 
 betrayed the most deplorable weakness and in- 
 decision of character. I know what the truth is, 
 and I love it; but I still go on giving myself half 
 to God, and half to the world, as if I expected to 
 enjoy the comforts of religion along with the vanities 
 of life. If, for a short time, I keep up a closer 
 communion with God, and feel my whole bosom 
 bursting with sorrow and tenderness as I approach 
 the foot-stool of my Saviour, I soon relapse into 
 indifference, worldly - mindedness, and sin ; my 
 devotions become listless and perfunctory : I dote 
 on the world, its toys, and its corruptions, and am 
 mad enough to be willing to sacrifice the happiness 
 of eternity to the deceitful pleasures of the passing
 
 236 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 moment. My heart is indeed a lamentable sink of 
 loathsome corruption and hypocrisy. In consistency 
 with my professed opinions, I am often obliged to 
 talk on subjects of which I know but little in 
 experience, and to rank myself with those who 
 have felt, what I only approve from my head, and, 
 perhaps, esteem from my heart. I often start with 
 horror and disgust from myself, when I consider how 
 deeply I have imperceptibly gone into this species of 
 simulation. Yet I think my love for the Gospel, and 
 its professors, is sincere ; only I am insincere in 
 suffering persons to entertain a high opinion of me 
 as a child of God, when indeed I am an alien from 
 him. On looking over some private memorandums, 
 which were written at various times in the course 
 of the two last years, I beheld, with inexpressible 
 anguish, that my progress has, if anything, been 
 retrograde. I am still as dark, still as cold, still as 
 ignorant, still as fond of the world, and have still 
 fewer desires after holiness. I am very, very dis- 
 satisfied with myself, and yet I am not prompted to 
 earnest prayer. I have been so often earnest, and 
 always have fallen away, that I go to God without 
 hope, without faith. Yet I am not totally without 
 hope ; I know God will have my whole heart, and 
 I know, when I give him that, I shall experience the 
 light of his countenance with a permanency. I pray 
 that he would assist my weakness, and grant me 
 some portion of his grace, in order that I may over- 
 come the world, the flesh, and the devil, to which 
 have long, very long, been a willing, though an
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 237 
 
 unhappy slave. Do you pray earnestly with me, 
 and for me, in these respects ; I know the prayers 
 of the faithful avail much ; and when you consider 
 with what great temptations I am surrounded, and 
 how very little strength I have wherewith to resist 
 them, you will feel with me the necessity of earnest 
 supplication, and fervent intercession, lest I should 
 be lost, and cast away forever. 
 
 I shall gladly receive your spiritual advice and 
 directions. I have gone on too long in coldness and 
 unconcern ; who knows whether, if I neglect the 
 present hour, the day of salvation may not be gone 
 bv forever ! ! 
 
 TO MR JOHN CHARLESWORTH 
 
 St John's, 22nd September, 1806 
 
 My Dear Charlesworth, 
 
 Thank you for taking the blame of our neglected 
 correspondence on your own shoulders, I thought it 
 rested elsewhere. Thrice have I begun to write to 
 you ; once in Latin, and twice in English ; and each 
 time have the fates opposed themselves to the com- 
 pletion of my design. But, however, pax sit rebus, 
 we are naturally disposed to forgive, because we are, 
 as far as intention goes, mutual offenders. 
 
 I thank you for your invitation to Clapham, which 
 came at a fortunate juncture, since I had just settled
 
 238 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 with my tutor that I should pay a visit to my brother 
 in London this week. I shall of course see you ; 
 and shall be happy to spend a few days with you 
 at Clapham and to rhapsodize on your common. It 
 gives me pleasure to hear you are settled, and I 
 give you many hearty good wishes for practice and 
 prosperity. I hope you will soon find that a wife 
 is a very necessary article of enjoyment in a domesti- 
 cated state ; for how indeed should it be other- 
 wise? A man cannot cook his dinner while he is 
 employed in earning it. Housekeepers are complete 
 helluones rei familiaris, and not only pick your 
 pockets, but abuse you into the bargain. While a 
 wife, on the contrary, both cooks your dinner, and 
 enlivens it with her society ; receives you after the 
 toils of the day with cheerfulness and smiles, and is 
 not only the faithful guardian of your treasury, but 
 the soother of your cares, and the alleviator of your 
 calamities. Now, am I not very poetical ? But on 
 such a subject who would not be poetical ? A wife ! 
 — a domestic fire-side ; — the cheerful assiduities of 
 love and tenderness ! It would inspire a Dutch 
 burgomaster ; and if, with all this in your grasp, 
 you shall still choose the pulsare terram pede Kbero, 
 still avoid the irrnpta copula, still deem it a matter 
 of light regard to be an object of affection and 
 fondness to an amiable and sensible woman, why 
 then you deserve to be a fellow of a college all 
 your days ; to be kicked about in your last illness 
 by a saucy and careless bed-maker ; and, lastly, to be 
 put in the ground in your college chapel, followed
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 239 
 
 only by the man who is to be your successor. Why, 
 man, I dare no more dream that I shall ever have 
 it in my power to have a wife, than that I shall 
 be Archbishop of Canterbury, and Primate of all 
 England. A suite of rooms in a still and quiet 
 corner of old St John's, which was once occupied 
 by a crazy monk, or by one of the translators of the 
 Bible in the days of good King James, must form 
 the boundary of my ambition. I must be content 
 to inhabit walls which never echoed with a female 
 voice, to be buried in glooms which were never 
 cheered with a female smile. It is said, indeed, 
 that women were sometimes permitted to visit St 
 John's when it was a monastery of White-Friars, in 
 order to be present at particular religious ceremonies ; 
 but the good monks were careful to sprinkle holy 
 water wherever their profane footsteps had carried 
 contagion and pollution. 
 
 It is well that you are free from the restrictions of 
 monastic austerity, and that, while I sleep under the 
 shadow of towers and lofty walls, and the safeguard 
 of a vigilant porter, you are permitted to inhabit 
 your own cottage, under your own guardianship, and 
 to listen to the sweet accents of domestic affection. 
 
 Yes, my very Platonic, or rather Stoical friend, I 
 must see you safely bound in the matrimonial noose, 
 and then, like a confirmed bachelor, ten years hence, 
 I shall have the satisfaction of pretending to laugh 
 at, while, in my heart, I envy you. So much for 
 rhapsody. I am coming to London for relaxation's 
 sake, and shall take it pretty freely ; that is, I shall
 
 240 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 seek after fine sights — stare at fine people — be 
 cheerful with the gay — foolish with the simple — and 
 leave as little room to suspect as possible that I am 
 (anything of) a philosopher and mathematician. I 
 shall probably talk a little Greek, but it will be by 
 stealth, in order to excite no suspicion. 
 
 I shall be in town on Friday or Saturday. I am 
 in a very idle mood, and have written you a very 
 idle letter, for which I entreat your pardon : and I 
 
 am, dear C , very sincerely yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 
 
 (fouxd in his pocket after his decease) 
 
 St John's College, Saturd.-\y, nth October, 1806 
 
 Dear Neville, 
 I AM safely arrived, and in college, but my illness 
 has increased upon me much. The cough continues, 
 and is attended with a good deal of fever. I am 
 under the care of Mr Farish, and entertain very 
 little apprehension about the cough ; but my over- 
 exertions in town have reduced me to a state of much 
 debility ; and, until the cough be gone I cannot be 
 permitted to take any strengthening medicines. 
 This places me in an awkward predicament ; but I 
 think I perceive a degree of expectoration this 
 morning, which will soon relieve me, and then I 
 shall mend apace.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 241 
 
 Under these circumstances, I must not expect to 
 see you here at present : when I am a little 
 
 recovered, it will be a pleasant relaxation to me. 
 
 ♦ * * 
 
 Our lectures began on Friday, but I do not attend 
 them until I am better. I have not written to my 
 mother, nor shall I while I remain unwell. You 
 will tell her, as a reason, that our lectures began on 
 Friday. I know she will be uneasy, if she do not 
 hear from me, and still more so, if I tell her I am 
 ill. 
 
 I cannot write more at present, than that I am 
 your truly affectionate brother, 
 
 H. K. WHITE 
 
 A PRAYER 
 
 Almighty Father, at the close of another day I 
 kneel before thee in supplication, and ere I compose 
 my body to sleep, I would steal a few moments 
 from weariness, to lift up my thoughts to thy 
 perfections, to meditate on thy wonderful dispensa- 
 tions, and to make my request known unto thee. 
 
 Although the hours of this day have not been 
 spent in the busy haunts of society, but in the 
 pursuit of needful and godly knowledge, yet I am 
 conscious that my thoughts and actions have been 
 far from pure ; and many vain and foolish specula- 
 tions, many sinful thoughts and aml)itious anticipa-
 
 242 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 tions, have obtruded themselves on my mind. I 
 know that I have felt pleasure in what I ought 
 to have abhorred, and that I have not had thy 
 presence continually in mind ; so that my ghostly 
 enemy has mixed poison with my best food, and 
 sowed tares with the good seed of instruction. 
 Sometimes, too, the world has had too much to do 
 with my thoughts ; I have longed for its pleasures, 
 its splendours, its honours, and have forgotten that I 
 am a poor follower of Jesus Christ, whose inheritance 
 is not in this land, but in the fields above. I do 
 therefore supplicate and beseech thee. Oh ! thou my 
 God and Father, that thou wilt not only forgive 
 these my wanderings, but that thou wilt chasten 
 my heart, and establish my affections, so that they 
 may not be shaken by the light suggestions of the 
 tempter Satan ; and since 1 am of myself very weak, 
 I implore thy restraining hand upon my understand- 
 ing, that I may not rea-son in the pride of : worldly 
 wisdom, nor flatter myself on my attainments, but 
 ever hold my judgment in subordination to thy word, 
 and see myself as what I am, a helpless dependant 
 on thy bounty. If a spirit of indolence and lassitude 
 have at times crept on me, I pray thy forgiveness 
 for it ; and if I have felt rather inclined to prosecute 
 studies which procure respect from the world, than 
 the humble knowledge which becomes a servant of 
 Christ, do thou check this growing propensity, and 
 only bless my studies so far as they conduce to thy 
 glory, and as thy glory is their chief end. My 
 heart, O Lord ! is but too fond of this vain and
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 243 
 
 deceitful world, and I have many fears lest I should 
 make shipwreck of my hope on the rocks of ambition 
 and vanity. Give me, I pray thee, thy grace to 
 repress these propensities : illumine more completely 
 my wandering mind, rectify my understanding, and 
 give me a simple, humble, and affectionate heart, 
 to love thee and thy sheep with all sincerity. As I 
 increase in learning, let me increase in lowliness of 
 spirit : and inasmuch as the habits of studious life, 
 unless tempered by preventing grace, but too much 
 tend to produce formality and lifelessness in devo- 
 tion, do thou, O heavenly Father, preserve me from 
 all cold and speculative views of thy blessed Gospel ; 
 and while with regular constancy I kneel down daily 
 before thee, do not fail to light up the fire of heavenly 
 love in my bosom, and to draw my heart heavenward 
 with earnest longing [to thyself]. 
 
 And now, O Blessed Redeemer ! my rock, my 
 hope, and only sure defence, to thee do I cheerfully 
 commit both my soul and my body. If thy wise 
 Providence see fit, grant that I may rise in the 
 morning, refreshed with sleep, and with a spirit of 
 cheerful activity for the duties of the day: but 
 whether I wake here or in eternity, grant that my 
 trust in thee may remain sure, and my hope unshaken. 
 Our Father, etc.
 
 244 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 22nd September, 1806 
 
 Mem. 
 
 On running over the pages of this book, I am 
 constrained to observe, with sorrow and shame, that 
 my progress in divine light has been little or none. 
 
 I have made a few conquests over my corrupt 
 inclinations, but my heart still hankers after its old 
 delights ; still lingers half willing, half unwilling, 
 in the ways of worldly-mindedness. 
 
 My knowledge of divine things is very little 
 improved. I have read less of the Scriptures than 
 I did last year. In reading the Fathers, I have 
 consulted rather the pride of my heart than my 
 spiritual good. 
 
 I now turn to the cause of these evils, and I find 
 that the great root, the main-spring, is — love of the 
 world ; next to that, pride ; next to that, spiritual 
 sloth. 
 
 REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH POETS 
 
 IMITATIONS 
 
 The sublimity and unaffected beauty of the sacred 
 writings are in no instance more conspicuous, than 
 in the following verses of the xviiith Psalm ! 
 
 ' He bowed the heavens also and came down : 
 and darkness was under his feet.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 24S 
 
 ' And he rode upon a cherub and did fly : yea, 
 he did fly upon the wings of the wind.' 
 
 None of our better versions have been able to 
 preserve the original graces of these verses. That 
 wretched one of Thomas Sternhold, however, (which, 
 to the disgrace and manifest detriment of religious 
 worship, is generally used,) has in this solitary 
 instance, and then perhaps by accident, given us the 
 true spirit of the Psalmist, and has surpassed not 
 only Merrick, but even the classic Buchanan. This 
 version is as follows : 
 
 The Lord descended from above, 
 And bowed the heavens high, 
 
 And underneath his feet he cast 
 The darkness of the sky. 
 
 On cherubs and on cherubims 
 
 Full royally he rode, 
 And on the wings of mighty winds 
 
 Came flying all abroad. 
 
 Dryden honoured these verses with very high com- 
 mendation, and, in the following lines of his Annus 
 Mirabilis, has apparently imitated them, in preference 
 to the original : 
 
 The duke less numerous, but in courage more, 
 On wings of all the winds to combat flies. 
 
 And in his Ceyx and Alcyone, from Ovid, he has : 
 
 .\nd now sublime sh(t rides upon the wind. 
 
 which is probably imilalcd, as well as most of the
 
 246 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 following, not from Sternhold, but the original. 
 Thus Pope : 
 
 Not God alone in the still calm we find, 
 
 He mounts the storm and rides upon the wind. 
 
 And Addison : 
 
 Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm. 
 
 The unfortunate Chatterton has : 
 
 And rides upon the pinions of the wind. 
 
 And Gray : 
 
 With arms sublime that Hoat upon the air. 
 
 Few poets of eminence have less incurred the 
 charge of plagiarism than Milton; yet many instances 
 might be adduced of similarity of idea and language 
 with the Scripture, which are certainly more than 
 coincidences, and some of these I shall, in a future 
 number, present to your readers. Thus the present 
 passage in the Psalmist was in all probability in his 
 mind when he wrote : 
 
 And with mighty wings outspread, 
 Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss. 
 
 Par. Lost, B. I, 1. 20. 
 
 The third verse of the civth Psalm : 
 
 He maketh the clouds his chariot, and walketh upon the 
 wings of the wind, 
 
 is evidently taken from the before-mentioned verses 
 in the xviiith Psalm, on which it is perhaps an 
 improvement. It has also been imitated by two of
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGI\IENTS 247 
 
 our first poets — Shakespeare and Thomson. The 
 former in Romeo and Juliet : 
 
 Bestrides the lazy-paced clouds, 
 And sails upon the bosom of the air. 
 
 The latter in Winter, 1. 199 : 
 
 Till Nature's King, who oft 
 Amid tempestuous darkness dwells alone. 
 And on the wings of the careering winds 
 Walks dreadfully serene. 
 
 As these imitations have not before, I believe, 
 been noticed, they cannot fail to interest the lovers 
 of polite letters ; and they are such as at least will 
 amuse your readers in general. If the sacred 
 writings were attentively perused, we should find 
 innumerable passages from which our best modern 
 poets have drawn their most admired ideas : and 
 the enumerations of these instances would perhaps 
 attract the attention of many persons to those 
 volumes, which they now perhaps think to contain 
 everything tedious and disgusting, but which, on 
 the contrary, they would find replete with interest, 
 beauty, and true sublimity. 
 
 STERNHOLD AND HOPKINS 
 
 Mr Editor, 
 In your Mirror for July, a Mr William Toone 
 has offered a few observations on a paper of mine, 
 in a preceding number, containing remarks on the
 
 24S LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 versions and imitations of the 9th and lOth verses 
 of the xviiith Psalm, to which I think it necessary 
 to offer a few words by way of reply ; as they not 
 only put an erroneous construction on certain 
 passages of that paper, but are otherwise open to 
 material objection. 
 
 The object of Mr Toone, in some parts of his 
 observations, appears to have been to refute some- 
 thing which he fancied I had advanced, tending 
 to establish the general merit of Sternhold and 
 Hopkins's translation of the Psalms : but he might 
 have saved himself this unnecessary trouble, as I 
 have decidedly condemned it as mere doggerel, still 
 preserved in our churches, to the detriment of 
 religion ; and the version of the passage in question 
 is adduced as a brilliant, though probably accidental, 
 exception to the general character of the work. 
 What necessity, therefore, your correspondent could 
 see for ' hopmg that I should think with him, that 
 the sooner the old version of the Psalms was consigned 
 to obliviott, the better it would be for rational devo- 
 tion,'' I am perfectly at a loss to imagine. 
 
 This concluding sentence of Mr Toone's paper, 
 which I consider as introduced merely by way of 
 rounding the period, and making a graceful exit, 
 needs no further animadversion. I shall therefore 
 proceed to examine the objections of the 'worthy 
 clergyman of the church of England ' to these verses, 
 cited by your correspondent, by which he hopes to 
 prove, Dryden, Knox, and the numerous other 
 eminent men who have expressed their admiration
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 249 
 
 thereof, lo be little better than idiots. — The tirst is 
 this: 
 
 ' Cherubim is the plural for Cherub ; but our 
 versioner by adding an s to it, has rendered them 
 both plurals.' By adding an s to what? If the 
 pronoun it refer to cherubim, as according to the 
 construction of the sentence it really does, the whole 
 objection is nonsense. — But the worthy gentleman, 
 no doubt, meant to say, that Sternhold had rendered 
 them both plurals by the addition of an s to cherub. 
 Even in this sense, however, I conceive the charge to 
 be easily obviated ; for, though cherubim is doubtless 
 usually considered as the plural of cherub, yet the 
 two words are frequently so used in the Old Testa- 
 ment as to prove, that they were often applied to 
 separate ranks of beings. One of these, which I 
 shall cite, will dispel all doubt on the subject. 
 
 ' And within the oracle he made two cherubims of olive 
 tree, each ten cubits high.' i Kings, v. 23, ch. vi. 
 
 The other objection turns upon a word with which 
 it is not necessary for me to interfere ; for I did 
 not cjuote these verses as instances of the merit of 
 Sternhold, or his version, I only asserted that the 
 lines which I then copied, viz. 
 
 The Lord descended from above, etc. 
 
 were truly noble and sublime. Whether, therefore, 
 Sternhold wrote all the winds (as asserted by your 
 correspondent, in order to furnish room for objec-
 
 ±So LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 lion,) or 7nighty winds, is of no import. But if this 
 really be a subsequent alteration, I think at least 
 there is no improvement ; for when we conceive 
 the winds as assembling from all quarters, at the 
 omnipotent command of the Deity, and bearing him 
 with their united forces from the heavens, we have 
 a more sublime image than when we see him as fly- 
 ing merely on mighty winds, or as driving his team 
 (or troop) of angels on a strong tempest's rapid wing, 
 with most amazing swiftness, as elegantly represented 
 by Brady and Tate^. 
 
 I differ from your correspondent's opinion, that 
 these verses, so far from possessing sublimity, attract 
 the reader merely by their rumblitig sotmd: And 
 here it may not be amiss to observe, that the true 
 sublime does not consist of high sounding words, 
 or pompous magnificence ; on the contrary, it most 
 frequently appears clad in native dignity and 
 simplicity, without art, and without ornament. 
 
 The most elegant critic of antiquity, Longinus, 
 in his Treatise on the Sublime, adduces the foUow- 
 
 1 How any man, enjoying the use of his senses, could 
 prefer the contemptible version of Brady and Tate of this 
 verse to Sternhold's, is to me inexplicable. The epithets 
 which are introduced would have disgraced a school- 
 boy, and the majestic imagery of the original is sacri- 
 ficed to make room for tinsel and fustian. 
 
 The chariot of the king of kings, 
 Which active troops of angels drew. 
 
 On a strong tempest's rapid wings. 
 With most amazing swiftness flew.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 251 
 
 ing passage from the Book of Genesis, as possessing 
 that quality in an eminent degree : 
 
 ' God said. Let there be light, and there was light: — 
 Let the earth be, and earth was.''^ 
 
 From what I have advanced on this subject, I 
 would not have it inferred, that I conceive the version 
 of Sternhold and Hopkins, generally speaking, to 
 be superior to that of Brady and Tate ; for, on 
 the contrary, in almost every instance, except that 
 above mentioned, the latter possesses an indubitable 
 right to pre - eminence. Our language, however, 
 cannot yet boast one version possessing the true 
 spirit of the original ; some are beneath contempt, 
 and the best has scarcely attained mediocrity. Your 
 correspondent has quoted some verses from Tate, 
 in triumph, as comparatively excellent ; but, in my 
 opinion, they are also instances of our general failure 
 in sacred poetry : they abound in those ambitiosa 
 ornamenta which do well to please women and 
 children, but which disgust the man of taste. 
 
 To the imitations already noticed of this passage, 
 permit me to add the following : 
 
 But various Iris, Jove's commands to bear, 
 Speeds on the wings of winds through liquid air. 
 Pope's Iliad, B. 2. 
 
 Miguel cruzando os pelagos do vcnto. 
 
 Carlos Reduzido, Canto I, by Pedro de Azevedo 
 Tojal, an ancient Portuguese poet of some merit. 
 
 ' The critic apparently quoted from memory, for we 
 may search in vain for the latter part of this sentence.
 
 252 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH POETS 
 
 The poems of Thomas Warton are replete with 
 a sublimity, and richness of imagery, which seldom 
 fail to enchant : every line presents new beauties 
 of idea, aided by all the magic of animated diction. 
 From the inexhaustible stores of figurative language, 
 majesty, and sublimity, which the ancient Englisli 
 poets afiibrd, he has culled some of the richest and 
 the sweetest flowers. But, unfortunately, in thus 
 making use of the beauties of other writers, he 
 has been too unsparing ; for the greater number 
 of his ideas and nervous epithets cannot, strictly 
 speaking, be called his own ; therefore, however 
 we may be charmed by the grandeur of his images, 
 or the felicity of his expression, we must still bear 
 in our recollection, that we cannot with justice bestow 
 upon him the highest eulogium of genius — that of 
 originality. 
 
 It has, with much justice, been observed, that 
 Pope, and his imitators, have introduced a species 
 of refinement into our language, which has banished 
 that nerve and pathos for which Milton had rendered 
 it eminent. Harmonious modulations, and unvary- 
 ing exactness of measure, totally precluding sublimity 
 and tire, have reduced our fashionable poetry to 
 mere sing-song. But Thomas Warton, whose taste
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 253 
 
 was unvitiated by the frivolities of the day, im- 
 mediately saw the intrinsic worth of what the world 
 then slighted. He saw that the ancient poets con- 
 tained a fund of strength, and beauty of imagery, 
 as well as diction, which, in the hands of genius, 
 would shine forth with redoubled lustre. Entirely 
 rejecting, therefore, modern niceties, he extracted the 
 honied sweets from these beautiful, though neglected 
 flowers. Every grace of sentiment, every poetical 
 term, which a false taste had rendered obsolete, 
 was by him revived and made to grace his own 
 ideas ; and though many will condemn him as guilty 
 of plagiarism, yet few will be able to withhold the 
 tribute of their praise. 
 
 The peculiar forte of Warton seems to have been 
 in the sombre descriptive. The wild airy flights 
 of a Spenser, the ' chivalrous feats of barons bold ', 
 or the ' cloister'd solitude ', were the favourites of 
 his mind. Of this his bent he informs us in the 
 following lines : 
 
 Through Pope's soft song, though all the graces breathe, 
 
 And happiest art adorns his attic page, 
 
 Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow. 
 
 As at the root of mossy trunk reclin'd, 
 
 In magic Spenser's wildly warbled song, 
 
 I see deserted Una wander wide 
 
 Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths. 
 
 Weary, forlorn, than where the fated fair' 
 
 Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames, 
 
 Launches in all the lustre of brocade, 
 
 ^ Belinda. WAe Pope's Rape of f/ie Lock.
 
 254 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 Amid the splendours of the laughing sun ; 
 The gay description palls upon the sense, 
 And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss. 
 
 Pleasures of Melajjcholy. 
 
 Warton's mind was formed for the grand and 
 the sublime. Were his imitations less verbal, and 
 less numerous, I should be led to imagine that the 
 peculiar beauties of his favourite authors had sunk 
 so impressively into his mind, that he had unwittingly 
 appropriated them as his own ; but they are in 
 general such as to preclude the idea. 
 
 To the metrical and other intrinsic ornaments of 
 style, he appears to have paid due attention. If we 
 meet with an uncouth expression, we immediately 
 perceive that it is peculiarly appropriate, and that 
 no other term could have been made use of with so 
 happy an effect. His poems abound with alliterative 
 lines. Indeed, this figure seems to have been his 
 favourite ; and he studiously seeks every opportunity 
 to introduce it : however, it must be acknowledged, 
 that his 'daisy-dappled dales', &c. occur too fre- 
 quently. 
 
 The poem on which Warton's fame {as a poet) 
 principally rests, is, the Pleasures of Melancholy, 
 and (notwithstanding the perpetual recurrence of 
 ideas which are borrowed from other poets) there are 
 few pieces which I have perused with more exquisite 
 gratification. The gloomy tints with which he over- 
 casts his descriptions ; his highly figurative language ; 
 and, above all, the antique air which the poem 
 wears, convey the most sublime ideas to the mind.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 255 
 
 Of the other pieces of this poet, some are ex- 
 cellent, and they all rise above mediocrity. In his 
 sonnets, he has succeeded wonderfully ; that written 
 at Winslade, and the one to the river Lodon, are 
 peculiarly beautiful, and that to Mr Gray is most 
 elegantly turned. The Ode on the Approach of 
 Summer is replete with genius and poetic fire ; and 
 even over the Birthday Odes, which he wrote as poet 
 laureate, his genius has cast energy and beauty. His 
 humorous pieces and satires abound in wit ; and, 
 in short, taking him altogether, he is an ornament 
 to our country and our language, and it is to be 
 regretted, that the profusion with which he has 
 made use of the beauties of other poets, should have 
 given room for censure. 
 
 I should have closed my short, and, I fear, 
 jejune essay on Warton, but that I wished to hint 
 to your truly elegant and acute Stamford corre- 
 spondent, Octavius Gilchrist, (whose future remarks 
 on Warton's imitations I await with considerable 
 impatience), that the passage in the rieasnrcs of 
 Melancholy — 
 
 or ghostly shape, 
 At distance see?i, invites, with deck'nif/g hand. 
 Thy lonesome steps, 
 
 which he supposes to be taken from the following 
 in Comas — 
 
 Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, 
 And airy tongues that syllable men's names,
 
 256 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 is more probably taken from the commencement of 
 Pope's Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady — 
 
 What beck'ning ghost, along the moonHght shade 
 Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 
 
 The original idea was possibly taken from Comus 
 by Pope, from whom Warton, to all appearance, 
 again borrowed it. 
 
 Were the similarity of the passage in Gray to 
 that in Warton less striking and verbal, I should 
 be inclined to think it only a remarkable coincidence ; 
 for Gray's biographers inform us, that he commenced 
 his elegy in 1742, and that it was completed in 1744, 
 being the year which he particularly devoted to the 
 muses, though he did not ^ put the finishing stroke 
 to it'' until 1750. The Pleasures of Melancholy 
 were published in 4to in 1747 ; therefore Gray 
 might take his third stanza from Warton ; but it is 
 rather extraordinary that the third stanza of a poem 
 should be taken from another, published five years 
 after that poem was begun, and three after it was under- 
 stood to be completed. One circumstance, however, 
 seems to render the supposition of its being a 
 plagiarism somewhat more probable, which is, that 
 the stanza in question is not essential to the connexion 
 of the succeeding and antecedent verses ; therefore 
 it might have been added by Gray, when he put 
 the 'finishing stroke' to his piece in 1750.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 257 
 
 CURSORY REMARKS ON TRAGEDY 
 
 The pleasure which is derived from the representa- 
 tion of an affecting tragedy, has often been the 
 subject of inquiry among philosophical critics, as 
 a singular phenomenon. — That the mind should 
 receive gratification from the excitement of those 
 passions which are in themselves painful, is really an 
 extraordinary paradox, and is the more inexplicable, 
 since, when the same means are employed to rouse 
 the more pleasing affections, no adequate effect is 
 produced. 
 
 In order to solve this problem, many ingenious 
 hypotheses have been invented. The Abbe Du Bos 
 tells us, that the mind has such a natural antipathy 
 to a state of listlessness and languor, as to render 
 the transition from it to a state of exertion, even 
 though by rousing passions in themselves painful, 
 as in the instance of tragedy, a positive pleasure. 
 Monsieur Fontenelle has given us a more satisfactory 
 account. He tells us that pleasure and pain, two 
 sentiments so different in themselves, do not differ 
 so much in their cause ; that pleasure, carried too 
 far, becomes pain ; and pain, a little moderated, 
 becomes pleasure. Hence that the pleasure we derive 
 from tradegy is a pleasing sorrow, a modulated pain. 
 David Hume, who has also written upon this subject, 
 unites the two systems, with this addition, that the 
 painful emotions excited by the representation of 
 
 R
 
 258 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 melancholy scenes, are further tempered, and the 
 pleasure is proportionably heightened by the eloquence 
 displayed in the relation — the art shown in collecting 
 the pathetic circumstances, and the judgment evinced 
 in their happy disposition. 
 
 But even now I do not conceive the difficulty to be 
 satisfactorily done away. Admitting the postulatum 
 which the Abbe Du Bos assumes, that languor is so 
 disagreeable to the mind, as to render its removal 
 positive pleasure, to be true ; yet, when we recollect, 
 as Mr Hume has before observed, that were the same 
 objects of distress which give us pleasure in tragedy 
 set before our eyes in reality, though they would 
 effectually remove listlessness, they would excite the 
 most unfeigned uneasiness, we shall hesitate in 
 applying this solution in its full extent to the present 
 subject. M. Fontenelle's reasoning is much more 
 conclusive ; yet I think he errs egregiously in his 
 premises, if he means to imply that any modulation 
 of pain is pleasing, because, in whatever degree it 
 may be, it is still pain, and remote from either ease 
 or positive pleasure ; and if, by moderated pain, he 
 means any uneasy sensation abated, though not 
 totally banished, he is no less mistaken in the 
 application of them to the subject before us. — 
 Pleasure may very well be conceived to be painful, 
 when carried to excess, because it there becomes 
 exertion, and is inconvenient. We may also form 
 some idea of a pleasure arising from moderated pain, 
 or the transition from the disagreeable to the less dis- 
 agreeable ; but this cannot in any-wise be applied to
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 259 
 
 the gratification we derive from a tragedy, for there 
 no superior degree of pain is left for an inferior. As 
 to Mr Hume's addition of the pleasure we derive 
 from the art of the poet, for the introduction of which 
 he has written his whole dissertation on tragedy, it 
 merits little consideration. The self - recollection 
 necessary to render this art a source of gratification 
 must weaken the illusion : and whatever weakens 
 the illusion diminishes the effect. 
 
 In these systems it is taken for granted that all 
 those passions are excited which are represented in 
 the drama. This I conceive to have been the 
 primary cause of error ; for to me it seems very 
 probable that the only passion or affection which is 
 excited, is that of sympathy, which partakes of the 
 pleasing nature of pity and compassion, and includes 
 in it so much as is pleasing of hope and apprehension, 
 joy and grief. 
 
 The pleasure we derive from the afflictions of a 
 friend is proverbial — every person has felt, and 
 wondered why he felt, something soothing in the 
 participation of the sorrows of those dear to his heart ; 
 and he might with as much reason have questioned 
 why he was delighted with the melancholy scenes of 
 tragedy. Both pleasures are equally singular ; they 
 both arise from the same source. Both originate in 
 sympathy. 
 
 It would seem natural that an accidental spectator 
 of a cause in a court of justice, with which he is 
 perfectly unacquainted, would remain an uninterested 
 auditor of what was going forward. Experience tells
 
 26o LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 us, however, the exact contrary. He immediately, 
 even before he is well acquainted with the merits of 
 the case, espouses one side of the question, to which 
 he uniformly adheres, participates in all its advantages, 
 and sympathizes in its success. There is no denying 
 that the interest this man takes in the business is 
 a source of pleasure to him ; but we cannot suppose 
 one of the parties in the cause, though his interest 
 must be infinitely more lively, to feel an equal 
 pleasure, because the painful passions are in him 
 really roused, while in the other sympathy alone is 
 excited, which is in itself pleasing. It is pretty much 
 the same with the spectator of a tragedy. And, if 
 the sympathy is the more pleasing, it is because the 
 actions are so much the more calculated to entrap the 
 attention, and the object so much the more worthy. 
 The pleasure is heightened also in both instances by 
 a kind of intuitive recollection, which never forsakes 
 the spectator, that no bad consequences will result to 
 him from the action he is surveying. The recollec- 
 tion is the more predominant in the spectator of a 
 tragedy, as it is impossible in any case totally to 
 banish from his memory that the scenes are fictitious 
 and illusive. In real life we always advert to futurity, 
 and endeavour to draw inferences of the probable 
 consequences ; but the moment we take off our minds 
 from what is passing on the stage to reasonings there- 
 upon, the illusion is dispelled, and it again recurs 
 that it is all fiction. 
 
 If we compare the degrees of pleasure we derive 
 from the perusal of a novel and the representation
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 261 
 
 of a tragedy, we shall observe a wonderful disparity. 
 In both we feel an interest, in both sympathy is 
 excited. But in the one, things are merely related to 
 us as having passed, which it is not attempted to 
 persuade us ever did zw reality happen, and from 
 which, therefore, we never can deceive ourselves into 
 the idea that any consequences whatever will result ; 
 in the other, on the contrary, the actions themselves 
 pass before our eyes ; we are not tempted to ask our- 
 selves whether they did ever happen ; we see them 
 happen, we are the witnesses of them ; and were it 
 not for the meliorating circumstances before men- 
 tioned, the sympathy would become so powerful as 
 to be in the highest degree painful. 
 
 In tragedy, therefore, everything which can 
 strengthen the illusion should be introduced, for 
 there are a thousand drawbacks on the effect, which 
 it is impossible to remove, and which have always so 
 great a force, as to put it out of the power of the 
 poet to excite sympathy in a too painful degree. 
 Everything that is improbable, everything which is 
 out of the common course of nature, should, for this 
 reason, be avoided, as nothing will so forcibly remind 
 the spectator of the unrealness of the illusion. 
 
 It is a mistaken idea, that we sympathize sooner 
 with the distresses of kings and illustrious personages, 
 than with those of common life. Men are, in fact, 
 more inclined to commiserate the sufferings of their 
 equals, than of those whom they cannot but regard 
 rather with awe than pity, as superior beings, and 
 to take an interest in incidents which might have
 
 262 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 
 
 happened to themselves sooner than in those remote 
 from their own rank and habits. It is for this reason 
 that ^schylus censures Euripides for introducing his 
 kings in rags, as if they were more to be com- 
 passionated than other men ; 
 
 wpuTOv fi€v TOLis ^acTiXevovTas pa.Ki' d/xirtcxwf, 'iv' 
 
 eXeivoi 
 Tots dvdpwTTOis ^aivoivr' elvaL. (Ar. Ranae io63f.) 
 
 Some will, perhaps, imagine that it is in the power 
 of the poet to excite our sympathy in too powerful 
 a degree, because, at the representation of certain 
 scenes, the spectators are frequently affected so as 
 to make them shriek out with terror. But this is not 
 sympathy ; it is horror, it is disgust, and is only 
 witnessed when some act is committed on the stage 
 so cruel and bloody, as to make it impossible to 
 contemplate it, even in idea, without horror. 
 
 Nee pueros coram populo Medea trucidet, 
 Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus. 
 Hor. Ars Poet., 1. 185 
 
 It is for this reason, also, that many fine German 
 dramas cannot be brought on the English stage, such 
 as the Robbers of Schiller, and the Adelaide of 
 Wulfingen, by Kotzebue : they are too horrible to be 
 read without violent emotions, and Horace will tell 
 you what an immense difference there is in point of 
 effect between a relation and a representation. 
 
 Segnius irritant anmios demissa per aureni, 
 Quam qua; sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quce 
 Ipse sibi tradit spectator. Ars Poet., 1, 180.
 
 LETTERS AND PROSE FRAGMENTS 263 
 
 I shall conclude these desultory remarks, strung 
 together at random, without order or connexion, by 
 observing what little foundation there is for the 
 general outcry in the literary world, against the 
 prevalence of German dramas on our stage. Did 
 they not possess uncommon merit, they would not 
 meet with such general approbation. Fashion has 
 but a partial influence, but they have drawn tears 
 from an audience in a barn as well as in a theatre 
 royal ; they have been welcomed with plaudits in 
 every little market-town in the three kingdoms, as 
 well as in the metropolis. Nature speaks but one 
 language ; she is alike intelligible to the peasant and 
 the man of letters, the tradesman and the man of 
 fashion. While the Muse of Germany shall continue 
 to produce such plays as The Stranger and Lovers' 
 Vows ^, who will not rejoice that translation is able 
 to naturalize her efforts in our language ? 
 
 1 I speak of these plays only as adapted to our stage 
 by the elegant pens of Mr Thompson and Mrs Inchbald.
 
 NOTES 
 
 PAGE LINE 
 
 CLIFTON GROVE 
 
 13 230 Progne, who was turned into a swallow, is 
 apparently confused with her sister 
 Philomela, who was transformed to a 
 nightingale. Compare Johnson's A utumn, 
 1. 20, ' As Progne pours the melting lay '. 
 
 21 466 ^Oswego's szvamps.' Vide Goldsmith's 
 Traveller, 1. 411, 'Where Wild Oswego 
 spreads her swamps around. ' 
 
 21 469 Tejo. Teos or Teios, a town of the Ionian 
 confederacy. Birthplace of Anacreon. 
 
 MY STUDY 
 
 42 61 Pope, or Coke, or Burn. The reference is 
 presumably to either Pope the poet, or 
 Walter Pope the Astronomer, and to Sir 
 Ed. Coke and Richard Burn, both eminent 
 lawyers and legal writers. 
 
 THE EVE OF DEATH 
 
 55 The influence of Ossian in this poem is 
 
 marked. Morven (Fingal) and Colma are 
 characters in the Ossianic poems. 
 
 ODE TO H. FUSELI 
 
 64 Johan Henrich Fuessli (1741-1825), painter 
 
 and illustrator of Milton, etc. He changed 
 his name to Fuseli. Vide also 1. 47. 
 
 64 22 Helici, i.e. Ursa Major, The Great Bear. 
 
 66 56 Strook, i.e. struck. 
 
 265
 
 266 NOTES 
 
 PAGE LINE 
 
 66 68 Hresvelger. The Giant Hrasvelg, of Scandi- 
 navian mythology. He keeps watch on 
 the north side of the root of the tree of 
 the world, to devour the dead. His shape 
 is that of an eagle, and winds and storms 
 are caused by the movements of his wings. 
 (Brewer). 
 
 TO CONTEMPLATION 
 
 70 2 Lapponian, i.e. Laplandish. 
 
 GENIUS 
 
 81 55 Snlmo's bard. Ovid. 
 
 81 57 By him. Chatterton. 
 
 TO THE MOON 
 
 84 14 Favonian. Favonius, the west wind. 
 
 NELSONI MORS 
 
 90 19 Aganippe's well. A fountain at the foot of 
 
 Helicon, sacred to the muses. 
 
 TIME 
 
 121 481 Sale?)!, the ancient name for Jerusalem. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAD 
 
 133 19 ^ci/ywfl, also an ancient name for Jerusalem. 
 
 134 41 Uj-ania, one of the nine muses. 
 
 134 54-55 Right o'er the Eiixine, and that gulf which late 
 The rude Massagatm adored- 
 
 The Massagatns were a wild race of 
 Scythian tent-dwellers. They were by some 
 reputed to have lived on the borders of 
 the Caspian Sea, which is probably the 
 'gulf referred to, and which, in the 
 imagination of the ancients, had sub- 
 terraneous communication with the Eu.xine 
 Sea. 
 137 109 Boreal, northern.
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care, 
 Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, 
 Be hush'd, be hush'd, 3'e bitter winds, . 
 Beams of the day-break faint ! I hail . 
 Come, Anna ! come, the morning dawns, 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! . 
 Come, pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell 
 Dark visaged visitor, who comest here 
 Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! . . . 
 Down the sultry arc of day . 
 Emblem of life ! see changeful April sail 
 Fanny ! upon thy breast I may not lie ! 
 Genius of musings, who, the midnight hour 
 Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head, . 
 Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, 
 God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far ; 
 Hence away, vindictive Thought ! 
 Hence to thy darkest shades, dire Slavery, hence 
 I have a wish, and near my heart 
 I sing the Cross ! — Ye white-robed angel choirs, 
 Lo ! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, 
 Lo ! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, . 
 Loud rage the winds without. — The wintry cloud 
 Maiden ! wrap thy mantle round thee. 
 Many there be, who, through the vale of life, 
 Mighty magician ! who, on Torneo's brow. 
 Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
 Mild orb who floatest through the realm of night 
 O give me music — for my soul doth faint ; . 
 267 
 
 91 
 47 
 38 
 
 75 
 61 
 70 
 83 
 49 
 
 105 
 87 
 
 45 
 45 
 77 
 98 
 
 lOI 
 
 132 
 
 5 
 
 102 
 
 129 
 
 54 
 
 79 
 
 64 
 
 44 
 130 
 103
 
 268 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint 
 
 O Lord, another day is flown, 
 
 O Lord, my God, in mercy turn, 
 
 Oh, that I were the fragrant flower that kisses 
 
 Oh, Warton ! to thy soothing shell 
 
 Once more, and yet once more, . 
 
 Or should the day be overcast 
 
 Poor little one ! most bitterly did pain 
 
 Silence of death — portentous calm, 
 
 So ravishingly soft upon the tide . 
 
 Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, 
 
 Sublime, emerging from the misty verge 
 
 Sweet Jessy! I v^^ould fain caress . 
 
 Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile 
 
 Sweet scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 
 
 The Lord our God is full of might. 
 
 The night it was still, and the moon it shone 
 
 Thou simple Lyre ! — Thy music wild . 
 
 'Tis midnight — On the globe dead slumber sits. 
 
 What art thou, Mighty One ! and where thy seat 
 
 When high romance o'er every wood and stream 
 
 When I sit musing on the chequer'd past. 
 
 When marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
 
 When pride and envy, and the scorn . 
 
 Where yonder woods in gloomy pomp arise 
 
 Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold 
 
 Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies. 
 
 Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far 
 
 Yes, once more that dying strain. 
 
 Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again, 
 
 You bid me, Ned, describe the place . 
 
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