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Addressed to H. K. White, on his Poems lately published.
HENRY! I greet thịne entrance into life!
page, shall bare for thee the knife,
G. L.'C—, 1803.
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,
Of pity, glowing in thy feeling breast,
May nought destroy, may nought thy soul divest
Thou tun'st so magically: but may fame
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 agaiu! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh
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 ʼmid 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 gold?
On the Death of Mr. Henry Kirke White.
BY THE REV. J. PLUMPTRE.
SUCH talents and such piety combin'd,
ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
MASTER so early of the various LYRE
Energic, pure, sublime !-Tbus art thou gone?
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,
What blest equivalent in changeless skies
Gracious, whate'er he gives, whate'er denies.
24th Oct. 1806.
On the Death of Mr. Henry Kirke White, late of St. John's
WRITTEN ABOUT AND IN THAT COLLEGE.
SORROWS are mine—then let me joys evade,
Thought ever prompt to lend th' enquiring eye
May goodness, which thy heart did once enthrone,
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,