Poor Henry's budding beauties—to a clime
Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray
Forc'd their young vigour into transient day,
And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them! and shall Time
Trample these orphan blossoms?-No! they breathe
Still lovelier charms-for Southey culls the wreath !
Oxford, Dec. 17th, 1807.
IN MEMORY OF MR. H. K. WHITE.
" "Tis now the dead of night," and I will go
To where the brook soft-murmuring glides along
In the still wood; yet does the plaintive song
Of Philomela through the welkin flow;
And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw
Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among,
Will sit beneath some spreading oak-tree strong,
And intermingle with the streams my woe:
Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze;
No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom;
Cold chilling dew-drops trickle down the trees,
And every flower withholds its rich perfume;
'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground
Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound!
On reading the Life of the late Henry Kirke White.
Author of "The Peasant's Fate."
DARLING of Science and the Muse,
How shall a son of song refuse
To shed a tear for thee?
To us so soon for ever lost,
What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd
By Heaven's supreme decree?
How could a parent, love-beguil'd,
In life's fair prime resign a child
So duteous, good, and kind?
The warblers of the soothing strain
Must string the elegiac lyre in vain
To sooth the wounded mind!
Yet fancy, hov'ring round the tomb,
Half envies, while she mourns, thy doom,
Dear poet, saint, and sage!
Who into one short span, at best,
The wisdom of an age comprest,
A patriarch's lengthen❜d age!
To him a genius sanctified,
And purg'd from literary pride,
A sacred boon was giv'n:
Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre
Celestial raptures could inspire,
And lift the soul to Heav'n.
'Twas not the laurel earth bestows,
'Twas not the praise from man that flows,
With classic toil he sought;
He sought the crown that martyrs wear,
When rescu'd from a world of care;
Their spirit too he caught.
Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay,
Who idly range in Folly's way,
And learn the worth of time!
Learn ye, whose days have run to waste,
How to redeem this pearl at last,
Atoning for your crime.
This flow'r, that droop'd in one cold clime,
Transplanted from the soil of time
In full perfection there shall bloom;
And those who now lament his doom
Must bow to God's decree.
ON READING THE POEM ON SOLITUDE,
In the second Volume of H. K. White's "Remains."
BUT art thou thus indeed "alone?"
Quite unbefriended-all unknown?
And hast thou then his name forgot
Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot?
Is not his voice in evening's gale?
Beams not with him the "star" so pale?
Is there a leaf can fade and die
Unnotic'd by his watchful eye?
Each flutt'ring hope, each anxious fear,
Each lonely sigh, each silent tear,
To thine Almighty Friend are known;
And say'st thou, thou art "all alone?”
TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE.
By the Rev. W. B. COLLYER, D. D.
O, LOST too soon! accept the tear
A stranger to thy memory pays !
Dear to the Muse, to Science dear!
In the young morning of thy days!
All the wild notes that Pity lov'd
Awoke, responsive still to thee,
While o'er the lyre thy fingers rov'd
In softest, sweetest harmony.
The chords that in the human heart
Compassion touches as her own,
Bore in thy symphonies a part
With them in perfect unison.
Amidst accumulated woes,
That premature afflictions bring,
Submission's sacred hymn arose,
Warbled from every mournful string.
When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread,
And deeper every moment grew;
When rudely round thy youthful head
The chilling blasts of sickness blew;
Religion heard no 'plainings loud,
The sigh in secret stole from thee;
And Pity, from the 'dropping cloud,'
Shed tears of holy sympathy.
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