« PreviousContinue »
Addressed to H. K. White, on his Poems lately published.
HENRY! I greet thine entrance into life!
Sure presage that the myrmidons of fate,
The fools unmeaning laugh, the critic's hate,
Will dire assail thee; and the envious strife
Of bookish schoolmen, beings over rife,
Whose pia-mater studious is fill'd
With unconnected matter half distill'd
From letter'd page, shall bare for thee the knife,
Beneath whose edge the poet oft-times sinks:
But fear not! for thy modest work contains
The germ of worth; thy wild poetic strains,
How sweet to him, untutor❜d bard, who thinks
Thy verse "has power to please, as soft it flows
Thro' the smooth murmurs of the frequent close."
To Mr. Henry Kirke White, on his Poems lately published.
BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ.
HAIL! gifted youth, whose passion-breathing lay
Pourtrays a mind attun❜d to noblest themes,
A mind, which wrapt in fancy's high-wrought dreams,
To nature's veriest bounds its daring way
Can wing: what charms throughout thy pages shine,
To win with fairy thrill the melting soul!
For though along impassion'd grandeur roll,
Yet in full power simplicity is thine.
Proceed, sweet bard! and the heav'n-granted fire
Of pity, glowing in thy feeling breast,
May nought destroy, may nought thy soul divest
Of joy-of rapture in the living lyre,
Thou tun'st so magically: but may fame
Each passing year add honours to thy name.
Richmond, Sept. 1803.
TO MR. H. K. WHITE.
HARK! 'tis some sprite who sweeps a fun'ral knell,
For Dermody no more.-That fitful tone
From Eolus' wild harp alone can swell,
Or Chatterton assumes the lyre unknown.
No; list again! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh
Swells with the breeze, and dies upon the stream: "Tis Margaret mourns, as swift she rushes by, Rous'd by the dæmons from adulterous dream.
O! say, sweet youth! what genius fires thy soul?
The same which tun'd the frantic nervous strain
To the wild harp of Collins ?-By the pole,
Or 'mid the seraphim and heav'nly train,
Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold,
To sing Hell's flaming gulph, or Heav'n high arch'd with
On the Death of Mr. Henry Kirke White.
BY THE REV. J. PLUMPTRE
SUCH talents and such piety combin'd,
With such unfeign'd humility of mind,
Bespoke him fair to tread the way to famę,
And live an honour to the christian name.
But Heaven was pleas'd to stop his fleeting hour,
And blight the fragrance of the opening flow'r.
We mourn—but not for him, remov❜d from pain,
Our loss, we trust, is his eternal gain:-
With him we'll strive to win the Saviour's love,
And hope to join him with the blest above.
October 24th, 1806.
MASTER so early of the various LYRE
Energic, pure, sublime !—Thus art thou gone?
In its bright dawn of fame that spirit flown
Which breath'd such sweetness, tenderness, and fire!
Wert thou but shewn to win us to admire
And veil in death thy splendor?-But unknown
Their destination who least time have shone
And brightest beam'd.-When these the ETERNAL SIRE,
-Righteous and wise, and good are all his ways-
Eclipses, as their sun begins, to rise,
Can mortal judge, for their diminisht days,
What blest equivalent in changeless skies
What sacred glory waits them?-His the praise;
Gracious, whate'er he gives, whate'er denies.
On the Death of Mr. Henry Kirke White, late of St. John's College, Cambridge.
WRITTEN ABOUT AND IN THAT COLLEGE.
SORROWS are mine-then let me joys evade,
And seek for sympathies in this lone shade.
The glooms of death fall heavy on my heart;
And, between life and me, a truce impart.
Genius has vanisht in its opening bloom,
And youth and beauty wither in the tomb!
Thought ever prompt to lend th' enquiring eye
Pursues thy spirit through futurity.
Does thy aspiring mind new powers essay,
Or, in suspended being, wait the day,
When earth shall fall before the awful train
Of Heaven and Virtues everlasting reign?
May goodness, which thy heart did once enthrone,
Emit one ray to meliorate my own!
And, for thy sake, when time affliction calm,
Science shall please, and poesie shall charm.
I turn my steps whence issued all my woes,
Where the dull courts, monastic glooms impose,
Thence fled a spirit, whose unbounded scope,
Surpass'd the fond creation's, e'en of hope.
Along this path thy living step has fled, Along this path they bore thee to the dead,