livery, of which no notice was ever taken. Involved as she was in an endless round of miserable follies, it is probable that she never opened the book; otherwise her heart was good enough to have felt a pleasure in encouraging the author. Oh, what a lesson would the history of that heart hold out! Henry sent his little volume to each of the then existing Reviews, and accompanied it with a letter, wherein he stated what his advantages had been, and what were the hopes which he proposed to himself from the publication ; requesting from them that indulgence of which his productions did not stand in need, and which it might have been thought, under such circumstances, would not have been withheld from works of less promise. It may be well conceived with what anxiety he looked for their opinions, and with what feelings he read the following article in the Monthly Review for February, 1804. Monthly Review, February, 1804. "The circumstances under which this little volume is offered to the public, must, in some measure, disarm criticism. We have been informed that Mr. White has scarcely attained his eighteenth year, has hitherto exerted himself in the pursuit of knowledge under the discouragements of penury and misfortune, and now hopes, by this early authorship, to obtain some assistance in the prosecution of his studies at Cambridge. He appears, indeed, to be one of those young men of talents and application who merit encouragement; and it would be gratifying to us, to hear that this publication had obtained for him a respectable patron, for we fear that the mere profit arising from the sale cannot be, in any measure, adequate to his exigencies as a student at the VOL. I. university. A subscription, with a statement of the particulars of the author's case, might have been calculated to have answered his purpose; but, as a book which is to "win its way" on the sole ground of its own merit, this poem cannot be contemplated with any sanguine expectation. The author is very anxious, however, that critics should find in it something to commend, and he shall not be disappointed: we commend his exertions, and his laudable endeavours to excel; but we cannot compliment him with having learned the difficult art of writing good poetry. "Such lines as these will sufficiently prove our assertion: "Here would I run, a visionary Boy, When the hoarse thunder shook the vaulted Sky Sternly careering in the eddying storm." "If Mr. White should be instructed by Alma-mater, he will, doubtless, produce better sense, and better rhymes." I know not who was the writer of this precious article. It is certain that Henry could have no personal enemy; his volume fell into the hands of some dull man, who took it up in an hour of ill humour, turned over the leaves to look for faults, and finding that Boy and Sky were not orthodox rhymes, according to his wise creed of criticism, sate down to blast the hopes of a boy, who had confessed to him all his hopes and all his difficulties, and thrown himself upon his mercy. With such a letter before him, (by mere accident I saw that which had been sent to the Critical Review,) even though the poems had been bad, a good man would not have said so; he would have avoided censure, if he had found it impossible to bestow praise. But that the reader may perceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of this reviewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus contemptuously condemned because Boy and Sky are used as rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place. TO THE HERB ROSEMARY*. 1. SWEET scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintery desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song. And sweet the strain shall be and long, 2. Come, funeral flow'r! who lov'st to dwell And throw across the desert gloom A sweet decaying smell. * The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead. Come, press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, So peaceful, and so deep. 3. And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, The cold turf altar of the dead; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. TO THE MORNING. WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. BEAMS of the day-break faint! I hail Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, Tir'd with the taper's sickly light, And with the wearying, numbered night, I hail the streaks of morn divine: And lo! they break between the dewy wreathes That round my rural casement twine: The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, It fans my feverish brow,—it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life. The Lark has her gay song begun, She leaves her grassy nest, • And soars 'till the unrisen sun Gleams on her speckled breast. Now let me leave my restless bed, Now thro the custom'd wood-walk wend; By many a green lane lies my way, Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, 'Till on the mountain's summit grey, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. Oh, Heaven! the soft refreshing gale My sunk eye gleams, my cheek so pale, |