LINES AND NOTE-BY LORD BYRON.
UNHAPPY White!* while life was in its spring,
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing,
The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When science' self destroyed her favourite son!
Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit.
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low.
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel;
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to
PRESENTED TO ME BY HIS BROTHER J. N. WHITE.
BARD of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame!
While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest,
On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late
press'd,
I pause; and gaze regretful on thy name.
By neither chance nor envy, time nor flame,
Be it from this its mansion disposses'd;
But thee Eternity clasps to her breast,
And in celestial splendour thrones thy claim.
An initative radiance: thy pure lyre
Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace,
And beams and breathes in empyreal fire:
The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone
Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own.
Ir worth, if genius, to the world are dear,
To Henry's shade devote no common tear.
His worth on no precarious tenure hung,
From genuine piety his virtues sprung
* Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a bead surrounded with a glory.
If pure benevolence, if steady sense,
Can to the feeling heart delight dispense;
If all the highest efforts of the mind,
Exalted, noble, elegant, refined,
Call for fond sympathy's heart-felt regret,
Ye sons ofgenius pay the mournful debt:
His friends can truly speak how large his claim,
And Life was only wanting to his fame.'
Art Thou, indeed, dear youth, for ever fled?
So quickly number'd with the silent dead.
Too sure I read it in the downcast eye,
Hear it in mourning friendship's stifled sigh.
Ah! could esteem, or admiration, save
So dear an object from th' untimely grave,
This transcript faint had not essay'd to tell,
The loss of one beloved, revered so well,
Vainly I try, even eloquence were weak,
The silent sorrow that I feel, to speak,
No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer,
And bind my spirit to this lower sphere;
Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh,
And bid new fire relume my languid eye:
No more the pencil's mimic art command,
And with kind pity guide my trembling hand;
Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard,
To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard.
Vain all the pleasures Thou can'st not inspire,
And in my breast th' imperfect joys expire,
I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine,
And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine:
In Fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre, 2.
With virtue's energies each bosom fire;
I saw admiring nations press around,
Eager to catch the animating sund:
And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night
To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight,
Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade,
And each graced honour to thy memory paid.
Such was the fate hope pictured to my view-
But who, alas! e'er found hope's vision's true?
And, ah! a dark presage, when last we met;
Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret ;
When thou thy portrait from the minstrel drew,
The living Edwin starting on my view-
Silent, I ask'd of Heaven a lengthen'd date;
His genius thine, but not like thine his fate.
Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure reveal'd,
The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd.
Too strong the portion of celestial flame
For its weak tenement, the fragile frame;
Too soon for us it sought its native sky,
And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye;
Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight,
Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light:
So shall thy bright example fire each youth
With love of virtue, piety, and truth.
Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn,
And bid her sons revere thy favour'd urn.
When thy loved flower Spring's victory makes known,'
The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone.
Around thy urn the rosemary we'll spread,
Whose 'tender fragrance,'-emblem of the dead-
Shall 'teach the maid, whose bloom no longer lives
That 'virtue every perish'd grace survives."
Farewell! sweet Moralist; heart-sickening grief
Tells me in duty's paths to seek relief,
With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise,
And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies,
Yet still on thee shall fond remembrence dwell,
And to the world thy worth delight to tell :
Though well I feel unworthy Thee the lays
That to thy memory weeping friendship pays.
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE
YE gentlest gales! oh, hither waft
On airy undulating sweeps,
Your frequent sighs, so passing soft
Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps!
He breathed the purest, tenderest sigh,
The sigh of sensibility.
And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower,
Pale Primrose, on his grave reclined:
Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour,
And of his pure, his spotless mind!
Like thee, he sprung in lowly vale;
And felt, like thee, the trying gale.
Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude,
Oh thou, the fragrant Rosemary,
Where he,' in marble solitude,'
So peaceful, and so deep,' doth lie!
His harp prophetic sung to thee
In notes of sweetest minstrelsy.
Ye falling dews, Oh! ever leave
Your crystal drops these flowers to steep.
At earliest noon, at latest eve,
Oh let them for their Poet weep!
For tears bedew'd his gentle eye,
The tears of heavenly sympathy.
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