cr R n ^ -'■>f'; '■■'-V WML. ■'"'■'^'.' : L^ /^ '^ '^Cf^^^^ >^ii^ ^ . f.t. t^-'^x* y/^^: ^^ v^^^ ^'^^ ^ -'y<^/^Lj^f^^- <;^g^ ^#¥ ^-4- '^^ Jjehold _yon poor "Weaiy w^retfl ■wl.o ■witk a ciiaJd wiapi m "her axms -with d if f ictill j- diag's along the loid Yhfi Tuan vatk a kaapsaclc vriio is walkui^ liei'oTe ler is licr husband Melanclioly ioiiTs T 369 THE POETICAL AND PEOSE WORKS HENRY KIRKE WHITE. WITH LIFE BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL.D. m I GIFT -t-; 1^:: ^?: ^B^M iiilill i -fei LIFE OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. u 576 LIFE a IIENUY KIRKE WHITE. BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. V. ...'is I It fell to my lot to publish, with the assistance of my friend Mr Cottle, the first collected edition of the works of Chatterton, in whose history I felt a more than ordi- nary interest, as being a native of the same city, familiar from my childhood with those great objects of art and nature hy which he had been so deeply impressed, and devoted from my childhood with the same ardour to the same pursuits. It is now my fortune to lay before the world some account of one whose early death is not less to be lamented as a loss to English literature, and whose virtues were as aduiirable as his genius. In the present instance, there is nothing to be recorded but what is honourable to himself, and to the age in which he lived ; little to be regretted, but that one so ripe for heaven should so soon have been removed from the world. Henry Kirke White, the second son of John and Mary White, was born in Nottingham, March 21st, 1785. His father is a butcher; his mother, whose maiden name was Neville, is of a respectable Statford- shirc family. From the years of three till five, Henry learnt to read at the school of Mrs Garrington ; whose name, unira- n n' P m^-^'i LIFE OF portant as it may appear, is mentioned, because she had the good sense to perceive his extraordinary capacity, and spolce of what it promised with confidence. She was an excellent woman, and he describes her with affection in his poem upon Childhood. At a very early ao;e his love of reading was decidedly manifested ; it was a passion to which everything else gave way. " I could fancy," savs his eldest sister, " I see him in his little chair, with a large book upon his knee, and my m.other calling, ' Henry, my love, come to dinner ;' which was repeated so often without being regarded, that she was obliged to change the tone of her voice before she could rouse him." When he was about seven, he would creep unperceived into the kitchen, to teach the servant to read and write ; and he continued this for some time before it was discovered that he had been thus laudably em- ployed. He wrote a tale of a Swiss emigrant, which was probably his first composition, and gave it to this servant, being ashamed to show it to his mother. The consciousness of genius is always at first accompanied with this diffidence ; it is a sacred, solitary feeling. No forward child, however extraordinary the promise of his childhood, ever produced anything truly great. When Henry was about six, he was placed under the Rev. John Blanchard, who kept, at that time, the best school in Nottingham. Here he learnt writing, arith- metic, and French. When he was about eleven, he one day wrote a separate theme for every boy in his class, which consisted of about twelve or fourteen. The master said he had never known them write so well upon any subject before, and could not refrain from expressing his astonishment at the excellence of Henry's. It was con- sidered as a great thing for him to be at so good a school, yet there were some circumstances which rendered it less advantageous to him than it might have been. Mrs White had not yet overcome her husband's intention of breeding him up to his own business : and by an arrange- ment which took up too much of his time, and would have crushed his spirit, if that "mounting spirit" could have been crushed, one whole day in the week, and his leisure 1^^ ft HENRY KIRKE WHITE. I m \im hours on the others, were employed in carrying the butcher's basket. Some differences at length arose be- tween his father and Mr Blanchard, in consequence of which Henry was removed. One of the uslicrs, when he came to receive the money due for tuition, took the opportunity of informing Mrs White what an incorrigible son she had, and that it was impossible to make the lad do anything. This infor- mation made his friends very uneasy ; thoy were dispirited about him ; and had they relied wholly upon this report, the stupidity or malice of this man would have blasted Henry's progress for ever. He was, however, placed under the care of a Mr Shij)ley, who soon discovered that he was a boy of quick perception and very admir- able talents, and came with joy, like a good man, to re- lieve the anxiety and painful suspicions of his family. While his schoolmasters were complaining that they could make nothing of him, he discovered what Nature had made him, and wrote satires upon them. These pieces were never shown to any except his most parti- cular friends, who say that they were pointed and severe. They are enumerated in the table of Contents to one of his manuscript volumes, under the title of School-Lam- poons ; but, as was to be expected, he had cut the leaves out and destroyed them. One of his poems written at this time, and under these feelings, is preserved. ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING. (written at the age or thirteen.) The morning sun's enchanting rays Now call forth every song.^ter's praise ; Now the lark with upward flight, Gaily ushers in the light ; While wildly warbling from each tree,. The birds sing songs to liberty. [mMu! But for me no songster sings, For mc no joyous lark up-spring8 , For I, confin'd in gloomy school, MFK OF Must own the pedant's iron rule, And far from sylvan shades and bowers, In durance vile must pass the hours ; There con the scholiast's dreary lines, "Where no bright ray of genius shincp, And close to rugged learning cling, While laughs around the jocund sprin?. How gladly would my soul forego All that arithmeticians know, Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach. Or all that industry can reach, To taste each morn of all the joys That with the laughing sun arise ; And unconstrain'd to rove along The bushy brakes and glens among ; And woo the muse's gentle power In unfrequented rural bower ! But ah ! such heav'n-approaching joy? Will never greet my longing eyes ; Still will they cheat in vision fine, Yet never but in fancy shine. m '^_ Oh, that I were the little wren That shrilly chirps from yonder glen ! Oh, far away I then would rove. To some secluded bushy grove ; There hop and sing with careless glee, Hop and sing at liberty ; And till death should stop my lays. And far from men v/ould spend my days. About this time his mother was induced, by the advice of several friends, to open a ladies' boarding and day echool in Nottingham, her eldest daughter having pre- viously been a teacher in one for some time. In this she succeeded beyond her most sanguine expectations, and Henry's home comforts were thus materially in- creased, though it was still out of the power of his family to give him that education and direction in life which his talents deserved and required. It was now determined to breed him up to the hosiery trade, the staple manufacture of his native place, and at HENRY KIRKE WHITE. the age of fourteen he was placed in a stocking-loom, with the view, at some future period, of getting a situation in a hosier's warehouse. During the time that he was thus employed, he might be said to be truly unhappy; he went to his work with evident reluctance, and could not re- frain from sometimes hinting his extreme aversion to it; but the circumstances of his family obliged them to turn a deaf ear. His temper and tone of mind at this pe- riod, when he was in his fourteenth year, are displayed in this extract from an Address to Contemplation, ■:i;-i 5, Thee do I own, the prompter of iny joys, The soother of my cares, inspiring peace ; And I will ne'er forsake thee. jVIen may rave, And blame and censure me, that I don't tie My ev'ry thought down to the de.~k, and spend The morning of my life in adding figures "With accurate monotony ; that so The good things of the world may be my lot, And I might taste the blessedness of wealth : But, oh ! I was nut made for money getting ; For me no much-respected plum aAvaits, Kor civic honour, envied — For as still I tried to cast with school dexterity The interesting sums my vagrant thoughts Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt, Which fond remembrance cherish "d, and the pen Dropt from my senseless fingers as I pictured, In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent I erewhile wander'd with my early friends In social intercourse. And then I'd think How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide. One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe ; They were set down with sober steadiness, Each to his occupation, I alone, A wayward youth, milled by Fancy's vagaries, llemain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering With ev'ry wind to ev'ry point o' th' compass. Yes, in the Counting House I could indulge In fits of close abstraction ; yea, amid The busy bustling crowds could meditate, And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. ^. LIFE OP Aye, Contemplation, ev n in earliest youth I woo'd tliy heav'nly influence ! I would walk A weary way when all my toils were done, To lay myself at night in some lone wood, And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. Oh, those were times of happiness, and still To memory doubly dear ; for growing years Had not then taught me man was made to mourn ; And a sliort hour of solitary pleasure. Stolen from sleep, was ample recompence For all the hateful bustles of the day. My op'ning mind was ductile then, and plastic, And soon the marks of care were worn away, ^^'hile I was sway'd by every novel impulse, Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. But it has now assumed its character ; Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone, Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend. Yet still, oh, Contemplation ! I do love To indulge thy solemn musings ; still the same With thee alone I know to melt and weep, In thee alone delighting. AVhy along The dusky track of commerce should I toil, "When with an easy competence content, I can alone be happy ; where with thee I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, And loose the wings of Fancy ! — Thus alone Can I partake of happiness on Earth ; And to be happy here is man's chief end, For to be happy he must needs be good. Ilis mother, however, secretly felt that he was worthy of better things : to her he spoke more openly : he could not bear, he said, the thought of spending seven years of his life in shining and folding up stockings ; he wanted something to occupy his brain, and he should be wretched if he continued longer at this trade indeed in anything except one of the learned profes- sions. These frequent complaints, after a year's appli- cation, or rather misajiplication (as his brother says), at the loom, convinced her that he had a mind destined for nobler pursuits. To one so situated, and with nothing but his own talents and exertions to depend upon, the ^^^iMffiiffi^ r m ^mm^m^mm ^Ki: '.% ;"?»S HENRY KIRKE WHITE. Law seemed to be the only practical line. His affection- ate and excellent mother made every possible effort to effect his wislies, his father being very averse to the plan, and at length, after overcoming a variety of obstacles, he was fixed in the office of Messrs Coldham and Enfield, attorneys and town-clerks of Nottingham. As no pre- mium could be given with him, he was engaged to serve two years before he was articled, so that though he en- tered this office when he was fifteen, he was not articled till the commencement of the year 1802. On thus entering the law, it was recommended to him by his employers, that he should endeavour to obtain some knowledge of Latin. He had now only the little time which an attorney's office, in very extensive prac- tice, afforded ; but great things may be done in " those hours of leisure which even the busiest may create," * and to his ardent mind no obstacles were too discourag- ing. He received some instruction in the first rudiments of this language from a person who then resided at Not- tingham under a feigned name, but was soon obliged to leave it, to elude the search of government, who were then seeking to secure him. Henry discovered him to be Mr Cormick, from a print afUxed to a continuation of Hume and Smollett, and published, with their histories, by Cooke. He is, I believe, the same person who wrote a life of Burke. If he received any other assistance, it was very trifling; yet, in the course of ten months, he enabled himself to read Horace with tolerable facility, and had made some progress in Greek, which indeed he began first. He used to exercise himself in declining the Greek nouns and verbs as he was going to and from the office, so valuable was time become to him. From this time he contracted a habit of employing his mind in study during his walks, which he continued to the end of his life. He now became almost estranged from his family ; even at liis meals he would be reading, and his evenings were entirely devoted to intellectual improvement. Hti bad a little room given him, which was called his study Tni lid's Profacc to ilio History of tlic .Vnglo-Saxona I'm- ■'■"^^ r LIFE OF and here his milk supper was taken up to him ; for, to avoid any loss of time, he refused to sup with his family, though earnestly entreated so to do, as his mother already began to dread the effects of this severe and unremitting application. The law was his first pursuit, to which his papers show he had applied himself with such industry, as to make it wonderful that he could have found time, busied as his days were, for anything else. Greek and Latin were the next objects ; at the same time he made himself a tolerable Italian scholar, and acquired some knowledge both of the Spanish and Portuguese. His medical friends say that the knowledge he had obtained of chemistry was very respectable. Astronomy and elec- tricity were among his studies ; some attention he paid to drawing, in which it is probable he would have ex- celled. He was passionately fond of music, and could play very pleasingly by ear on the pianoforte, composing the bass to the air he was playing ; but this propensity he checked, lest it might interfere with more important objects. He had a turn for mechanics, and all the fit- tings up of his study were the work of his own hands. At a very early age, indeed soon after he was taken from school, Henry was ambitious of being admitted a member of a Literary Society then existing in Notting- ham, but was objected to on account of his youth ; after repeated attempts, and repeated failures, he succeeded in his wish, through the exertions of some of his friends, and was elected. In a very short time, to the great sur- prise of the society, he proposed to give them a lecture, and they, probably from curiosity, acceded to the propo- sal. The next evening they assembled ; he lectured upon Genius, and spoke extempore for above twoho.n's, in such a manner, that he received the unanimous thanks of the society, and they elected this young Roscius of oratory their Professor of Literature. There are certain courts at Nottingham, in wliich it is necessary for an attorney to plead ; and he wished to quality himself for an elo- quent speaker, as well as a sound lawyer. With the profession in which he was placed, he was well pleased, and suffered no pursuit, numerous as his '*i^" IIKNRV KIRKE WHITE. xm pursuits were, to interfere m the slightest degree with its duties. Yet he soon began to have higher aspirations, and to cast a wistful eye toward the universities with little hope of ever attaining their important advantages, yet, probably, not without some hope, however faint. There was at this time a magazine in publication, called the Monthly Preceptor, which proposed prize themes for boys and girls to write upon ; and which was encouraged by many schoolmasters, some of whom, for their own credit, and that of the important institutions in which they were placed, should have known better than to en- courage it. But in schools, and in all practical systems of education, emulation is made the mainspring, as if there were not enough of the leaven of disquietude in our natures, without inoculating it with this dilutement — this vaccine-virus of envy. True it is, that we need en- couragement in youth ; that though our vices spring up and thrive in shade and darkness, like poisonous fungi, our better powers require light and air ; and that praise is the sunshine, without which genius will wither, fade, and die : or rather in search of which, like a plant that is debarred from it, will push forth in contortions, and deformity. But such practices as that of writing for public prizes, of publicly declaiming, and of enacting plays before the neighbouring gentry, teach boys to look for applause instead of being satisfied with approbation, and foster in them that vanity which needs no such cherishing. This is administering stimulants to the heart, instead of" feeding it with food convenient for it ;" and the elfect of such stimulants is to dwarf the human mind, as lapdogs are said to be stopped in their growth by being- dosed with gin. Thus forced, it becomes like the sap- ling which shoots up when it should be striking its roots far and deep, and which therefore never attains to more than a sapling's size. To Henry, however, the opportunity of distinguishing himself, even in the Juvenile Library, was useful ; if he had acted with a man's foresight he could not have done more wisely than by aiming at every distinction within his little sphere. At the age of fifteen, he gained a sii- :l fe •■^^! LIFE OF mm m-^'- % ver medal for a translation from Horace ; and the fol- lowing year a pair of twelve inch globes, for an ima- ginary tour from London to Edinburgh. He determined upon trying for this prize one evening when at tea with his family, and at supper he read to them his perform- ance, to which seven pages were granted in the maga- zine, though they had limited the allowance of room to three. Shortly afterwards he won several books for ex- ercises on different subjects. Such honours were of great importance to him ; they were testimonies of his ability, which could not be suspected of partiality, and they pre- pared his father to regard with less reluctance that change in his views and wishes which afterwards took place. He now became a correspondent in the Monthly Mir- ror, a magazine which first set the example of typographi- cal neatness in periodical publications, which has given the world a good series of portraits, and which deserves praise also on other accounts, having among its contribu- tors some persons of extensive erudition and acknowledged talents. Magazines are of great service to those who are learning to write ; they are fishing-boats, which the buc- caneers of literature do not condescend to sink, burn, and destroy : young poets may safely try their strength in them ; and that they should try their strength before the public, without danger of any shame from failure, is highly desirable. Henry's rapid improvement was now as re- markable as his unwearied industry. The pieces which had been rewarded in the Juvenile Preceptor, might have been rivalled by many boys ; but what he produced a year afterwards, few men could equal. Those which appeared in the JMonthly Mirror attracted some notice, and intro- duced liim to the acquaintance of Mr Capel Lofft, and of Mr Hill, the pro])rietor of the work, a gentleman who is himself a lover of English literature, and who has pro- bably the most copious collection of English poetry in ex- istence. Tlieir encouragement induced hiui, about the close of the year 1802, to prepare a little volume of poems for the press. It was his hope that this publication might, either by the success of its sale, or the notice which it might excite, enable him to prosecute his studies at col- ■&■■ wi nENllY KIKKE WHITE. lege, and fit himself for the Church. For though so far was he from feeling any dislike to his own profession, that he was even attaclied to it, and had indulged a hope that one day or other he should make his way to the bar, a deafness, to which he had always been subject, and which appeared to grow progressively worse, threatened to preclude all possibility of advancement ; and his opi- nions, which liad at one time inclined to deism, had now taken a strong devotional bias. Henry was earnestly advised to obtain, if possible, some patroness for his book, whose rank in life, and notoriety in the literary world, might afford it some protection. The days of dedications are happily well nigh at an end ; but this was of importance to him, as giving his little volume consequence in the eyes of his friends and townsmen. The Countess of Derby was first applied to, and the manu- script submitted to her perusal. She returned it with a refusal, upon the ground that it was an invariable rule with her never to accept a compliment of the kind ; but this refusal was couched in language as kind as it was complimentary, and he felt more pleasure at the kindness which it expressed, than disappointment at the failure of his application ; a two pound note was inclosed as her subscription to the work. The Margravine of Anspach was also thought of. There is amongst his papers the draught of a letter addressed to her upon the subject, but I believe it was never sent. He was then recommended to apply to the Duchess of Devonshire. Poor Henry felt a fit repugnance at courting patronage in this way, but he felt that it was of consequence in his little world, and submitted ; and tlie manuscript was left, with a letter, at Devonshire House, as it had been with the Countess of Derby. Some time elapsed, and no answer arrived from her Grace ; and as she was known to be pestered with such applications, apprehensions began to be entertained for the safety of the papers. His brother Neville (who was now settled in London) called several times ; of course he never obtained an interview : the case at last became desperate, and lie went with a determination not to quit the house till he had obtained them. After wait ^ i v^^^^ LIFE OF ing four hours in the servants' hall, his perseverance con- quered their idle insolence, and he got possession of the manuscript. And here he, as well as his brother, sick of " dancing attendance" upon the great, would have relin- quished all thoughts of the dedication ; but they were urged to make one more trial : — a letter to her Grace was procured, with which Neville obtained audience, wisely leaving the manuscript at home ; and the Duchess, with her usual good nature, gave permission that the volume should be dedicated to her. Accordingly her name ap- peared in the title page, and a copy was transmitted to her in due form, and in its due morocco livery, of which no notice was ever taken. Involved as she vvas in an endless round of miserable follies, it is probable that she never opened the book ; otherwise her heart was good enough to have felt a pleasure in encouraging the author. Oh, what a lesson would the history of that heart hold out! Henry sent his little volume'' to each of the then ex- * The following is the original preface to the volume : — The follow- ing attempts in verse are laid before the public with extreme difh- dence. The Author is very conscious that the juvenile etfortsof a youth who has not received the polish of academical discipline, and who has been but sparingly blessed with opportunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must 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 attaining the power of disposing those images to the best advantage. The unpremeditated effusions of a boy, from his thirteenth year, em- ployed, not in the acquisition of litertiry information, but in the more active business of life, must not be expected to exh ibit any considerable portion of the correctne-'s of a Virgil, or the vigorous compression of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, frequently known to bestow much labour on their amusements; and these poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile a leisure hour, or to fill up the languid in- tervals of studies of a severer nature. riaj TO oixiio: i^yov Kyotvciu. " Every one loves his own work." ■-ays the Stagyrite; l)ut it was no overweening affection of tliis kind which induced this publication. Had the Autlior i>clied 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 Ins motives for this publi- cation '. lie answers— simply these: the facilitation through its means jf those studies wliJch,from his earliest infancy, have been the prin- cipal objects of his ambition; and the increase of the capacity to pur- sue those inclinations which may one day place him in an honourable station in the scale of society. ^. , The principal poem in this little collection (Chfton Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers, and harmonious coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of anocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with such rettections as the acene naturally suggested. It was written twelve months ago, wlien — ^ HENRY KIEKE WHITE. isting 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 publi- cation : 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 rot 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 he read the following article in the Monthly Review for February, 1804 : — " The circumstances under which this little volume is offered to the public, must in some measure disarm criti- cism. 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 penury and misfortune, and now hopes, by this early authorship, to obtain some assistance in the prosecution of his studies at Cambridge. He appears, indeed, to be one of those young men of talents and application v/ho merit encouragement ; and it would be gratifying to us, to hear that this publication had obtained for him a re- spectable patron, for we fear that the mere profit arising from the sale cannot be, in any measure, adequate to his exigencies as a student at the university. A subscrip- tion, 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 con- templated with any sanguine expectation. The author is very anxious, however, that critics should find in itsome- 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 Trimrosc," was written at thirteen— the others are of a later date.— The sonnets arc chiefly irregular ; thoy have, perhaps, no other claim to thatspeci/lcdcnomination, than that they consist only of four- teen lines. Such are the poems, towards which I entreat the lenity of the pub- lic. The critic will doubtk'ss find in them much to condemn, he may likewise, possibly, di.scovcr something lo commend. Let him scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in tlicwork of that correction which 1 invite, let him remember he is holding the iron Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructureofayouth of seventeen, and remember- ing that, may he forbear from crushing by too much rigour tlie painted butterfly, whose transient colours may otherwise be capable ot afU>rd- inu' a moment's innocent amusement. JI. K, White. Nottinjrham. I> ^m m ^-m^M ^-<^ms,^^>mm warn thing to commend, and he shall not be disappointed : we commend his exertions, and his laudable 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- tion : — " ' 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.' " If Mr White should be instructed bv 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 toot 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, sate down to blast the hopes of a boy, who had confessed to him all his hopes and all his difficulties, 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 ix>ems 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 w^ell as the cruelty of this reviewal, he need only read " To the Herb Rose- mary," p. 95, " To the Morning," p. 96, as a few speci- mens of the volume, thus contemptuously condemned because Boy and Sky are used as rhymes in it. 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 efifeet, both upon his feelings and his success, than it ought to have, or would have, if the mystery of the UKigentle craft were more generally understood. Henry wrote to the editor to complain of the cruelty with which ^:: tS^S^^'^ HENRY KIRKE WIIITK. XIX lie had been treated. This remonstrance produced the foUowiiiG; answer the next month. '?•, '"M .A. Monthly Review, March 180-4. ADDUKSS TO C0KRESPONDENT3. " In the course of our long critical labours we have necessarily been forced to encounter the resentment, or withstand the lamentations of many disappointed au- thors : but we have seldom, if ever, been more affected than by a letter from Mr White of Nottingham, com- plaining of the tendency of our strictures on his poem of Clifton Grove, in our last number. His expostula- tions are written with a warmth of feeling in which we truly sympatliize, 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 boolc by the book itself;' excepting only, that from his former letter, we were desirous of mitigating 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 Mr GifPard (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 Nottingham reflect that some portion of that wealth which they have worthily ac- quired by the habits of industry, will be laudably applied in assisting the efforts of 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 common-place and vulgar insolence of the criticism ; but to have made any concession would liave been admitting that a review can do wrong, and thus violating the fundamental principle of its constitution. The poems which had been thus condemned, appeared to me to discover strcng marks of genius. T had shown :M LIFE OF 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 coincided with my own. I was fully convinced of the injustice of this criticism, and having accidentally 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 wa^ well aware how imprudent it was in young poets to publish their productions, 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 b} subscription, and offered to do what little was in m\ power to serve him in the business. To this he replied in the fullowiug letter. i^;^ te " I dare not say all I feel respecting your opinion ot 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 re- garded all that had passed as a dream, and I thought I had been deluding myself into an idea of possessing poetic genius, when in fact I had only the longing without the ajlatus. 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 correc- tion. 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 therefore could not, I concluded, give a criticism 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, HENRY KIRKE WHITE. I and T 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 affec- tionate and vigilant pastor, and become more useful to mankind, I therefore have hopes, I say, that I shall find means of support in the University. If I do not, I shall certainly act in pursuance of your recommen- dations, 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 Kes- wick, to make you acquainted with the result. " I have only one objection to publishing by subscrip- tion, and I 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 statement 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 princijially while Clifton Grove was inthe press, or soon after, and do not now at all satisfy me. Indeed, of late, I have been obliged to desist, almost entirely, from converse with the dames of Helicon. The drud- gery of an attorney's office, and the necessity of prei)ar- ing myself, in case I should succeed in getting to col- lege, in what little leisure I could boast, left no room for the flights of the imagination." lu another letter he ppcaks, in still stronger terms, of what he had suffered from the unfeeling and iniquitous criti'-ism. " The unfavourable review (in the Monthly) of my iinhajipy work lias cut deeper than you could have th()n,i,"h^ : v.<)\ in a literary jioint of view, but as it affects LIFE OP ^•'^ my respectabilit3^ It represents me actually as a h'ggar, going about gathering money to put myself at college, when my book is worthless ; and this with every ap- pearance of candour. They have been sadly misin- formed 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 Not- thigliam," 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 indigna- tion 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. I have stated that his opinions were, at one time, in* L'lining towards deism : it needs not to be said on what slight grounds the opinions of a youth must needs be founded : while they are confined to matters of specula- tion, they indicate, whatever their eccentricities, only an active mind ; and it is only when a propensity is mani- fested to such principles as give a sanction to immorality, that they show something wrong at heart. One little poem of Henry's remains, " My Own Character," p. 62, which was written in this unsettled state of mind. It exhibits much of his character, and can excite no feelings towards him, but such as are favourable. About this time Mr Pigott, the curate of St Mary's, Nottingham, hearing what was the bent of his religious opinions, sent him, by a friend, Scott's " Force of Truth,"' and requested him to peruse it attentively, whicli he pro- mised to do. Having looked at the book, he told the person who brought it to him, that he could soon write an answer to it ; but about a fortnight afterwards, when this friend inquired liow far he liad proceeded in his WPB" M:''-i^ HEKRY KUIKE WHITE. ^M % answer to Mr Scott, Henry's reply was in a very diffe- rent tone and temper. He said, that to answer that booi was out of his power, and out of any man's, for it Ava? founded upon eternal truth ; that it had convinced him of his error; and that so thoroughly was he im- pressed with a sense of the importance of his jMaker's favour, that he would willingly give up all acquisitions of knowledge, and all hopes of fame, and live in a wil- derness, unknown, till death, so he could insure an inheritance in heaven.* A new pursuit was thus opened to him, and he en- gaged in it with his wonted ardour. " It was a constant feature in his mind," says Mr Pigott, " to persevere in the pursuit of what he deemed noble and important. Religion, in which he now appeared to himself not yet to have taken a step, engaged all his anxiety, as of all con- cerns the most important. He could not rest satisfied till he had formed his principles upon the basis of Christianity, and till he had begun in earnest to think and act agreeably to its pure and heavenly precepts. His mind loved to make distant excursions intothe future and remote consequences of things. He no longer limited his views to the narrow confines of earthly existence ; he was not happy till he had learnt to rest and expatiate in a world to come. What he said to me when we became intimate is worthy of observation : that, he said, which first made him dis- satisfied with the creed he had adopted, and the stan- dard of practice which he had set up for himself, was the purity of mind which he perceived was everywhere in- culcated in the Holy Scriptures, and required of every W M * Mr Sonthoy, in an edition piiblislied in 1822, gives an entirely dif- ferent account ot tlio niimner of Ilonry Kirkc White's conversion, mcntionini^ tliat he liad been misled in givintc the above account. Hprol)ation. But the arrow of conviction had entered his soul. Me was unhapi)y without religion, and at last opened Iiis whole heart to his friend, anil ^ith tear" in his eye? askf;d him, What must I do ? LIFE OF 1i one who would become a successful candidate for future blessedness. He had supposed that morality of conduct was ail the purity required ; but when he observed that purity of the very thoiighu and intention?^ of the soul also was requisite, he was convinced of his deficiencies, and could find no comfort to his penitence, but in the atonement made for human frailty by the Redeemer of mankind ; and no strength adequate to his Aveakness, and sufficient for resisting evil, but the aid of God's Spirit, promised to those who seek him from above in the sincerity of earnest prayer." From the moment when he had fully contracted these opinions, he was resolved upon devoting his life to the promulgation of them ; and therefore to leave the law, and, if possible, place himself at one of the Universities. Every argument was used by his friends to dissuade hirq from his purpose, but to no effect : his mind was unal- terably fixed ; and great and numerous as the obstacles were, he was determined to surmount them all. He had now served the better half of the term for which he was articled ; his entrance and continuance in the profession had been a great expense to his family ; and to give up this lucrative profession, in the study of which he had advanced so far, and situated as he was, for one wherein there was so little prospect of his obtaining even a decent competency, appeared to them the height of folly or of madness. This determination cost his poor mother manv tears ; but determined he was, and that by the best and purest motives. Without ambition he could not have existed, but his ambition now was to be eminently use- ful in the ministry. It was Henry's fortune, through his short life, as he was worthy of the kindest treatment, always to find it. His employers, Mr Coldham and Mr Enfield, listened with a friendly ear to his plans, and agreed to give up the remainder of his time, though it was now become very valuable to them, as soon as they should think his prospects of getting through the University were such as he might reasonably trust to ; but till then, they felt themselves bound, for his own sake, to detain him. Mr HEXRY KIRKE WHITE ^M i t''-^* Pigott. and jMr Dashwood. another clergj-man, \vh€ at that time resided in Nottingham, exerted themselves in his favour ; he had a friend at Queen's College. Cambridge, wiio mentioned him to one of the Fellows of St John's, and that gentleman, on the representations made to him 3f Henry's talents and piety, spared no effort to obtain for him an adequate support. As soon as these hopes were laid out to him, his em- ployers gave him a month's leave of absence, for the benefit of uninterrupted study, and of change of air,whicii his health now began to require. Instead of going to the sea-coast, as was expected, he chose for his retreat the village of Wilford, which is situated on the banks of the Trent, and at the foot of Clifton Woods. These woods had ever been his favourite place of resort, and were the subject of the longest poem in his little volume, from which, indeed, the volume was named. He delighted to point out to his more, intimate friends the scenery of this poem ; the islet to which he had often forded when the river Avas not knee deep ; and the little hut wherein he had sate for hours, and sometimes all day long, reading or writing, or dreaming with his eyes open. He had sometimes wandered in these woods till night far ad- vanced, and used to speak with pleasure of having once been overtaken there by a thunder storm at midnight, and watching the lightning over the river and the vale towards the town. In this village his mother procured lodgings for him, and his place of retreat was kept secret, except from his nearest friends. Soon after the expiration of the month, intelligence arrived that the plans which liad been formed in his behalf had entirely failed. He went immediately to his mother : '' All my hopes," said he, " of getting to the University are now blasted ; in preparing myself for it, I have lost time in my profession ; I have much ground to get up, and as I am determined not to be a mediocre attorney, I must endeavour to recover wliat I have lost." The consequence was, that lie applied himself more severely than ever to his studies. He now allowed him- self no time for relaxation, little for his meals and scarcelv LIFE OF any for sleep. He would read till one, two, three o'clock in tlie morning-; then throw liimself on the bud, and rise again to his work at five, at the call of a larum, which he had fixed to a Dutch clock in his cliamber. Many nights he never laid down at all. It was in vain that his mother used every possible means to dissuade him from this destructive application. In this respect, and in tliis only one, was Henry undutiful, and neither com- mands, nor tears, nor entreaties, could check his despe- rate and deadly ardour. At one time she went every night into his room, to put out his candle : as soon as he heard her coming up stairs, he used to hide it in a cup- board, throw himself into bed, and atfect sleep while she was in the room ; then, when all was quiet, rise again, and pursue his baneful studies. " The night," says Henry, in one of his letters, " has been everything to me ; and did the world know how I have been indebted to the hours of repose, they would not wonder that night images are, as they judge, so ridi- culously predominant in my verses." During some of these midnight hours lie indulged himself in complaining, but in such complaints that it is to be wished more ot them had been found among his papers. ODE ON 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 resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine. Though Fancy tlies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet meditation in her cell, Hears with faint eye, the lii Tliat tells lier hopes are dead ; ring knell, ii mm HENKY KIRKE WHITE. And though the tear By chance ai:)pear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurVd, Still, rigid Xurse, thou art forgiven, For thou severe wert sent from heaven To wean me from the world ; To turn my 63-6 From vanit}', 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) 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 breabj To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies ? Mute, mute is all O'er beauty's fall ; Her praise I'esounds no more when mantled in her pall. The most belov'd on earth Kot long survives to-day ; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet. But now 'tis gone away. Thus docs the shade In memory fade, \Vh<;n in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. rxviu LIFE OF Then pince this world is vain, And volatile and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moths destroys, And cares and sorrows eat ? Why fly from ill With anxious skill. When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbine: heart be stiU ? VIII. Come, Disappointment, come ! Thou art n.ot stern to me ; Sad Monitress ; I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day, 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. On another paper are a few lines, written prohably in the freshness of his disappointment. I dream no more — the vision flies away, And Disappointment # » * There fell my hopes — I lost my all in this, My cherish 'd all of visionary bliss. Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below ; Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe. Plunge me in glooms « * » His health soon sunk under these habits ; he became pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit of sickness. On his recovery he wrote the following lines in thechurch- yard of his favourite village. LINES ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCTI-YARD. PTerf, would T wish to sleep. — This is the spot, Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in ; Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred. Tt is a lovely spot ! the sultry sun, HENRY KIRKE WHITE. From his meridian height, endeavours vainly To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook iMost pleasant. — Such a one perchance did Gray Frequent, as with the vagrant muse he Avanton'd. Come, I will net me down and meditate, For I am wearied with my summer's walk ; And here I may repose in silent ease ; And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find The haven of its rest — beneath this sod Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. ^•-' ^-.l I would not have my corpse cemented down With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm Of its predestined dues ; no, I would lie Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown, Swath'd down with oziers, just as sleep the cotters. "Yet may not undistinguished be my grave ; But there at eve may some congenial soul Duly resort, and shed a pious tear. The good man's benison — no more I ask. And oh ! (if heavenly beings may look down From where, with cherubim inspired, they sit. Upon this little dim-discover 'd spot. The earth,) then will I cast a glance below On him who thus my ashes shall embalm ; And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer. Wishing he may not long be doomed to pine In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe, But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies. Yet 'twas a silly thought — as if the body, Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze ! Yet nature speal^s within the human bosom, And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond His narrow verge of being, and provide A decent residence for its clayey shell, Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay His body in the city burial-place. To bo thrown up again by some rude sexton. LIFE OF And yield its narrow house another tenant, Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, Exposed to insult, lewd, and wantonness ? No, I will lay me in the village ground ; There are the dead respected. The poor hiiid, Unlettered as he is, would scorn to invade The silent resting-place of death. I've seen The labourer returning from his toil. Here stay his steps and call his children round, And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes. And, in his rustic manner, moralize. I've mark'd vnth what a silent awe he'd spoken, AVith head uncover'd, his respectful manner, And all the honours which he paid the grave, And thought on cities, where even cemeteries, ■Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, Are not protected from the drunken insolence Of wassailei'S profane, and wanton havoc. Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close '. Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones xtlay lie — or in the city's crowded bounds, Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, Or left a prey on some deserted shore To the rapacious cormorant, — ^yet still, (For why should sober reason cast away A thought which soothes the soul?)— yet still my spiri Shall wing its way to these my native regions. And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew In solemn rumination ; and will smile With joy that I have got my long'd release. His friends are of opinion that he never thoroughly' recovered hxtxn the shock which his constitution had sus- tained. INIany of his poems indicate that he thought himself in danger of consumption ; he was not aware that he was generating or fostering in himself another disease, little less dreadful, and which threatens intellect as well as life. At this time youth was in his favour, and his hopes, which were now again renewed, produced l^ei'haps a better effect tlian medicine. Mr Dashwood oV tuined for him an introduction to Mr Simeon, of King' /"i '^^j^mw^^' HKNliyr KIIJKE WlilTE. ■^ sr - i 4-1 College, and with this he was induced to go to Cambridge. ^Ir Simeon, from the recommendation which he received, and from the conversation he had with him, promised to procure for him a Sizarship at St John's, and, with the additional aid of a friend, to su})plj him with £30 an- nually. His brother Neville promised twenty ; and his mother, it was hoped, would be able to allow fifteen or twenty more. With this, it was thought, he could go through college. If this prospect had not been opened to him, he would probably have turned his thoughts to- wards the orthodox dissenters. On his return to Nottingham, the Rev. Robin- son, of Leicester, and some otlier friends, advised him to apply to the Elland Society for assistance,* conceiving that it would be less oppressive to his feelings to be de- pendent on a Society instituted for the express purpose of training up such young men as himself (that is, such in circumstances and opinions) for the ministry, tlian on the bounty of an individual. In consequence of this ad- vice he went to Elland at the next meeting of the so- cietj^ a stranger there, and without one friend among the members. He was examined, for several hours, by about five-and-twenty clergymen, as to his religious views and sentiments, his theological knowledge, and his classi- cal attainments. In the course of the inquiry, it appeared that he had published a volume of poems : their ques- tions now began to be very unpleasantly inquisitive con- cerning the nature of these poems, and he was assailed by queries from all quarters. It was well for Henry that they did not think of referring to the Monthly Review for authority. My letter to him happened to be in his pocket ; he luckily recollected this, and produced it as a testhiiony in his favour. They did me the honour to say that it was quite sufficient, and pursued this part of their inquiry no farther. Before he left Elland, he was given to understand that they were well satisfied witli his theo- logical knowledge ; that they tliought his classical profi- ciency prodigious for his age, and that they had placed liini * Mr Southey,in a note, remark?, that lie had not aeen the letter, page 210, Then he wrote this momrtir m . l^xf^^-.^*^^. on their boots. lie returned little pleased with his jour- ney. His friends had been mistaken ; the bount}' of an individual calls forth a sense of kindness, as well as of dependence : that of a society has tlie virtue of charity perhaps, but it wants the grace. He now wrote to Mr Simeon, stating what he had done, and that the benefi- cence of his unknown friends was no longer necessary : but that gentleman obliged him to decline the assistance of the society, which he very willingl}^ did. This being finally arranged, he quitted his employers in October, 1804. How much he had conducted himself to their satisfaction, will appear by this testimony of Mr Enfield, to his diligence and uniform worth. '" I have great pleasure," says this gentleman, " in paying the tribute to his memory, of expressing the knowledge which was afforded me, during the period of his connection with Mr Coldham and myself, of his diligent application, his ardour for study, and his virtuous and amiable disposi- tion. He very soon discovered an unusual aptness in comprehending the routine of business, and great ability and rapidity in the execution of everything which was entrusted to him. His diligence and punctual attention were unremitted, and his services became extremely valu- able a considerable time before he left us. He seemed to me to have no relish for the ordinary pleasures and dis- sipations of young men ; his mind was perpetually em- ployed, either in the business of his profession or in pri- vate study. With his fondness for literature we were well acquainted, but had no reason to ofifer any check to it, for he never permitted the indulgence of his literary pursuits to interfere with the engagements of business. The difficulty of hearing, under which he laboured, was distressing to him in the practice of his profession, and was, 1 think, an inducement, in co-operation with his other inclinations, for his resolving to relinquish the law. lean, with truth, assert, that his determination was mat- ter of serious regret to my partner and myself." Mr Simeon had advised him to degrade for a year, and place himself, during that time, under some scholar. He went accordingly to rhe Rev. Grainger, of Winter- ly I 1^ 4 i' i^t ^ &;. /'I mj HENRY KIRKE WHITE. .^ \ ingham, in Lincolnshire, and there, notwithstanding all the entreaties of his friends, pursuing the same unrelent- ing course of study, a second illness was the consequence. When he was recovering, he was prevailed upon to relax, to ride on horseback, and to drink wine ; these latter remedies he could not long afford, and he would not allow himself time for relaxation when he did not feel its im- mediate necessity. He frequently, at this time, studied fourteen hours a day : the progress which he made in twelve months was indeed astonishing : when he went to Cambridge he was immediately as much distinguished for his classical knowledge as his genius : but the seeds of death were in him, and the place to which he had so long looked on with hope, served unhappily as a hot-house to ripen them.* During his first terra, one of the University Scholar- ships became vacant, and Henry, young as 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 says, 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 decline ; 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 fortnight 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 ♦ During hig residence in my family, saya Mr Grainger, his conduct was liighly becoming, and suitable to a Christian profession. He was V<* mild and inoffensive, modest, unassuming, and affectionate. He attend- ed, with greatcheerfnlncs8,a Sunday-scliool which I was endeavouring ."J toestablish in the village., and wa.'^ at considerable pains in the instruc- tion of the children ; and I have re]ieatedly observed that, he was most plca.'^ed and most edified with such of my sermons and a^- xliv LIFE OP HENRY KIRKE WHITE. !<&"« i^m the tree, and green fruit ; yet will they evince what the harvest would have been, and secure for him that remem branoe upon earth for which he toiled. " Thou soul of God's best earthly mould, Thou happy soul ! and can it be That these • * * Are all that mu3t remain of thee ! " ^-^ yfe • ^»:j«<.<^:. >. •i 4 CONTENTS. « CHILDHOOIi, .... Clifton Gkove, .... Time, ..... The Christiad, .... Miscellaneous : — On being Confined to School one Morning, Address to Contemplation, . iMusic — " All powerful on the Human Mind, My Own Character, . Elegy occasioned by the Death of Mr Gill, Commencement of a Poem on Despair, Thanatos, .... Athanatos, .... My Study, .... Insci-iption for a Monument to the Memory of Cowper Description of a Summer's Eve, Christmas Day 1804, Kelsoni Mors, *' I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad," Solitude—" It is not that my lot is low," " If far from me the Fates Remove,"' " Fanny upon thy Breast," . Epigram on Robert Bloomfield, The Prostitute, The Eve of Death, . "Written in the prospect of Death, . Lines on Reading the Pocmi of Warton, on Recovery from Sickness, written on a Survey of the Heavens, supposed to bo spoken by a Lover at the Grave his Mistress, ..... PAGE 3 16 46 58 59 61 62 64 65 67 68 69 72 72 74 76 77 78 79 80 80 81 82 8.3 84 86 90 :^<^ •-*t^- V »•*-.; xlvi CONTENTS. . m Wlnr^ Miscellaneous :— Lines, " Yes, my Stray Steps," .... 91 written Impromptu, '* GJo to the raging Sea," 93 To the Herb Rosemary, .... 95 Morning, . . . . , 96 To a Friend, " I've read, my friend, of Diocksian," 98 Friend in Distress, .... 99 Verses composed extempore, " Thou Base Refiner," 100 " When Pride and Envy," . . .102 Ballads : — Gondoline, ...... 103 " Be hushed, be hushed, ye bitter winds," . . 112 Songs : — " Softly, softly, blow," lU The AVandering Boy, . . . .115 Pastoral Song — " Come, Anna !" . . . 116 By Waller—" Go, Lovely Rose," and K.White's addition, 117 The WonderfulJuggler, . . . .118 The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song, , . . 119 The Savoyard's Return, .... 121 The Lullaby of a Female Convict to her Child, . 122 Canzonet — " Maiden ! Wrap thy Mantle," . . 123 Melody — " Yes, once more that dying strain," . 123 Sonnets :— To the River Trent, ..... 125 '* Give me a Cottage," .... 125 Supposed to have been Addressed by a Female Lunatic to a Lady, ...... Supposed to be written by the Poet Dermody, The V/inter Traveller, .... By Capel Loft, Esq., ..... Recantatory, in reply to the foregoing, On hearing the Sounds of an u^Eolian Harp, " What art Thou Mighty One," To Capel LofFt, Esq., ..... To the Moon, . * . . . Written at the Grave of a Friend, . To Misfortune, ..... '' As thus oppressed," ..... To April, ...... " Yc Unseen Spirits," .... I: CONTENTS. xlvii ■i< ■J Sonnets: — To a Taper, . " Yes, twill be over soon," To Consurajition, Translated from the French— " Thy judgments, are just," . To my Mother, " Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's Smile " Quick o'er the wintry waste," " ^Vhen I sit Musing," PIymns: — " Awake, sweet harp of Judah," For Family Worship, " O Lord, my God, in mercy turn,' The Star of Bethlehem, Odes : — To an early Primrose, To the Muse, . On Disappointment, . To the Harvest Moon, To H. Fuseli, Esq., . To the Earl of Carlisle, To my Lyre, . Genius, To the Wind, at midnight. Fragment of an Ode to the Moon, To Love, To Contemplation, To the Genius of Romance, To IMidnight, To Thought, . On "Whit Monday, On the Death of Dermody the Poet, Fragments : — An Eccentric Drama, " The Western Gale," " Oh ! thou most fatal," " Loud rage the Winds," «' Saw'st thou that light," " The Pious Man," " Lol on the Eastern Summit Lord. 133 133 134 134 135 135 136 136 137 138 139 140 142 143 144 146 148 151 153 155 157 158 159 100 164 165 166 167 169 171 176 178 179 180 181 181 xl^ CONTENTS. >r-^' Fragments : — " There was a Little Bird," . " pale art thou, iny Lamp,'* " O give me Music," .... " Ah ! who can say, however fair his view," •' And must thou go," " When high romance," •' Once more, and yet once more," . " Hushed is the Lyre," Remains : — Letters, ...,,, Melancholy Hours, . » . , , Miscellaneous, • . » t , Tributary Verses :— By Lord Byron, ..... Sonnet by G, L. C, . Sonnet by Arthur Owen (during H. K. White's life), (on reading his Remains), By Josiah Conder on reading " Solitude," . on the death of H. K. White, PAGE 181 182 182 183 183 183 184 184 187 328 397 By Rev. J. Plumptre, .... By Capel Lofft, October 1806, December 1806, . — written in the Homer of H. K. White, Written at St John's College, Cambridge, 1806, . To the ^Memory of H. K. W., by a Lady, Stanzas written at the Grave of H. K. AV., by a Lady, Ode by Juvenis, ..... By William Ilolloway, .... By Rev. Dr Collyer, ..... By Thomas Park, F.A.S., .... To the Memory of H. K. ^Y., by a Lady, . A Reflection by a Lady on the early death of H. K. W. Monody by Joseph Blackett, By H.Walker, ..... ByJ. G„ By Mrs M. H. Hay, on reading his Remains, on visiting his tomb. 411 412 412 413 413 414 415 416 416 417 417 418 420 421 422 423 424 425 426 427 429 430 430 432 1^ m. THE POEMS or HENRY KIRKE AVHITE ^-'i-^-*" 1^ fl --^m — ^■■><>-a±._LL J-Xl, I'M m CHILDHOOD [This is one of the Author's earliest productions, and ajipears, by the handwriting, to have been written when he was between fourteen and fifteen. The picture of the Schoolmistress is from nature.] Part I. Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet Our infant days, our infant joys to greet ; To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, The village churchyard, and the village green. The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade. The whitewash'd cottage, where the woodbine grew, And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew ! How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, To view the unclouded skies of former days ! Beloved age of innocence and smiles, When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles, When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true, Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. Blest Childhood, hail ! — Thee simply will I sing, And from myself the artless picture bring ; These long-h;st scenes to me the past restore, Each humble friend, each pliiasurc, now no more, And ev'ry stump familiar to my sight, Pecalls some fond idea of delight. This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat Here did I love at evening to retreat, HENKY KIRKE WHITE'S POEMS. And muse alone, till in the vault of night, llesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. Here once again remote from human noise, I sit me down to think of former joys ; Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more. And once again each infant walk explore, While as each grove and lawn I recognise, My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. mi mm. And oh ! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort To distant scenes, and picture them to thouglit; Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy ; Blest Memory, guide, with finger nicely true, Back to my youth my retrospective view ; Recall with faithful vigour to my mind Each face familiar, each relation kind ; And all the finer traits of them afford, Whose general outline in my heart is stored. In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls, In many a fold, the mantling woodbine falls, The village matron kept her little school, Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean : Her neatly -border'd cap, as lily fair, Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care ; And pendant rufiSes, of the whitest lawn, Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes. A pair of spectacles their want supplies ; These does she guard secure, in leathern case, From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place. Here first I entered, though with toil and pain, The low vestibule of learning's fane : Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, Though sometimes toilsome, man}^ a sweet display. Aluch did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn. 1^:- CHILDHOOD. Xd. When I was first to school relactant borne ; Severe I thought the dame, though oft she try'd To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd ; And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, To my lone corner brokenhearted crept. And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. But soon inured to alphabetic toils, Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles ; First at the form, my task for ever true, A little favourite rapidly I grew : And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight ; And as she gave my diligence its praise, Talk'd of the honours of my future days. Oh, had the venerable matron thought Of all the ills by talent often brought ; Could she have seen me when revolving years Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears. Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state; Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife. Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life Where in the busy scene, by peace unblest, Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ? A lonely mariner on the stormy main, Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain ; Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore, When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more ? Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave The sandy surface of his unwe])t grave. Childh(jod, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, Serenest season of i>erpetual calms, — Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles. But each new object brings attendant smiles ; When future evils never liaunt the sicrht. '^"*^"_ The whispering birch by every zephyr bentj The woody island, and the naked mead. Q I?' I ^^^Pi^ -'^^"S-^ y^^^- CLIFTON GEOVE. 21 The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, The rural wicket, and the rural stile, And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. 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 glimm'ring 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. 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-wrapt, near her highest noon : Or, when the wild-duck, southering, hither rides, And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth Gave to each tale the holy force of truth. Have I long linger'd, while the milk-maid sung The tragic legend, till the woodland rung I That tale, so sad ! which, still to memory dear. From its sweet source can call the sacred tear. And (luU'd to rest stern reason's harsh control) Steal its soft magic to th<3 passive soul. These hallow'd shades, — these trees that woo the wini Kecall its faintest features to my mind. A hundred passing years, with march sublime, ll;ive swept beneath the silent wing of time, S;, ■(', in yon hamlet's solitary shade, ii.-- (,;lusely dwelt the far-famed Clifton Maid, The beatueous Margaret ; for her each swain Oonfest in private his peculiar pain, In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair, Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair- ^miEL 22 HENRY KIRKB WHITE'S POEMS. 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 ; But listless, by yon bubbliifg 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-wiird exile from his native home. Yet not to all the maid expressed disdain, Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in v ain. Full oft, low whispering o'er these art^hing boughs, The echoing vault responded to their vows, As here deep hidden from the glare of da}'', Enamour'd, oft they took their secret way. Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name ; 'Twas there the blushing maid confess'd 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 ev'ry breeze With the fallen honours of the mourning trees, The maiden waited at the accustomed 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, p But through the covert to her anxious ear. No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. Strange fears now filled her breast, — she knew not why She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. She hears a noise, — 'tis he — he comes at last. Alas ! 'twas but the gale which hurried past CLIFTON aP.OVE. 23 ■^ But now shehears a quickening footstep sound, Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound : 'Tis Bateman's self, — he springs into her arras, 'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. " Yet why this silence ? — I have waited long, And the cold storm has yelFd the trees among. And now thou'rt here my fears are fled — yet spealc, 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 unfinished accents fell ; 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, AVouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, And on the silken couch of wealth reclined. Banish thy faithful Bateman from tliy 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 traiturous 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, Conjoiu'd, then drag me from my perjured bed, And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps, To find deserved death in yonder deeps I"* This pari of the TixiiL ib oouuuoiily called" Tlic Clikton Deops.*' '^"^i^"- 24 HENRY KIEKE WIIITE's POEMS. Thus spate 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." 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 viewed 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. Still would she trace each dear, each Avell-known walkj 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. 1^-!^? Thus two years glided on, in silent grief ; The third, her bosom own'd the kind relief: Absence had cool'd her love, — the impoverish'd flame Was dwindling fast, when lo ! the tempter came ; He offered wealth, and all the joys of life. And the weak maid became another's wife ! Six guilty months had mark'd 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 way He bent his steps — and all his thoughts were gay. Oh ! who can paint his agonizing tliroes, When on his ear the fatal news arose. CLIFTON GROVE, 25 m ChiU'd with amazement, — senseless with the blow, He stood a marble monument of woe. Till call'd to all the horrors of despair, Ho 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, Death in his mien and madness in his eye, He watch'd the waters as they murraur'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 stayed his rash intent. He knelt. — Cool played upon his cheek the wind. And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind. The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, The ]ialy moonbeam on its surface slept, 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, He saw the Grove, — in fancy saw her lie, His iNIargaret, luU'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. 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 moonbeam shone sereno, And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. * Geniiaiii is t'lo trailitionavy name of her husband. 20 IIENny KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. 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. But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast, The offended God prolong'd her life unblest. But fast the fleeting moments rolFd away. And near and nearer drew the dreaded day ; That day, foredoom'd to give her child the light, And hurl its mother to the shades of night. KK ^^f 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 ; 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 oppress'd each w^eary 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 ; And never more the weeping train were doom'd To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd. Uv^' 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 dismayed, 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. Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, Whicli oft in youth has charmed my lietcning ear, CLIFTOL' GKOVE. 27 That tale, which made me find redoubled swectft Tn 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. This slieds 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 deep"ning 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 ; These are thy charms, the joys which these impart Bind thee, blest 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 ; Still, still to tliee, v,'here"er my footsteps roam. My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. 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. But, if the Fates sliould this la^t w^ish deny, \i^ rir W ^ 28 henut kirke whites poems. 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, Sit, a lorn spectre, on yon well-known grave, And lui^ its moaning with the desert wave. m ?K-E*:*^iSS^i-it TIME. [This Poem was begun either during the publication of Cliiton Grove or shortly afterwards. The Author never laid aside the intention of completing it, and some of the detached parts were among his latest productions.] Gentus of musings, who, the midnight hour Wasting m woods or haunted forests wild, Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower, Thy dark eye fixed as in some holy trance : Or, when the volley'd 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 fur, And 'mid the howl of elements, unmov'd Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace The vast ej^'-ct 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, — ore the sun Sprang from the east, or Lucifer dis})layed His glowing cresset on the arch of morn, Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. Yea, lie had been for an eternity ! Had swept unvarying from eternity The harp of desolation, ere his tones \^^ ^1 ■^\ 30 HENRY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. At God's command, assumed a milder strain, And startled on liis watch, in the vast deep, Chaos's sluggish sentry, and evoked From the dark void tlie smiling universe. (Chained to the grovelling frailties of the flesh Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross, Cannot survey, with fixed and steady eye. 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 a while this mortal vest. And learn to follow without giddiness, To lieights where all is vision and surjDrise, 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. So has divine philosophy, with voice 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 an 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 Tn loveliness, when he who fathered it 'my r%. TIME. 31 Is number'd with the generations gone. Yet not to me hath God's good providence Given studious leisure/- or unbroken thouglit, Such as he owns, — a meditative man, Who from tbe 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 Pluth 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 night ! When Evening lights her folding-star on high, I live and breathe, and in the sacred hours Of quiet and repose my spirit flies, Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space. And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven. '^K Hence do I love the sober- suited maid ; Hence Night's my friend, my mistress and my theme, And she shall aid me noiv to magnify The night of ages, — noiv 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, Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, Assumes her wonted sway. Behold the world llests, and her tired inhabitants have paused From trouble and turmoil. The widow now Has ceased to weep, and her twin orplums lie Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. The man of sorrow has forgot his woes ; The outcast tliat liis head is shelterless. His griefs unsliared. — The mother tends no iuore >'''->^w\.y- 32 HENRY KIRKE WIIITe's POEMS. Her daughter's dying slumbers, but, surprised With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch. Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lull'd On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapt, Crowning with hope's bland wreath his shuddering nui-se. Poor victim ! smiles. — Silence and deep repose Reign o'er the nations ; and the warning voice 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 With grave-clothes ; and their aching, restless heads Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved, Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep. t m Who needs a teacher to admonish him That flesh is grass ? — That earthly things are m.iet ? What are our joys but dreams ? and what our hopes But goodly shadows in a summer cloud ? There's not a wind that blows but bears with it Some rainbow promise : — Not a moment flies But puts its sickle in the fields of life. 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 them 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; Illustrious deeds and memorable names Blotted from record, and upon the tongue Of grey tradition voluble no more. * Alliidinir to the first astronomicaJ observations niado by thoChui- dcan Sbephcrdj*. mi TIME. 33 Where are the heroes of the ages past ? Where the "brave cliieftains, where the mighty onee Who ilourish'd in tlie infancy of days ? All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame Exulting, mocking at the pride of man, Sits grim Forgetfulness. — The warrior's arm Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame ; Iluiih'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, JNIusing at midnight upon prophecies, Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly Closed her ])ale lips, and locked the secret up Safe in the charnel's treasures, how weak Is mortal man ! how trifling — how confined His scope of vision. Puffed 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, Too trivial for accompt, 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 should know, Til at time must conquer — That the loudest blast That ever fiU'd Ken(nvn's obstreperous trump ■ ades in the lapse of ages, and expires. 34 IIENr.Y KIRKE WHITE's POEMS. ■'A i^ Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom Of the gigantic pyramid ? or who Ixear'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 tlie tale of other times ; Her proud pavilions are the hermits home ; 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, A-nd rich Phoenicia — they are blotted out. Half-razed from memory, and their very name And being in dispute. — Has Athens fallen ? Is polished Greece become the savage seat Of ignorance and sloth ? and shall ive dare * * « * And empire seeks another hemisphere. Where now is Britain? — Where her laurell'd name 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, And the scarr'd 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. lilven 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 ; II- 1 ^J^ WfS M^MMi^m MjlM TIME, And their wild harps, suspended o'er their graves, Sigh to the desert winds a djing strain. ]\Iean while the arts, in second infancy, Rise in some distant clime, and then perchance Some bold adventurer, filled with golden dreams. Steering his bark through trackless solitudes. Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow Hath ever ploughed before, — espies the clitfs Of fallen Albion. — To the land unknown lie journeys joyful ; and perhaps descries 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 ; 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 doomVl to feel Endless mutation in perpetual rest. Where are conccal'd the days which have elapsed ? Hid in the mighty cavern oi the past , They rise upon us only to appal, By indistinct and lialf- glimpsed images, Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. Oh, it is fearful, on the midniglit couch, When 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, 36 HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S POEMS. 4; - -m Up the vague stream of probability : To wind the mighty secrets o^ the jiast, And turn the key of time ! — Oh who can strive To comprehend the vast, the awful truth, Of the eternity that Jiath gone h>/, And not recoil from the dismaying sense Of Imman impotence ? The life of man Is summ'd in birtli-days and in sepulchres ; But the Eternal God had no beginning ; He hath no end. Time had been with him For everlasting, ere the dsedal world Rose from the gulf in loveliness. — Like him It knew no source, like him 'twas uncreate. What is it then ? The past Eternity ! We comprehend a future without end ; We feel it possible that even yon sun May roll for ever ; but we shrink amazed — AVe stand aghast, when we reflect that Time Knew no commencement. — Tliat, 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 de};th. Beyond the span of thought ; 'tis an elapse Which hath no mensuration, but hath been For ever and for ever. Cliauge 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 Are to his being as a day, and days As centuries. — Time past, and Tim^e to comej Are always equal ; when the world began God had existed from eternity. Now look on man Myriads of ages hence. — Hath time elapsed ! TIJIE. 37 Is he not standing in the self- same place ^\'here once we stood ! — The same eternity Hath gone before him, and is yet to come : His past is not of longer span than ours, Though myriads of ages intervened ; For wlio can add to what has neither sum, Nor hound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end '. 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, Scooped out by human art ; or bid the whale Drink up the sea it swims in. — Can the less Contain the greater? or the dark obscure Infold the glories of meridian day ? What does philosophy impart to man But undiscovered wonders ? — Let her soar Even to her proudest heights, — to where she caught The soul of Newton and of Socrates, She but extends the scope of wild amaze And admiration. All her lessons end In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths. Lo ! the unlettered hind, who never knew To raise his mind excursive to the heights Of abstract contemplation ; as he sits On the green hillock by the hedgerow side, What time the insect swarms are murmuring, And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds That fringe, with loveliest hues, the evening sky, Feels in his soul the hand of nature rouse The thrill of gratitude to Him who form'd Tlie goodly prospect ; he beholds the God Throned in the west ; and his reposing ear Hears sounds angelic in tlie fitful breeze, rjif.'/wa.- 38 HENRY KIRKE WHITE's POEMS. Til at jfloats through neighbouring copse or fairy braie, Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. Go with the cottar to his winter fire, AN'here 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 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 mastili'"s distant howl, And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light ; Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes. And clasps his shivering hands ; or, overpower'd, Sinks on the frozen ground, w^eigh'd down with sleep, From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. I'hus 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 |# ft*! To laud his Maker's attributes, while he Whom starry science in her cradle rock'd, 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 I 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 sim or moon, compared with him Who thus ])erverts the talents he enjoys, la tlic most bless'd of men ! — Oh 1 I v.-ould walk ^^^ A weary journey to the furthest verge Of ths V\g 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 ! What is the pomp of learning ? the parade Of letters and of tongues? E"en as the mists Or 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 the 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 downfal, what are they But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain ? Hath Heaven its ages ; or doth Heaven preserve Its stated eras ? 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 noiv. Time moveth not ! — Our being 'tis that moves: And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream, Dream of swift ages and revolving years, Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days : So the young sailor in the gallant bark, S-cudding before the wind, beholds the coast Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, Struck with amaze, that ho is motionless. And that the land is sailing. Such, alas ! Are the illusions of this proteus life ? All, all is false. — Through every phasis still 'Tis shadowy and deceitful. — It assumes The semblances of thing?, and specious shapes ; F' 40 IIENHY KIKKR WITITR S POEMS. But ths 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 wav, As we on its appearances. On earth Tliere is not certainty, nor stable hope. As well 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 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, 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 tibres of the heart. 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, 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 seats. Where joy and gladness hold their changeless rcign. r^^m ^ ^ ! m^M :Mi'fkd:^:= m ^h ^ 4k:^ TTlSfE. 41 Thou proud man, look upon j^on starry vault, Survey the countless gems which richly stud The night's imperial chariot ; — Telescopes Will show thee myriads more, innumerous As the sea-sand ; — Each of those little lamps Is the great source of light, the central sun Around which some other mighty sisterhood Of planets travel, — Every planet stock'd With living beings impotent as thee. Kow, proud man — now, where is thy greatness fled What art thou in the scale of universe ? Less, less than nothing I — 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 Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn His heavenly providence ! Deluded fool, Even now the thunderbolt is w^ing'd with death, Even now thou totterest on the brink of HeU. How insignificant is mortal man. Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour ! 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 Irom pole to pole ; — Thou wlio 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 To thee my parting paean ; for of thee, Great beyond comprehension, who tliyself 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 wrcatli, which overshados i^: s 5 %' Wi 42 IIEXRY RIRKE WIIITE's POEMS. r- P»*^ t- ^ The throne of Death, I hang my mournful Ijre, And give its wild strings to the desert gale. Ivise, son of Salem, rise, and join the strain, Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp, And, leaving vain laments, arouse tliy soul To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing. And halleluiah, for the Lord is great, And full of mercy ! He has thouglit 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 noonday sun. Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful ; He gave the Nubian lion but to live, To rage its hour, and perish ; but on man He lavished 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 unworth}- trifles, men should dare 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 dread sacrifice for human sin, And paid, with bitter agony, the debt Of primitive transgression. Oh ! I shrink, My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect That the time hastens, when, in vengeance clothed, Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves. I 43 And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start At the appalling summons. Oh ! how dread On the dark eye of miserable man, Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, Will burst the eflfulgence of the opening heaven ; AVhen to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar, Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend, Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word ! The dead shall start astonished from their sleep ! 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 the risen souls, 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 washed 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 shalt summon the elected saints 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. Then shalt thou seize the avenging scimitar, 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 unmitigable gulf, to wail And gnash their teeth in endless agony. * * * * Rear thou aloft thy standard.— Spirit, rear Thy flag on high ! — Invincible, and throned In unparticipated miglit. IJeliold P^arth's proudest boast, beneath tliy silent sway. Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while 44 HENRY KIKKK WHITe's POEMS. Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush Of miirlity generations, as they pass To tlie 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 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. Heardst thou that shout ? It rent the vaulted sties ; It was the voice of people, — mighty crowds, — A-gain ! 'tis hushed — Time speaks, and all is hush'd ; In the vast multitude now reigns alone Unrufiled solitude. They all are still ; All — yea, the whole — the incalculable mass, Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. K 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 Time shall he no more. Yea, He doth come — the mighty Champion comes. 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 ! -He comes To burst the bonds of death, and overturn The power of Time. — Hark ! the trumpet's bla«;t Ilings o'er the heavens ! — They rise, the myriads rise — Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains Of torpor. — He has ransomed them. * * Forgotten generations live again. Assume the bodily shap(^s they own'd of old, IJevond the flood : the righteous of their times 1 46 Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joj. The sainted motlier wakes, and, in her lap, Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave. And heritor with her of heaven, — a flower A\'ash"d by the blood of Jesus from the stain Of native guilt, even in its early bud. And harlf ! those strains, how solemnly sereno They fall, as from the skies — at distance fall — Again more loud ; the halleluiahs swell ; The newly-risen catch the joyiul 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 AVho 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. Haply iie may be set (in his late walk O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys The solemn shadows of the heavens sail. And thinks the season yet shall come w'hen Time AVill waft him to repose, to deej) repose, Far from the unquietness of life — from noise And tumult far — beyond the flying clouds, Beyond the stars, and all this passiiig scene, Where change shall cease, and Time sliall be no more. :#*^ THE CHIIISTIAD. A DIVINE POEM. m This was the work whicli the Author had most at heart. His riper judgment would probably have perceived that the subject was ill chosen. AVhat is said so well in the Censura Literaria of all scriptural subjects for narrative poetry, applies peculiarly to this. " Anything taken from it leaves the story imperfect ; anything added to it disgusts, and almost shocks us as impious. As Omar said of the Alexandrian Library, we may say of such writings, if they contain only what is in the scriptures they are superfluous ; if what is not in them they are false." — It may be added, that the mixture of mythology makes truth itself appear fabulous. There is great power in the execution of this fragment — In editing these remains, 1 have, with that decorum which it is to be wished all editors would observe, abstained from informing the reader what he is to admire and what he is not ; but 1 can- not refrain from saying, that the la-t two stanzas greatly af- fected me, when I discovered them written on the leaf of a dif- ferent book, and apparently long after the first canto ; and greatly shall I be mistaken if thcj^ do not affect the reader also. JM. \ ^^.rl i Cft -:^^ THE CHEISTIAD. Book I. I SING the Cross ! — Ye white-robed angel choirs, Who know the chords of harmony to sweep ; Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires Were wont of old your hovering Avatch to keep, Oh, now descend ; and with your harpings deep, Pouring sublime the full symph(mious 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. Mourn ! Salem, mourn ! low lies thine humbled state, Thy glittering fanes are levell'd witli 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 Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, - u: /5 ft '"Ml i / 48 HENllY KIllKB WHITE'S POEMS. While stern Destruction lauo-hs, as if in scorn, That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born ; And, with niosl, bitter persecuting ire, Pursued his footsteps till the last day-dawn Kose on his fortunes— and thou saw'st the fire That came to light the world in one great flash expire. IV. Oh ! for a pencil dipt in living light, I'o paint the agonies that Jesus bore ! Oh ! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might, To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore While seraph hosts the lofty paean pour, And heaven enraptur'd lists the loud acclaim I May a frail mortal dare the theme explore ? May he to human ears his weak sung frame ? Oh ! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name ? Spirits of pity ! 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 ! And thou, Uran ia ! who dost still devote Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, W^hose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote. Throw o'er thy bard that solemn stole of tliine, And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. Tl. When from the temple's lofty summit prone, Satan o'ercome, fell down ; and 'throned there, The Son of God confest, in spleiidour shone : Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air, Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, * * * *• Fled the stern king of Hell — and with the glare Of gilding meteors, ominous and red, Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head. p-.,-... . -=- ' -) THE CIIRISTIAD. 40 ~^M=JA VIT. s^r-?:i Righr o'er tlie Euxii\e, and that gulph which late The rude IMassagetas adored — he bent His northermg course, — wliile round, in dusky state, TJie assembling fiends their sumnion'd troops aug- ment ; Clothed in dark mists, upon tlieir way they went, While as they pass'd to regions more severe, The Lapland sorcerer swell'd, with loud lament. The solitary gale, and, filled 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 fixed on his primEeval mound, Ruin, the giant, sits ; while stern Dismay Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way. IX. In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair, No sweet remain of life encheers the sight : The dancing heart's blood in an instant tliere Would freeze to marble. — JNIingling 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, A.nd leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise. 'Twas there, yet shuddering from the burning lak( Satan had fix'd their next consistory ; Wlien parting last he fondly hoj>ed to shake Messiah's constancy, — and thus to free '.^m^^m 50 IIENllY KlUKE WHITE S POEMS. 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 tomb of Time, and, in its embryo pent, Discern the colours clear of every dark event. Here the stern monarch stayed his rapid flight. And his thick hosts, 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, He stood in silence ; — now keen thoughts engrave Dark figures on his front ; and, tempest tost, 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. :r- XIII. 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. His fierce harangue : — " Spirits ! our better days Are now clasped ; jNIoloch 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 ! M \J^ THE CIIKISTIAD. 51 " 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 To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain, And hurl them at their Maker ! — Fixed 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. C-, " Xow hear the issue of my curst emprize, When from our last synod I took flight, Buoy'd with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise, To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write His own self-condemnation ; in the plight Of aged man in the lone wilderness, 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 Mj lowly speech : — ' 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, No trace of man have seen. — But ho7»' ! methouglit Thou wert the youth on whom God's lioly 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 52 HENRY KIKKE WHITE's POEMS. With homely greeting, and may sit and eat : For forty days I have tarried fasting here, Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, And now I hunger ; and ray fainting ear Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing near. •' Then thus I answer'd wily : — ' If, indeed, . Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek For food from men ? — Lo ! on these flint stones feed, Bid them be bread ! Open thy lips and speak, And living rills from yon parch'd rock will break.' Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye Fix'd on my face ; the blood forsook my cheek, I could not bear his gaze ; my mask slipped by ; I would have shunn'd his look, but had not power to fly. " Then he rebuked me with the holy Word — Accursed sounds ! but now my native pride Returned, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd, I bore him from the mountain's woody side, Up to the summit, where extending wide Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes, Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried. And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains, Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated swains. " ' Behold,' I cried, ' these glories ! scenes divine I 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 I Seize the tiara ! these mean weeds disdain, Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and splendour gain.' ^m^ '^ THE CIIRISTIAD. 53 XXI, -' ' Is it not written,' sternly he replied, * Tempt not the Lord thy God ?' Frowning he spalVITITE's POEMS. Then thereon my statue lay, With hands in attitude to pray, And angels serve to hold my head, Weeping o'er the father dead. Duly too at close of day. Let the pealing organ play ; And while the harmonious thunders roll, Chant a vesper to my soul : Thus how sweet my sleep will be, Shut out from thoughtful misery ! ATHANATOS. Away with Death — away With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps Impervious to the day, Where nature sinlis into inanity. How can the soul desire Such hateful nothingness to crave, And yield with joy the vital fire To moulder in the grave ! Yet mortal life is sad. Eternal storms molest its sullen sky ; And sorrows ever rife Drain the sacred fountain dry — Away with mortal life : But, hail the calm reality. The seraph Immortality, Hail the heavenly bowers of peace, Where all the storms of passion cease. Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er, The wearied spirit weeps no more ; But wears the eternal smile of joy, Tasting bliss without alloy. Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, Where no passing tempest lowers; But the azure heavens display The everlasting smile of day ; J©-^ --T---an^r^^^-i MISCELLANEOUS. V- Where the choral seraph choir, Strike to praise the harmonious lyvQ ; And the spirit sinks to ease, Lull'd by distant symphonies. Oh ! to tliink of meeting there The friends whose graves received our tear, The daugliter loved, the wife adored, To our Avidow'd arms restored ; And all the joys which death did sever Given to us again for ever ! Who would cling to wretched life, And hug the poison'd tliorn of strife-— Who would not long from earth to fly A sluggish, senseless lump to lie, When the glorious prospect lies Full before his raptured eyes ? MY STUDY. A Letter in Hudihrastic Verse. You bid me, Ned, describe the place W'here I, one of the rhyming race, Pursue my studies con amove. And wanton with the muse in glory. ■^^i^& f5^>W Well, figure to your senses straight, Upon tlie house's topmost height, A closet, just six feet by four. With white washed walls, and plaster floor So noble large, 'tis scarcely able To admit a single chair and table : And (lest the muse should die witli cold) A smoky grate )ny 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. sxr. HENRY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. A window vainly stuffed about To keep November's breezes out, So crazy, that the panes proclaim That soon they mean to leave the frame. My furniture, I sure may crack — - A broken chair without a back ; A table, wanting just two legs, One end sustained by w^ooden pegs ; A desk — of that I am not fervent. The work of, sir, your bumble servant, (Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler ;) A glass decanter and a tumbler. From which mj night-parch'd throat I lave, Luxurious, with the limpid wave ; A chest of drawers, in antique sections, And sawed by me in all directions ; So small, sir, that whoever views 'em, Swears nothing but a doll could use 'era. To these, if you will add a store Of oddities u})on the floor, A pair of gloljes, electric balls, Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, And crowds of books on rotten shelves, Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves ; 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), 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 splioi'O. 1 MISCELLANEOUS. 71 ii 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, 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, (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), For some great man, I could not tell But Neck might answer just as well, So perched it up, all in a row With Chatham and w^ith 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 fliir dames, and heroes round, I call my garret classic ground. For though confined, 'twill well contain The ideal flights of Madam Brain. No dungeon's walls, no coll confined Can cramp the energies of mind ! Thus, though my heart may pcera so small, I've friends, and 'twill contain them all ; And should it e'er become so t'old That these it will no longer hold, No more may Heaven her blessings give, I shall not thou be fit to live. HENRY KIHKE WHITE's TOEMS. INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF COAVPER. Reader ! if with no vulgar sympathy Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth, Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallowed spot. Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made His name familiar to thine ear, this stone May tell thee that his virtues were above The common portion : — that the voice, novr hush'd In death, was once serenely querulous With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe Spake music. Now forgetful at thy feet His tired head presses on its last long rest, Still tenant of the tomb ; — and on the cheek, Once warm with animation's lambent flush, Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay. Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part ; And these sad garments of mortality Put off, we trust, that to a happier land He went a light and gladsome passenger. Sigh'st thou for honours, reader ? Call to mind That glory's voice is impotent to pierce The silence of the tomb ! but virtue blooms Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies ! So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ. DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. Down the sultiy arc of day, The burning wheels have urged their way, And Eve along the western skies Sheds her intermingling dyes. .M-,i==-i^i&mr!± i^^j^'^^v^-^;!^. MISCELLANEOUS. 73 I. .^ri Down the deep, the mirj lane, Creal^ing comes the empty wain, And Driver on the shaft-horse sits, Whistling now and then hy fits ; And oft, with his accustomed 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. Kails the dead kite to the wall. Kere comes shepherd Jack at last, He has penned the sheep-cote fast, For 'twas but two nights before, A lamb was eaten on the moor : His empty wallet Rover carries, Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries. 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-. 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, And Bess has slinked away to talk With Roger in the holly-walk. '■0i 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, IIow madam did the 'squire refuse ; I low parson on his tithes was bent, And landlord oft distrained for rent. Thus do they talk, till in the sky W^fmn 74 HENRY KIRKi: WHITE S I'OEMS. p\- -. The pale-eyed moon is mounted high, And from the alehouse drunken Ned Had reeled — 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 mastiif out, The candles safe, the heartlis all clear, And nought from thieves or fire to fear ; Then both to bed together creep, And join the general troop of sleep. CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1804. Yet once more, and once more, awake, my harp, From silence and neglect — one lofty strain ; Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven, And speaking mysteries, more than words can tell, I ask of thee ; for I, with hymnings high, Would join the dirge of the departing year. Yet with no wintrj garland from the woods. Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sere, Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December ! now ; Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, And fearful joy, to celebrate the day Of the E,edeemer. — Near two thousand suns Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse Of generations, since the dayspring first Beamed from on high ! — Now to the mighty mass Of that increasing aggregate, we add One unit more. Space, in comparison. How small, yet marked with how much misery ; Wars, famines, and the fury. Pestilence, Over the nations hanging her dread scourge ; The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness, Weeping their sufferance ; and the arm of wrong Forcing the scanty portion from the weak, ¥ t MISCELLANEOUS. 75 m And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears So has the year been character'd with woe In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes Yet 'twas not thus He taught— not thus He lived, Whose birth we this day celebrate witli prayer And much thanksgiving. — He, a man of woes, A\^ent on the way appointed, — path, though rude, Yet borne with patience still : — He came to cheer The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, And on the wandering and benighted mind To pour the light of truth. — task divine I more than angel teacher ! He had words To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds ; And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, Wrapt in thick darkness and the howling storm, He, pointing to the star of peace on high, Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile At the surrounding wreck. When with deep agony his heart was rack'd. Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, For them He wept, for them to Heaven He prayed, His persecutors — " Father, pardon them, They know not what they do," Angels of Heaven, Ye who beheld him fainting on the cross. And did him homage, say, may mortal join The halleluiahs of the risen God ? Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard Amid the seraphim in light divine ? Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign, For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith, Low though it be and humble. — Lord of life, The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now, Fills my uprising soul. — I mount, I fly Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs ; The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes. And care, and pain, and sorrow, are no more. * ¥ * * 7C IIEXUY KIKKE WHITE'S POEMS. [: NELSONI MORS. Yet 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 Thoughtfulness, 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 my froward heart Still turns to thee, mine harp, and to the flow Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied haunts Of my not songiess boyhood. — Yet once more Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, My long neglected harp. — He must not sink ; The good, the brave — he must not, shall not sink Without the meed of some melodious tear. Though from the I\Iuse's chalice I may pour No precious dews of Aganippe's well, Or Castally, — though from the morning cloud I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse : Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows. Of simple flowers, such as the hedgerows scent Of Britain, ray loved country ; and with tears ]\iost 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 lionest heart. — Thou Pity too, If ever I have loved, with faltering step. To follow thee in the cold and starless night, To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff; And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud Amid the joanscs of the storm, have pour'd VVild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, MISCELLANEOUS. 77 myi i Thy dying soul's viaticum ; if oft Aiiiid 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, 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, 'Kerchief "d in mists^ and tearful, when— * * * *-:--# '^ I^M PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD." When twilight steals along the ground, And all the bells are ringing round, One, two, three, four, and five : I at my study window sit, And wrapt in many a musing fit, To bliss am all alive. But though impressions calm and sweet. Thrill round my heart a holy heat, And I am inly glad ; The tear-drop stands in either eye, And yet I cannot tell thee why, I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad. The silvery rack that flies away, Lilie mortal life or pleasure's ray. Does tliat disturb my breast ? Nay, what have I, a studious man, To do with life's unstable plan, Or pleasure's fading vest ? M-J^^. .^^ 70 HENRY KIRKE W lllTJO 8 I'OEMS. IV. Is it that here I must not stop, But o'er yon blue hill's Avoodj top IMust bend my lonely way? Now, surely no, for give but mo My own fire-side, and I shall be At home where'er I stray. Then is it that yon steeple there, With music sweet shall fill the air, When thou no more canst hear ? Oh no ! oh no ! fiar then, forgiven, I shall be with my God in heaven, Released from every fear. Then whence it is I cannot tell, But there is some mysterious spell That holds me when I'm glad ; And so the tear-drop fills my eye, When yet in truth I know not why, Or wherefore I am sad. rfe,. SOLITUDE. It is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow It is not grief that bids me moan ; It is that I am all alone. In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast. -.:^^^si^^= JlISCELLAlSrEOUS. 79 Yet when the silent evening sighs, With hallow'd airs and symphonies, My spirit takes another tone, And sighs that it is all alone. The autumn leaf is sere and dead, It floats upon the water's bed ; I would not be a leaf, to die Without recording sorrow's sigh ! The woods and winds, with sudden wail, Tell all the same unvaried tale ; I've none to smile when I am free, And when I sigh, to sigh with me. Yet in my dreams a form I view, That thinks on me and loves me too ; I start, and when the vision's flown, I weep that I am all alone. i ■*^ If far from me the Fates remove Domestic peace, connubial love ; The prattling ring, the social cheer, Aflt'ection's voice, affection's tear ; Ye sterner powers that bind the heart, To me your iron aid impart ! teach me, when the nights are chill, And my fire- side is lone and still ; When to the blaze that crackles near, 1 turn a tired and pensive ear. And nature conquering bids me sigh, For love's soft accents whispering nigh O teach me on that heavenly road, That leads to Truth's occult abode, To wrap my soul in dreams sublime. Till earth and care no more be mine. 80 HENRY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. Let blest philosophy impart, Her soothing measures to my heart ; And Avhile, with Plato's ravished ears, I list tlie music of the spheres ; Or on the mystic symbols pore, That hide the Chald's sublimer lore, I shall not brood on summers gone, Nor think that I am all alone. .y"- >^ 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, 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. EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. Br.ooMFiELD, thy happy omen'd name Ensures continuance to thy fame : Both sense and truth this verdict give, Whilst fields sliall bloom thy name shall live I I ltll_ia^--.j=^ =-=-.,=.=:.t-.=.-=-:r-^-^ lU.-^-^ .J- ,....1 J ' . '' -g4W-r»"!"^' ' 'w"". ' .w ; r."" ' " ^ MISCELLANEOUS. 81 ^mm w^ A THE PROSTITUTE. Dactylics. Woman of weeping eye, ah ! for thy wretched lot, Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart ! Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery, Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away, While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings. Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite ; Spurned by the beings who lured thee from innocence ; Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence ; Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled ; Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness ; "Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage ! Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here ; Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death ; None after thee inquires with solicitude ; Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down, Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind, Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes. Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering. And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave, Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid. Once wert thou happy — thou wert once innocent ; But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness, Then he abandoned thcc unto thine infamy. ■1 82 HENllY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down ; But if a wretch like him sleeps in security, God of the red right arm ! where is thy thunderholt '^ THE EVE OF DEATH. Irregular. I. Silence of Death — portentous calm, Those airy forms that yonder fly, Denote that your void foreruns 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 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. \] II. O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep No softly-rufSing zephyrs fly ; But nature sleeps a deathless sleep, For the hour of battle is nigh. Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak. But a creeping stillness reigns around ; Except when the raven, wuth 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 hary), For this is the eve of death. Behold, how along the twilight air The sliades of our fatlicrs glide ? There Morven fled, with tlie blood-drench'd hair, And Colma with gray side. MISCELLANEOUS, I 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 1 'Tis done ! the sun he has set in blood ! 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. ^^^^ •3P AVRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATIL Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils, Ihy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind ; Communing lonely with his sinking soul, And musing on the dubious glooms that lie In dim obscurity before him, — thee, Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, 1 call At this still midnight hour, this awful season, AVhen on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, I turn me wearisome ; while all around, All, all save me, sink in forgetfulness ; I only wake to watch the sickly taper Which lights me to my tomb. — Yes, 'tis the hand Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals, Slow sapping the warm current of existence. My moments now are few — The sand of life Ebbs fastly to its finish.— Yet a little. And the fast fleeting particle will fall Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. Come then, sad thought, and let us meditate, While meditate we may. — We have now But a small portion of what men call time To hold counnunion : for even now the knife, The separating knife, I feel divide The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. Yes, I must die— I feel that I must die ; to me has life been dark and dreary, ff R4 HENRY KIRKE WIIITE's POEMS. Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me As I contemplate the grim gulf of death, The shuddering void, the awful blank — futurity. Aye, I bad planned full many a sanguine scheme Of earthly happiness, — romantic schemes. And fraught with loveliness ; and it is hard To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps. Throw a chill blight o'er all ones budding hopes, And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades. Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry? Oh ! none ; — another busy brood of beings Will shoot up in the interim, and none Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink, As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets Of busy London ; Some short bustle's caused, A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, And all's forgotten. — On my grassy grave The men of future times will careless tread, And read my name upon the sculptured stone ; Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, Recall my vanished memory. — I did hope For better things ! — I hoped I should not leave The earth without a vestige ;— rFate decrees It shall be otherwise, and I submit. Henceforth, oh world, no more of thy desires ! No more of hope ! the wanton vagrant Hope ! I abjure all. — Now other cares engross me, And my tired soul with emulative haste, Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven, LINES ON HEADING THE POEMS OF WARTON Age, Fourteen. O AVarton ? to thy soothing shell, Stretch'd remote in hermit cell, Where the brook runs babbling by, "^or ever I could listening lie : SHIIfc-i And catching all the Muses' fire Hold converse with the tuneful quire. "What pleasing themes thy page adorn 1 The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn, The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime, And melancholy's mournful chhue, Each with unwonted graces shines In thy ever lovely lines. Thy Muse deserves the lasting meed ; Attuning sweet the Dorian reed, Now the lovelorn swain complains, And sings his sorrows to the plains ; Now the sylvan scenes appear Through all the changes of the year ; Or the elegiac strain Softly sings of mental pain, 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 ; The soul entranced, on mighty wings, With all the poet's heat, up springs, And loses earthly woes ; Till all alarmed at the giddy height, The Muse descends on gentler flight, And lulls the weary soul to soft repose. ^m 86 HENRY KIKKE WHITE'S TOEMS. LINES ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. W7-kten in WiJford Churchyard. Here would I wish to sleep, — This is the spot Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in ; Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred. It is a lovely spot ! the sultry sun, From his meridian height, endeavours vainly To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook Most pleasant.- — Such a one perchance did Gray Frequent, as with the vagrant muse he wanton'd. Come, I will sit me down and meditate, For I am wearied with my summer's walk ; A.nd here I may repose in silent ease ; And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find The haven of its rest — beneath this sod Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. I would not have my corpse cemented down With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm Of its predestined dues ; no, I would lie Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown, Swath'd down with oziers, just as sleep the cotters. Yet may not undistbiguisJid be my grave ; But there at eve may some congenial soul Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, The good man's benison — no more I ask. And oh 1 (if heavenly beings may look down From where, with cherubim inspired, they sit, Upon this little dim-disco ver'd spot, The earth), then will I cast a glance helow On him who thus my ashes shall embalm; And I will weep, too, and will bless the wanderer, mm %■ '^c?:-"^:.-^'^^ J- .:;-<:- Ive seen Tke labonier. retiirmiig froia lias toij, -Hexe stay his steps and caJJ Ms ckiidreu roaud. And slo"wly spell lih.e mdely sc"niptirred rty-oies. A-nd, in lus rustic maimer, moralize. P 97 mmmi MISCELLANEOUS. a? Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine In this low- though ted world of darkling woe, But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies. 'm '^ Yet 'twas a silly thought — as if the body, Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, Could taste the sweets of summer scenery. And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze I Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond His narrow verge of being, and provide A decent residence for its clayey shell, Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay His body in the city burial-place. To be thrown up again by some rude sexton. And yield its narrow house another tenant, Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust. Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness ? No, I will lay me in the village ground ; There are the dead respected. The poor hind, Unlettered as he is, would scorn to invade The silent resting-place of death. I've seen The labourer, returning from his toil. Here stay his steps, and call his children round, And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes, And, in his rustic manner, moralize. I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken, With head uncover'd, his respectful manner. And all the honours which he paid the grave, And thought on cities, where even cemeteries, Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality. Are not protected from the drunken insolence Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close ! Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones May lie — or in the city's crowded bounds. Or scattor'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, Or left a prey on some deserted sliore To the raj)acious cormorant, — yet still, ;-^J 88 HENRT KTRKE WHITE'S POEMS, (For why should sober reason cast away A thought which soothes the soul ?) — yet still my spirit Shall wing its way to these my native regions, And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think Of times when I was seated 'neath tliis yew In solemn rumination ; and will smile With joy that I have got my long'd release. LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS In the Morning before Dayhreah ^Te many-twinkling stars, who yet do hold Your brilliant places in the sabre 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 bewildered. My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts ; Too vast, too boundless, for our narrow mind, Warped with low prejudices, to infold. 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 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 vEolian 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 MISCELLANEOUS. Of tlie created world, the sound is borne Till the whole universe is full of Him. i N M^: ■X- j Oh ! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now In fancy strikes upon my listening oar, 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 wond'rous works ! Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, One look of kind benevolence ? — Thou canst: For thou art full of universal love, 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 ! when reflecting 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 Outwatched the slow-paced night ? Why on the page, The schoolman's laboured page, have I employed The hours devoted by the world to rest. 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 into 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 whicli thou barterest health and happiness, Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave ? Give a new zest to bliss? or chase the pangs Of everlasting punishment condign? Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires I m r^ How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God I 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 Tn thy high dwelling. — All but this is folly, The vain illusions of deceitful life. * -I' ^''' LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS. (Occasioned hi/ a Situation in a Romance.) Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave, And on thy turf thy lover sad is kneeling, The big tear in his eye. — Mary, awake. From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low, Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale, Thy whispered tale, of comfort, and of love. To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul. And cheer his breaking heart. — Come, as thou didst» When o'er the barren moors the night-wind howl'd And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne Of the startled night. — Oh ! then, as lone reclining, I listened sadly to the dismal storm. Thou, on the lambent lightnings wild careering, Didst strike my moody eye ; — dead pale thou wert, Yet passing lovely. — Thou didst smile upon me, 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, charra'd, Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose, Locked in the arms of silence. Spirit of hor. My only love ! — Oh ! now again arise. And let once more thine aery accents fall Soft on ray listening ear. The night is calm, The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence Mart , tie moon is sleeping on iky- graire. AdA. on thy tuxf iky lover sad is Icaeelmg, The "bi^ teax xa. iis eye - Mary, awajte , Trom thy daxk iouse arise, F 90 MISCELLANEOUS. 91 ^11 With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling On the still air, the distant waterfall Mingles its melody ; — and high, above, The pensive empress of the solemn night, Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, Shows her chaste face, in the meridian sky. No wicked elves upon the Warloch-hioll Dare now assemble at their mystic revels. It is a night, when, from their primrose beds, The gentle ghosts of injured innocents Are known to rise, and wander on the breeze, Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. The spirit of my love might now awake, And hold its 'customed converse. Mary, lo ! Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, And calls upon thy name. — The breeze that blows On his wan cheek, will soon sweep over him. In solemn music, a funereal dirge. Wild and most sorrowful. — His cheek is pale. The worm that preyed upon thy youthful bloom. It cankered green on his. — Now lost he standrf, The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew Which bathes his aching temples gives sure omen Of speedy dissolution. — Mary, soon Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine, And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death. LINES, Written afier reading some of hw own ecffrliei' Sonnets. Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy ! And many a flower, which in the passing time My heart hath rcgisLer'd, nipp'd by the chill Of undeserv'd neglect, hath shrunk and died. r- 02 HENRY KIKKE WIHTE S POEMS. Heart-soothing Poesy ! — Tho* thou hast ceas'd To hover o'er the many-voiced strini^s Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, And with recalled images of bliss AVarm my reluctant heart. — Yes, I would throw, Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand O'er the responding chords. — It hath not ceas'd — It cannot, will not cease ; the heavenly warmth Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek ; Still, tho' unbidden, plays. — Fair Poesy ! The summer and the spring, the wind and rain. Sunshine and storm, with various interchfinge, Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month, Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retir'd, 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, AVreathe 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, Thrld the light masses of thy volant foot. Yet other duties call me, and mine ear Must turn away fro-m the high minstrelsy Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly Must turn away ; — there are severer strains (And surely tliey are sweet as ever smote The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil Releas'd and disembodied), there are strains Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, Thro' 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 myself, and climb the toilsome steep With patient expectation. — Yea, s;>mclimes Foretaste of bliss rewards me ; And sometimes Spirits unseen upon ray footsteps wait, 1 m Pi MISCELLANEOUS. 93 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, tho' rare, may sooth 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 thron'd in light she sits, the Queen of Truth, ''V^" /-^' '" -^l LINES, Written Impromptu, on reading the folloiving passage in Mr Capei Lo^ffVs beautiful and interesting preface to Nathaniel BloomfieUVs poems, just published. " It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression of Its melan. choly close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, tlie conclusion had "boon otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets de- liglit it." Go to the raging sea, and say, " Be still," Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will ; Preach to the storm, and reason with despair. But tell not Misery's son that life is fair ! Thou, who in Plenty's lavished laj) hast rolled, And every year with new delight hast told. Thou, who recumbent on the lacquered barge, Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of |)leasant marge, Thou mayost extol life's calm, untroubled sea, The storms of misery never burst on tltce ! Go to the mat, where srpialid want reclines. Go to the shade obscure where merit pines ; >ifS~ 94 HENKY KIllKE WHITE S POEMS. Abide with hira whom penury's charms control, And bind the rising yearnino;? of his soul, Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there, Tell the poor pallid wretch, that life is fair ! Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled : Mark his dewed temples, and his half-shut eye, His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh, His muttering mouth, contorted with despair, And ask if Genius could inhabit there. I: f%\ "^-^i. \ -' 1 •:k. ■^' -v.- Oh yes ! that sunken eye with fire once gleamed, And rays of light from its full circlet streamed ; But now Neglect has stung him to the core, And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round, And added Grief compels hira to the ground. Lo ! o'er his manly form, decayed, and wan. The shades of death with gradual steps steal on ; And the pale mother pining to decay, AVeeps for her boy her wretched life away. Go, child of Fortune ! to his early grave, Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave ; Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there. And tell us then that life is ivondrous fair ! Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretched fort}\ T' encourage genius, and to foster worth ; On thee, th' unhappy "s firm, unfailing friend, 'Tis just that every blessing should descend ; 'Tis just that life to thee should only show, Her fairer side but little mixed with woe. p^f- MISCELLANEOUS. 95 TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.* ^^ Sweet scented flower ! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe. And o'er the wintry desert drear ' To waft thy waste perfume ! 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. II Come, funeral flower ! 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 mo 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. 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 warms me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead ; My grave sliall bo in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. " The lloacmary b!i«ls in January. It is the Uuwcr commonly put ii Uic Collins of tlio duad. .-v'j.^rVf'te'A.. ^■' -, m nENllY KIKKE WUITE S POEMS. 1 TO THE MORNING. Written during Illness. 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. The Lark has her gay song begun, She leaves her grassy nest. And soars till the unrisen 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, Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, Till on the mountain's summit gray, 1 sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day Oh, Heaven ! the soft refreshing gale It breathes into my breast, My sunk eye gleams, my cheek so pale, Is with new colours drest. Blithe Health ! thou soul of life and ease f Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze. $1 A. 1 MISCELLANEOUS. 97 Invigorate my frame : 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 burnished 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 jMom ; Along the fine cerulean sky. The 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 blithe. The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe, Mix with the morning's sounds. 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. 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. 98 HENRY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. I luM. Yet, Morning ! unrepining stiil Hell greet thy beams awhile, And surely thou, when o'er his grave Solemn the whisp'ring willows wave, Wilt sweetly on him smile ; And the pale glow-worm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless nighi TO A FRIEND. Written at a very Early Age, I've read, my friend, of Diocletian, And many other noble Grecian, Who wealth and palaces resign'd, In cots the joys of peace to find ; Maximian's meal of turnip-tops, (Disgusting food to dainty chops), I've also read of, without wonder ; But such a curst, egregious blunder, As that a man, of wit and sense. Should leave his books to hoard up pence. Forsake the loved Aonian maids. For all the petty tricks of trades, I never, either now, or long since. Have heard of such a piece of nonsense ; That one who learning's joys hath felt, And at the Muse's altar knelt, Should leave a life of sacred leisure. To taste the accumulating pleasure ; And metamorphosed to an alley duck. Grovel in loads of kindred muck. Oh ! 'tis beyond my comprehension! A courtier throwing up his pension,- - A lawyer working without a fee, A parson giving charity, A tru'y pious method ist preacher, so oiit of naturf. ^^^^ MISCELLANEOUS. 99 Had nature made thee half a fool, But given thee wit to keep a school, I had not stared at thy backsliding ; But when thy wit I can confide in, When well I know thy just pretence To solid and exalted sense ; When well I know that on thy head Philosophy her lights hath shed, I stand aghast ! thy virtues sum to, And wonder what this world will come to I Yet, whence this strain ? shall I repine That thou alone dost singly shine ? Shall I lament that thou alone, Of men of parts, hast prudence known ? b TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, Who, when the Author reasoned with him cahuly, asked, " If he did not feel for him ?" •• Do I not feel /" The doubt is keen as steel. Vea, I do feel — most exquisitely feel ; My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh : Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. On this I act — whatever pangs surround, ^Tis magnanimity to hide the wound. When all was new, and life was in its spring, I lived an unloved solitary thing ; Even then I learnt to bury deep from day The piercing cares that wore my youth away. Even then I learnt for others' ca;res to feel, Even then I wept I had not power to heal ; Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom. 100 HENRY KIRKE WIIITE's POEMS. ^ Who were my friends in youth ? — The midnight fire- The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir ; To these I 'plained, or turned from outer sight, To bless my lonely taper's friendly light ; I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn ; The sacred source of woe I never ope, My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. But that I do feel, time, my friend, will show, Though the cold crowd the secret never know, With them I laugh — yet when no eye can see, I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. Yes, thou didst wrong me, ; I fondly thought. In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought ; I fondly thought that thou couldst pierce the guise, A.nd read the truth that in my bosom lies ; [ fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone, Thy heart and mine had mingled into one ! 5^'es — and they yet will mingle. Days and years Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears : We then shall feel that friendship has a power, To soothe affliction in her darkest hour ; Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, And wait the passport to a better land. Thine, H. K. WuitB. Half-past 11 o'clock at night. ^i VERSES. Composed coctcmpore in thei^resence of B. Haddock, as an evidence of the Author's ahility to tvrite Poetry. Thou base repiner at another's joy, AVliose eye turns green at merit not thine own .ay from generous Britons fly, find in meaner climes a fitter throne ! Pi-: if:-. MISCELLANEOUS. 101 Away, away, it shall not be, That thou shalt dare defile our plains : The truly generous heart disdains Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity. Triumphant monster ! though thy schemes succeed, — Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night. Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed. Thy happy victim will emerge to light ; When o'er his head, in silence that reposes, Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear. Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses. Which thou hadst planted wuth the thorn severe ; Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all Will curse the ungenerous fate that bade a Poet fall. * * * * Yet ah : thy sorrows are too keen, too sure ! Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey ? Alas ; in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. See the lone bard at midnight study sitting ; O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp; While o'er fond fancy's pale persjDective flitting, Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. Yet, say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd ? Does jocund health in thoughts still mansion live ? Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest. That sliort quick sigh —their sad responses give ! And canst thou rob a poet of his song ; Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise ? Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long ; Then leave, O leave him to enjoy his lays While yet he lives, — for, to his merits just, Though future ages join his fame to raise. Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust ! 102 HENRY KmKB WHITENS TOBMS. "i hi VERSES. When pride and envy, and the scorn Of wealth, my heart with gall imbued, 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, INIan 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 ? So to the woods and waste I'll go, And I Avill 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, I'll to the forest caverns hie : And in the dark and stormy nights I'll listen to the shrieking sprites. Who, in the wintry wolds and floods Keep jubilee, and shred the woods; Or, as it drifted soft and slow. Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. 'l,t^ 1 ■ n HI M It'/A Wm n Iw M I'l'f liP i pi i fii! BALLADS. 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 roclc They murmur'd pleasantly. When Gondoline roamed along the shore, A maiden full fair to the sight ; Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheeli And turn'd it to deadly white. Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear It fiird her faint blue eye, As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, Her Bertrand's dying sigh. )^ i&£^ *&*■ K*^ 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 pas=;"d away, And many a rolling year, But nothing the maid from Palestine Could of her lover hear. 104 HENRY KTRKE WIITTF/s rOEAfS. Full oft she vainly tried to pierce The ocean's misty face ; Full oft she tliought her lover's bark She on the wave could trace. And every night she placed a liglit In the high roclc'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 : ** Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, And I in peace will die." "W 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 Betrand live, And I in peace shall die.'' 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 pendant from its dismal top The deadly night-shade hung, The hemlock, and the aconite. Across the mouth were flung. And all within was dark and drear. And all without was calm. Yet Gondoline entered, her soul upheld By some deep workinc charm. BALLADS. 105 mi: ^.3^1 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 slipp'd, and she stood aghast, She trod on a bloated toad ; Yet still, ujiheld by the secret charm, She kept upon her road. B Wf^&& And now upon her frozen ear Mysterious sounds arose, So, on the mountain's piny top, The blustering J^orth-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, Though each big glaring bail of sight Seem'd bursting from her head. But now a pale blue light she saw, It from a distance came. She followed, till upon her sight, Burst full a flood of flame. She stood appall'd ; yet still the charm Upheld her sinking soul, Yet each bent knee the other smote, And each wild eye did roll. And such a siglit as she saw there. No mortal saw before, And such a sight as she saw there, No mortal shall see more. ion HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S POEMS. A burning caldron 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 caldron stout Twelve withered witches stood : 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 joined their hands, And uttered a joyous cry, And round about the caldron stout They danced right merrily. Amd now they stopt ; and each prepared To tell what she had done, Since last the Lady of the night, Her waning course had run. 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 raew'd ; She'd been to sea, in a leaky sieve, And a jovial storm had brew'd. She call'd around the winged winds, And raised a devilish rout ; And she laugh 'd so loud, the peals were heard Full fifteen leagues about. m-^ BALLADS. 107 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. And slie had got a child in her arms, It was her only child, And oft its little infant pranks Her heavy heart beguiled. And there was too in that same bark, A father and his son : The lad was sickly, and the sire Was old, and woe-begone. UM And when the tempest waxed strong, And the bark could no more it 'bide, She said, it was jovial fun to hear How the poor devils cried. The mother clasp'd her orphan child Unto her breast, and wept ; Ai^d 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 infants hair, And threw it overboard. And to have seen the mother's pang's, 'Twas a glorious siglit to see ; The crew could scarcely liuld lier 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. ^:::i^,-V^ 108 nENrv KiRKE wtttte's rOEMS. And she said, the father in his arms He held his sickly son, 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 the father he tore his thin gray hair, And kiss'd the livid hue. And then she told, how she bored a hole In the bark, and it fiTd away ; And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear, And some did vow, and pray. Wm The man and woman they soon were dead. The sailors their strength did urge ; But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet, And the winds sung their funeral dirge. She threw the infant's hair in the fire, The red flame flamed high, And round about the caldron stout They danced right merrily. The second begun : she said she had done The task that Queen Hecat' had set her. 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 paramonr, A wicked man was he, And oft the woman, him against, Did murmur grievously. 1 BALLADS. 109 And the hag had worked the daughter up To murder her old mother, That then she might seize on all her goode 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. She heard her footstep on the floor, And she raised her palid head, 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." m 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 begged for life. But prayers would nothing her avail, And she screamed loud with fear ; But the house was lone, and the pierciui Could reach no human ear. soreftras 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. And they all agreed a nobler deed Was never done before. Tf>2 fs^-L^^^- j*4V^ ^->^:s^«^^ no HENRY KIKKli WIIITE's POEMS. And she threw the fingers in the fire, The red flame flamed high, And round about the caldron stout They danced right merrily. 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. 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, And that no tongue could truly tell The tricks she there had played. hi-4 There was a gallant-featured youth, Who like a hero fought : He kissed 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. That three days ere she had embark'd, His love had given her hand. Unto a wealthy Thane : — and thought Him dead in holy land. t- BALLADS. lU And to have seen how he did writh 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 : 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 soots, The mouth it ghastly grinned, And there was a gash across the brow, The scalp was nearly skinned. •:m>. 'Twas Bertrand's Head ! With a terrible scream, The maiden gave a spring. And from her fearful hiding-place She fell into the ring. The lights they fled, — the caldron sunk, Deep thunders shook the dome, And hollow peals of laughter came Resounding through the gloom. Insensible the maiden lay Upon the hellish ground : And still mysterious sounds were heard At intervals around. ^'^ She woke, — she half arose, — and wild, Vft' She cast a horrid glare, ^'■i}\ The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, ^\ And all was stillness there. 112 IIENKY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. And through an awning in the rock, The moon it sweetly shone, And showed a river in the cave Which dismally did moan. The stream was black, it sounded deep As it rushed the rocks between, It offered well, for madness fired The breast of Gondoline. She plunged in, the torrent moaned With its accustomed sound And hollow peals of laughter loud Again rebellowed round. The maid was seen no more. — But ofi Her ghost is known to glide, At midnight's silent, solemn hour, Along the ocean's side. A BALLAD. Be hushed, be hushed, 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 betrayed. When exiled from my native home. He should have wiped the bitter tear ' Nor left me faint and lone to roam, A heart-sick weary wanderer here. m My child moans sadly in my arms, The winds they Avill not let it sleep ; Ah, little knows the helpless babe, What makes its wretched mother weep Now lie thee still, nij infant dear, I cannot bear thy sobs to see ; Harsh is thy father, little one, And never will he shelter thee. Oh, that I were but in my grave, And winds were piping o'er me loud, And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud. .J r^:S soNas. SONG. WinUen at the Age of Fourteen. Softly, softly, blow, ye breezes, Gently o'er my Edvvy fly ! Lo ! he slumbers, slumbers s\veetl> ; Softly, zephyrs, pass him by ! My love is asleep, He lies by the deep. All along where the salt waves sigh I have cover'd 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 sigK ^' 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 deathbed All along where the salt waves sigh. 4- ■■.>;'■ ^v^'P^I,: