SONNET,

To 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 dream
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.

! 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

gold?

H- WELKER.

LINES

On the Death of Mr. Henry Kirke White.

BY THE REV. J. PLUMTRE.

SUCH talents and such piety combin'd,
With such unfeign'd humility of mind,
Bespoke him fair to tread the way to fame,
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.
- but not for him, remov'd from pain;

We mourn

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.

SONNET

ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

1

I.

MASTER SO early of the various LYRE

Energetic, 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 shown to win us to admire,

And veil in death thy splendour?— but unknown
Their destination who least time have shone,

And brightest beam'd. — When these the ETERNAL SIRE,

II.

- Righteous and wise, and good are all his waysEclipses as their sun begins to rise,

Can mortal judge, for their diminish'd days,

What blest equivalent in changeless skies,

What sacred glory waits them?- His the praise;
Gracious, whate'er he gives, whate'er denies.

24th Oct. 1806.

C. LOFFT.

LINES

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 vanish'd 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 Virtue's 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 creations e'en of hope.
Along this path thy living step has fled,
Along this path they bore thee to the dead.

All that this languid eye can now survey
Witness'd the vigour of thy fleeting day:
And witness'd all, as speaks this anguish'd tear,
The solemn progress of thy early bier.

Sacred the walls that took thy parting breath,
Own'd thee in life, encompass'd thee in death!
Oh, I can feel, as felt the sorrowing friend
Who o'er thy corse in agony did bend;
Dead as thyself to all the world inspires,
Paid the last rites mortality requires ;

Clos'd the dim eye that beam'd with mind before;
Compos'd the icy limbs to move no more!

Some power the picture from my memory tear,
Or feeling will rush onward to despair.

Immortal hopes! come, lend your blest relief, And raise the soul bow'd down with mortal grief; Teach it to look for comfort in the skies:

Earth cannot give what Heaven's high will denies. Cambridge, Nov. 1806.

SONNET

OCCASIONED BY THE SECOND OF H. KIRKE WHITE.

I.

YES, fled already is thy vital fire,

And the fair promise of thy early bloom

Lost, in youth's morn extinct; sunk in the tomb;

Mute in the grave sleeps thy enchanted lyre !