FROM A POEM RECENTLY PUBLISHED.
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 indulg'd thy fond pursuit ;
She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit.
'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow,
And helped 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,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quivered in his heart:
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nurs'd 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 assume.
THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
« No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
"But living statues there are seen to weep;
"Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
"Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom!"
TO yon streamlet's rippling flow,
Through the grove meand'ring slow,
Heart-heaving sighs of sorrow let me pour,
And those "living statues" join,
For no "marble" grief is mine,
Mine is sympathy's true tear,
Love and pity's sigh sincere,
And to "Affliction's self" I give the mournful hour!
What means yon new-rais'd mould beneath the yew?
And why scoop'd out the coffin's narrow cell,
Fashion'd, alas! to human shape and size?
Why crawls that earth-worm from the dazzling ray
Of day's unwelcome orb? And why, at length,
Lingering, advances, with grief-measur❜d pace,
The sable hearse, in raven plumes array'd?
* Vide his Poems recently published.
And, hark! oh, hark! the deep-ton'd funeral knell
Breathes, audible, a sad and sullen sound!
Alas, poor youth! for THEE this robe of death!
Ye Nine, that lave in the Castalian spring,
Whose full-ton'd waves, responsive to the strain
Of your Parnassian harps, with solemn flow,
Peal the deep dirge around,-pluck each a wreath
Of baneful yew and twine it round your lyres,
For your own HENRY sleeps to wake no more!
Alas! alas! immortal youth!
Thine the richly varied song,
Simple, clear, sublime, and strong;
Thy sunny eye beam'd on the page of Truth,
Thy God ador'd, and, fraught with cherub fire,
"Twas thine to strike, on earth, a heavenly lyre!
Ah! lost too soon! through tangled groves,
'Midst the fresh dews no more
He pensive roves
The varied Passions to explore.
Silent, silent, is his tongue,
Whose notes so powerful through the woodlands rung,
When on the wing of hoary Time*,
With energy sublime,
He soar'd, and left this lessening world below:
Hark! hark! methinks, e'en now, I hear his numbers flow -Ah! no, he sings no more.
* One of Kirke White's most animated and beautiful Poems, entitled "Time."
Oh! thou greedy cormorant fell,
Death! insatiate monster! tell,
Why so soon was sped the dart
Which pierc'd, alas! his youthful heart!
Oh, despoiler! tyrant! know,
When thy arm, that dealt the blow,
Wither'd sinks, inactive, cold,
By a stronger arm controul'd,
Then shall this youth the song of triumph raise,
Throughout eternity immeasurable days!
Bard of nature, heaven-grac'd child!
Sweet, majestic, plaintive, wild;
Who, on rapid pinion borne,
Swifter than the breeze of morn,
Circled now the Aonian mount,
Now the Heliconian fount,
Teach me to string thy harp, and wake its strain
To mourn thy early fate, 'till every chord complain!-
No! let thy harp remain,
On yon dark cypress hung,
By death unstrung;
To touch it were profane!
But now, oh! now, at this deep hour,
While I feel thy thrilling pow'r;
While I steal from pillow'd sleep,
O'er thy urn to bend and weep;
Spirit, rob'd in chrystal light,
On the fleecy clouds of night,
Descend; and, oh! my breast inspire,
With a portion of thy fire;
Teach my hand, at midnight's noon,
Hover o'er me while I sing,
Oh! spirit lov'd and bless'd attune the string!
Yes, now, when all around are sunk in rest;
And the night-vapour sails along the west;
When darkness, brooding o'er this nether ball,
Encircles nature with her sable pall;
Still let me tarry, heedless of repose,
pour the bosom's-not the muse's woes! To thy lov'd mem'ry heave the sigh sincere, And drop a kindred, a prophetic, tear!
Fast flow, ye genial drops-
Gush forth, ye tender sighs!
And who, dear shade! can tell-but-
While thus I, mournful, pause and weep for Thee,
Shortly a sigh may heave-a tear be shed, for me!
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