THE POETICAL WORKS OFHENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

WITH A MEMOIRBY SIR HARRIS NICOLAS. 

TOPETER SMITH, ESQ. THIS VOLUMEIS INSCRIBEDIN TESTIMONY OF ESTEEM AND FRIENDSHIP. 

CONTENTS. 

Memoir of Henry Kirke White

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Clifton GroveTimeChildhood; Part I Part IIThe ChristiadLines written on a Survey of the HeavensLines supposed to be spoken by a Lover at the Grave of his MistressMy StudyDescription of a Summer's EveLines--"Go to the raging sea, and say, 'Be still!'"Written in the Prospect of DeathVerses--"When pride and envy, and the scorn"Fragment--"Oh! thou most fatal of Pandora's train" "Loud rage the winds without. --The wintry cloud"To a Friend in DistressChristmas DayNelsoni MorsEpigram on Robert BloomfieldElegy occasioned by the Death of Mr. Gill, who was drowned in the River Trent, while bathingInscription for a Monument to the Memory of Cowper"I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad"Solitude"If far from me the Fates remove""Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie!"Fragments--"Saw'st thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and paused:" "The pious man" "Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray" "There was a little bird upon that pile;" "O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint" "O give me music--for my soul doth faint" "And must thou go, and must we part" "Ah! who can say, however fair his view, " "Hush'd is the lyre--the hand that swept" "When high romance o'er every wood and stream" "Once more, and yet once more, "Fragment of an Eccentric DramaTo a FriendLines on reading the Poems of WartonFragment--"The western gale, "Commencement of a Poem on DespairThe Eve of DeathThanatosAthanatosMusicOn being confined to School one pleasant Morning in SpringTo ContemplationMy own CharacterLines written in Wilford ChurchyardVerses--"Thou base repiner at another's joy, "Lines--"Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far"The Prostitute

ODES. 

To my LyreTo an early PrimroseOde addressed to H. Fuseli, Esq. R. A. To the Earl of Carlisle, K. G. To ContemplationTo the Genius of RomanceTo MidnightTo ThoughtGeniusFragment of an Ode to the MoonTo the MuseTo LoveOn Whit-MondayTo the Wind, at MidnightTo the Harvest MoonTo the Herb RosemaryTo the MorningOn DisappointmentOn the Death of Dermody the Poet

SONNETS. 

To the River TrentSonnet--"Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, "Sonnet supposed to have been addressed by a Female Lunatic to a LadySonnet supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody in a StormThe Winter TravellerSonnet--"Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays, "Recantatory, in Reply to the foregoing elegant AdmonitionOn hearing the Sounds of an Æolian HarpSonnet--"What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat?"To Capel Lofft, Esq. To the MoonWritten at the Grave of a FriendTo MisfortuneSonnet--"As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care, "To AprilSonnet--"Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies, "To a TaperTo my MotherSonnet--"Yes, 't will be over soon. This sickly dream"To ConsumptionSonnet--"Thy judgments, Lord, are just;"Sonnet--"When I sit musing on the chequer'd part"Sonnet--"Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile"Sonnet--"Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts"

BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS. 

GondolineA Ballad--"Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, "The Lullaby of a Female Convict to her Child, the Night previous to ExecutionThe Savoyard's ReturnA Pastoral SongMelody--"Yes, once more that dying strain"Additional Stanza to a Song by WallerThe Wandering BoyCanzonet--"Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee'"Song--"Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, "The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song to the NightThe Wonderful JugglerHymn--"Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake"A Hymn for Family WorshipThe Star of BethlehemHymn--"O Lord, my God, in mercy turn"

TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

Eulogy on Henry Kirke White, by Lord ByronSonnet on Henry Kirke White, by Capel LofftSonnet occasioned by the Second of H. K. White, by the sameWritten in the Homer of Mr. H. K. White, by the sameTo the Memory of H. K. White, by the Rev. W. B. Collyer, A. M. Sonnet to H. K. White, on his Poems, by Arthur Owen, Esq. Sonnet, on seeing another written to H. K. White, by the sameReflections on Reading the Life of the late H. K. White, by William HollowayOn the Death of Henry Kirke White, by T. ParkLines on the Death of Henry Kirke White, by the Rev. J. PlumptreTo Henry Kirke White, by H. WelkerVerses occasioned by the Death of H. K. White, by Josiah ConderOn Reading H. K. White's Poem on Solitude, by the sameOde on the late Henry Kirke White, by JuvenisSonnet in Memory of Henry Kirke White, by J. G. Lines on the Death of Henry Kirke WhiteSonnet to H. K. White, on his Poems, by G. L. C. To the Memory of Henry Kirke White, by a LadyStanzas supposed to have been written at the Grave of Henry Kirke White, by a Lady

MEMOIR OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY SIR HARRIS NICOLAS. 

 Thine, Henry, is a deathless name on earth, Thine amaranthine wreaths, new pluck'd in Heaven! By what aspiring child of mortal birth Could more be ask'd, to whom might more be given TOWNSEND. 

It has been said that the contrasts of light and shade are asnecessary to biography as to painting, and that the characterwhich is radiant with genius and virtue requires to be relievedby more common and opposite qualities. Though this may be trueas a principle, there are many exceptions; and the life of HenryKirke White, whose merits were unalloyed by a single vice, is oneof the most memorable. The history of his short and melancholycareer, by Mr. Southey, is extremely popular; and when it isremembered that its author is one of the most distinguished ofliving writers, that as a biographer he is unrivalled, and thathe had access to all the materials which exist, it would be asvain to expect from the present Memoir any new facts, as it wouldbe absurd to hope that it will be more worthy of attention thanthe imperishable monument which his generous friend has erectedto his memory. 

There is, however, nothing inconsistent with this admission, inpresuming that a Life of the Poet might be written almost asinteresting as the one alluded to, and without the writer assumingto himself any unusual sagacity. As Mr. Southey's narrative isprefixed to a collection of all Kirke White's remains, in prose aswell as in verse, his letters are inserted as part of his works, instead of extracts from them being introduced into the Memoir. This volume will, on the contrary, be confined to his Poems; andsuch parts of his letters as describe his situation and feelingsat particular periods will be introduced into the account of hislife. Indeed, so frequent are the allusions to himself in thoseletters as well as in his poems, that he may be almost consideredan autobiographer; and the writer who substitutes his own cold andlifeless sketch for the glowing and animated portrait which thesememorials of genius afford, must either be deficient in skill, orbe under the dominion of overweening vanity. 

Few who have risen to eminence were, on the paternal side atleast, of humbler origin than Henry Kirke White. His father, JohnWhite, was a butcher at Nottingham; but his mother, who bore theillustrious name of Neville, is said to have belonged to arespectable family in Staffordshire. He was born at Nottingham onthe 21st of March, 1785; and in his earliest years indicationswere observed of the genius for which he was afterwardsdistinguished. In his poem "Childhood, " he has graphicallydescribed the little school where, between the age of three andfive, he

 "enter'd, though with toil and pain, The low vestibule of learning's fane. "

The venerable dame by whom he was

 "inured to alphabetic toils, "

and whose worth he gratefully commemorates, had the discernmentto perceive her charge's talents, and even foretold his futurecelebrity:

 "And, as she gave my diligence its praise, Talk'd of the honour of my future days. "

If he did not deceive himself, it was at this period that hisimagination became susceptible of poetic associations. Speakingof the eagerness with which he left the usual sports of childrento listen to tales of imaginary woe, and of the effect which theyproduced, he says, "Beloved moment! then 't was first I caught The first foundation of romantic thought; Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, Then first that Poesy charm'd mine infant ear. Soon stored with much of legendary lore, The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more; Far from the scene of gaiety and noise, Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, I hied me to the thick o'erarching shade, And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid; While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, The days of wild romance antique I'd scan; Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. "

The peculiar disposition of his mind, having thus early displayeditself, every day added to its force. Study and abstraction were hisgreatest pleasures, and a love of reading became his predominantpassion. "I could fancy, " said his eldest sister, "I see him in hislittle chair with a large book upon his knee, and my mother calling, 'Henry, my love, come to dinner, ' which was repeated so oftenwithout being regarded, that she was obliged to change the tone ofher voice before she could rouse him. "

At the age of six he was placed under the care of the Rev. JohnBlanchard, who kept the best school in Nottingham, where he learntwriting, arithmetic, and French; and he continued there forseveral years. During that time two facts are related of him whichprove the precocity of his talents. When about seven, he wasaccustomed to go secretly into his father's kitchen and teach theservant to read and write; and he composed a tale of a Swissemigrant, which he gave her, being too diffident to show it to hismother. In his eleventh year he wrote a separate theme for each ofthe twelve or fourteen boys in his class; and the excellence ofthe various pieces obtained his master's applause. 

Henry was destined for his father's trade, and the efforts of hismother to change that intention were for some time fruitless. Evenwhile he was at school, one day in every week, and his leisurehours on the others, were employed in carrying meat to his father'scustomers; but a dispute between his father and his master havingcaused him to be removed from school, one of the ushers, frommalice or ignorance, told his mother that it was impossible to makeher son do any thing. The person who reported so unfavourably ofhis abilities, little knew that he had then given ample evidence ofhis talents, in some poetical satires which his treatment at schoolhad provoked, but which he afterwards destroyed. 

Soon after he quitted Mr. Blanchard's school he was intrusted toMr. Shipley, who discovered his pupil's abilities, and relievedhis friends' uneasiness on the subject. His earliest productionthat has been preserved was written in his thirteenth year, "Onbeing confined to School one pleasant Morning in Spring, " in whicha schoolboy's love of liberty, and his envy of the freedom of aneighbouring wren, are expressed with plaintive simplicity. 

About this time a slight improvement took place in his situation. His mother, to whom he was indebted for all the happiness of hischildhood, opened a day school, and, as it abstracted her from thegroveling cares of a butcher's shop, his home was made much morecomfortable; and, instead of being confined to his father'sbusiness, he was placed in a stocking loom, with the view ofbringing him up to the trade of a hosier, the poverty of hisfamily still precluding the hope of a profession. 

It may easily be believed that this occupation ill agreed with theaspirations of his mind. From his mother he had few secrets, and inher ear he breathed his disgust and unhappiness. "He could not bear, "he said, "the idea of spending some years of his life in shiningand folding up stockings;" he wanted "something to occupy his brain, and he should be wretched if he continued longer at this trade, orindeed in any thing, except one of the learned professions. " For ayear these remonstrances were ineffectual; but no persuasions, evenwhen urged with maternal tenderness, could reconcile him to his lot. He sought for consolation with the Muses, and wrote an "Address toContemplation, " in which he describes his feelings:

 "Why along The dusky track of commerce should I toil, When, with an easy competence content, I can alone be happy; where, with thee, I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, And loose the wings of fancy! Thus alone Can I partake of happiness on earth; And to be happy here is man's chief end, For to be happy he must needs be good. "

There are few obstacles that perseverance will not overcome; andpenury and a parent's obstinacy were both surmounted by KirkeWhite's importunity. Finding it useless to chain him longer to thehosier's loom, he was placed in the office of Messrs. Coldham andEnfield, Town Clerk and attorneys of Nottingham, some time in May, 1799, when he was in his fifteenth year; but as a premium couldnot be given with him, it was agreed that he should serve twoyears before he was articled. A few months after he entered uponhis new employment, he began a correspondence with his brother, Mr. Neville White, who was then a medical student in London; andin a letter, dated in September, 1799, he thus spoke of hissituation and prospects:

"It is now nearly four months since I entered into Mr. Coldham'soffice; and it is with pleasure I can assure you, that I never yetfound any thing disagreeable, but, on the contrary, every thing Ido seems a pleasure to me, and for a very obvious reason, --it is abusiness which I like--a business which I chose before all others;and I have two good-tempered, easy masters, but who will, nevertheless, see that their business is done in a neat and propermanner. "--"A man that understands the law is sure to have business;and in case I have no thoughts, in case, that is, that I do notaspire to hold the honourable place of a barrister, I shall feelsure of gaining a genteel livelihood at the business to which I amarticled. "

At the suggestion of his employers, he devoted the greater part ofhis leisure to Latin; and, though he was but slightly assisted, hewas able in ten months to read Horace with tolerable facility, andhad made some progress in Greek. Having but little time for thesepursuits, he accustomed himself to decline the Greek nouns andverbs during his walks to and from the office, and he therebyacquired a habit of studying while walking, that never desertedhim. The account which Mr. Southey has given of his application, and of the success that attended it, is astonishing. Though livingwith his family, he nearly estranged himself from their society. At meals, and during the evenings, a book was constantly in hishands; and as he refused to sup with them, to prevent any loss oftime, his meal was sent to him in his little apartment. Law, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, chemistry, astronomy, electricity, drawing, music, and mechanics, by turnsengaged his attention; and though his acquirements in some ofthose studies were very superficial, his proficiency in many ofthem was far from contemptible. His papers on law evince so muchindustry, that had that subject alone occupied his leisure hours, his diligence would have been commendable. He was a tolerableItalian scholar, and in the classics he afterwards attainedreputation; but of the sciences and of Spanish and Portuguese, hisknowledge was not, it may be inferred, very great. His ear formusic was good, and his passionate attachment to it is placedbeyond a doubt by his verses on its effects:

 "With her in pensive mood I long to roam At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, In calm Seclusion's hermit-walks recline:"

But he checked his ardour, lest it might interfere with moreessential studies: and his musical attainments were limited toplaying pleasingly on the piano, composing the bass to the airat the same time. 

Ambition was one of the most powerful feelings of his nature, andit is rare indeed, when it is not the companion of great talents. It developed itself first in spurning trade; and no sooner did hefind himself likely to become an attorney, than he aspired to thebar. But his earliest and strongest passion was for literarydistinction; and he was scarcely removed from the trammels ofschool, before he sought admission into a literary society, in hisnative town. His extreme youth rendered him objectionable; but, after repeated refusals, he at last succeeded. In the associationthere were six professors, and being, on the first vacancy, appointed to the chair of literature, he soon justified thechoice. Taking "genius" as his theme, he addressed the assembly inan extemporaneous lecture of two hours and three-quarters duration, with so much success, that the audience unanimously voted himtheir thanks, declaring that "the society had never heard a betterlecture delivered from the chair which he so much honoured. " Tojudge properly of this circumstance, it would be necessary toknow of whom the society was composed; but with so flattering atestimony to his abilities, the sanguine boy naturally placed ahigh estimate on them. 

The establishment of a Magazine called the Monthly Preceptor, which proposed prize themes for young persons, afforded KirkeWhite an opportunity of trying his literary powers. In a letterwritten in June, 1800, to his brother, speaking of that work hesays, "I am noticed as worthy of commendation, and as affordingan encouraging prospect of future excellence. You will laugh. Ihave also turned poet, and have translated an Ode of Horace intoEnglish verse. " His productions gained him several of the prizes;and he soon afterwards became a contributor to the Monthly Mirror, his compositions in which attracted the attention of Mr. Hill, theproprietor of the work, and of Mr. Capel Lofft, a gentleman whodistinguished himself by his patronage of Bloomfield. 

Though on entering an attorney's office the bar was the object ofhis hopes, a constitutional deafness soon convinced him that hewas not adapted for the duties of an advocate; and his thoughts, from conscientious motives, became directed to the Church. 

When about fifteen, his mind was agitated by doubt and anxiety onthe most important of all subjects; and the chaos of opinionswhich extensive and miscellaneous reading so often produces onardent and imaginative temperaments, is well described in hislittle poem entitled, "My own Character, " wherein he representshimself as a prey to the most opposite impressions, and as beingin a miserable state of incertitude:

 "First I premise it's my honest conviction, That my breast is the chaos of all contradiction, Religious--deistic--now loyal and warm, Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform; * * * * * Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay, To all points of the compass I veer in a day. "

In this sketch there is evidently much truth; and it affords astriking idea of a plastic and active mind, on which every thingmakes an impression, where one idea follows another in such rapidsuccession, that the former is not so entirely removed, but thatsome remains of it are amalgamated with its successor. A youthwhose intellect is thus tossed in a whirlpool of conflictingspeculations, resembles a goodly ship newly launched, which, untilproperly steadied by ballast, reels from side to side, the sportof every undulation of the waters. 

About this time young White's religious feelings were stronglyaffected by the conversion of his friend, Mr. Almond, whoseopinions were previously as unsettled as his own. To escape theraillery with which he expected White would assail him on learningthe change in his sentiments, Almond avoided his society; and whenhis friend offered to defend his opinions, if Henry would allowthe divine originality of the Bible, he exclaimed, "Good God! yousurely regard me in a worse light than I deserve. " The discussionthat followed, and the perusal of Scott's "Force of Truth, " whichAlmond placed in his hands, induced him to direct his attentionseriously to the subject; but an affecting incident soon afterwardsshowed how deeply he was then influenced by religious considerations. On the evening before Mr. Almond left Nottingham for Cambridge, hewas requested by White to accompany him to his apartment. The momentthey entered, Henry burst into tears, declaring that his anguish ofmind was insupportable; and he entreated Almond to kneel and prayfor him. Their tears and supplications were cordially mingled, andwhen they were about to separate, White said, "What must I do? Youare the only friend to whom I can apply in this agonizing state, and you are about to leave me. My literary associates are allinclined to deism. I have no one with whom I can communicate. "

It is instructive to learn to what circumstance such a person asKirke White was indebted for the knowledge "which causes not toerr. " This information occurs in a letter from him to a Mr. Booth, in August, 1801; and it also fixes the date of the happy changethat influenced every thought and every action of his future life, which gave the energy of virtue to his exertions, soothed theasperities of a temper naturally impetuous and irritable, andenabled him, at a period when manhood is full of hope and promise, to view the approaches of death with the calmness of a philosopher, and the resignation of a saint. 

After thanking Mr. Booth for the present of Jones's work on theTrinity, he thus describes his religious impressions previous toits perusal, and the effect it produced:

"Religious polemics, indeed, have seldom formed a part of mystudies; though whenever I happened accidentally to turn mythoughts to the subject of the Protestant doctrine of the Godhead, and compared it with Arian and Socinian, many doubts interfered, and I even began to think that the more nicely the subject wasinvestigated, the more perplexed it would appear, and was on thepoint of forming a resolution to go to heaven in my own way, without meddling or involving myself in the inextricable labyrinthof controversial dispute, when I received and perused thisexcellent treatise, which finally cleared up the mists which myignorance had conjured around me, and clearly pointed out the realtruth. "

From the moment he became convinced of the truths of Christianity, all the enthusiasm of his nature was kindled. The ministry only, was deemed worthy of his ambition; and he devoted his thoughts tothe sacred office with a zeal that justified a hope of the richestfruits. In a letter to his friend, Mr. Almond, in November, 1803, he says, "My dear friend, I cannot adequately express what I owe to you onthe score of religion. I told Mr. Robinson you were the firstinstrument of my being brought to think deeply on religioussubjects; and I feel more and more every day, that if it had notbeen for you, I might, most probably, have been now buried in apathyand unconcern. Though I am in a great measure blessed, --I meanblessed with faith, now pretty steadfast, and heavy convictions, I am far from being happy. My sins have been of a dark hue, andmanifold: I have made Fame my God, and Ambition my shrine. I haveplaced all my hopes on the things of this world. I have knelt toDagon; I have worshipped the evil creations of my own proud heart, and God had well nigh turned his countenance from me in wrath;perhaps one step further, and he might have shut me for ever fromhis rest. I now turn my eyes to Jesus, my Saviour, my atonement, with hope and confidence: he will not repulse the imploringpenitent; his arms are open to all, they are open even to me; andin return for such a mercy, what can I do less than dedicate mywhole life to his service? My thoughts would fain recur atintervals to my former delights; but I am now on my guard torestrain and keep them in. I know now where they ought toconcentre, and with the blessing of God, they shall there all tend. 

"My next publication of poems will be solely religious. I shallnot destroy those of a different nature, which now lie before me;but they will, most probably, sleep in my desk, until, in the goodtime of my great Lord and Master, I shall receive my passport fromthis world of vanity. I am now bent on a higher errand than thatof the attainment of poetical fame; poetry, in future, will be myrelaxation, not my employment. --Adieu to literary ambition! 'Youdo not aspire to be prime minister, ' said Mr. Robinson; 'you coveta far higher character--to be the humblest among those whominister to their Maker. '"

To the arguments of his friends on the impolicy of quitting aprofession to which he had given so much of his time, and on theobstacles to the attainment of his wishes, he was impenetrable. His employers generously offered to cancel his articles as soon ashe could show that his resources were likely to support him at theUniversity. Friends arose as they became necessary, and more thanone or two persons exerted themselves to promote his views; buthis principal reliance was on the sale of a little volume ofPoems, which, at the suggestion of Mr. Capel Lofft, he preparedfor the press. 

The history of an author's first book is always interesting, andKirke White's was attended with unusual incidents. A novice inliterature often imagines that it is important his work should bededicated to some person of rank; and the Countess of Derby wasapplied to, who declined, on the ground that she never accepted acompliment of that nature. He then addressed the Duchess ofDevonshire; and a letter, with the manuscript, was left at herhouse. The difficulty of obtaining access to her Grace proved sogreat, that more than one letter to his brother was written on thesubject, in which he indignantly says, "I am cured of patronagehunting; as for begging patronage, I am tired to the soul of it, and shall give it up. " Permission to inscribe the book to theDuchess was at length granted: the book came out in 1803; and acopy was transmitted to her, of which, however, no notice whateverwas taken. 

On the publication of the volume, a copy was sent to each Review, with a letter deprecatory of the severity of criticism, an act asill judged as it was useless, since all that a young writer couldproperly say was to be found in the preface, in which he statedthat his inducement to publish was, "the facilitation through itsmeans of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have beenthe principal objects of his ambition, and the increase of thecapacity to pursue these inclinations, which may one day place himin an honourable station in the scale of society. "

His feelings received a severe wound from the notice of his Poemsin the Monthly Review, the writer of which, not satisfied with sayingthat the production did not "justify any sanguine expectations, "selected four of the worst lines in support of his opinion, andshowed himself insensible of the numerous beauties scatteredthrough the various pieces. Writing to a friend soon afterwards, he thus spoke of himself; and more mental wretchedness has seldombeen described:

"I am at present under afflictions and contentions of spirit, heavier than I have yet ever experienced. I think, at times, I ammad, and destitute of religion; my pride is not yet subdued: theunfavourable review (in the 'Monthly') of my unhappy work, has cutdeeper than you could have thought; not in a literary point ofview, but as it affects my respectability. It represents me actuallyas a beggar, going about gathering money to put myself at college, when my book is worthless; and this with every appearance of candour. They have been sadly misinformed respecting me: this review goesbefore me wherever I turn my steps; it haunts me incessantly, andI am persuaded it is an instrument in the hand of Satan to drive meto distraction. I must leave Nottingham. If the answer of the EllandSociety be unfavourable, I purpose writing to the Marquis ofWellesley, to offer myself as a student at the academy he hasinstituted at Fort William, in Bengal, and at the proper age to takeorders there. The missionaries at that place have done wondersalready; and I should, I hope, be a valuable labourer in thevineyard. If the Marquis take no notice of my application, or donot accede to my proposal, I shall place myself in some other wayof making a meet preparation for the holy office, either in theCalvinistic Academy, or in one of the Scotch Universities, where Ishall be able to live at scarcely any expense. "

The criticism just adverted to was as unfeeling as unjust; and butfor the generous conduct of a distinguished living poet, whosebenevolence of heart is equal to his genius, it might have entirelycrushed his hopes. Disgusted at the injustice of this criticism, Mr. Southey instantly wrote to White, expressing his opinion of themerits of his book, and giving him the encouragement and advicewhich none was ever more ready or more able to bestow. Thus, an actof cruel folly proved in its consequences the most beneficial ofthe Poet's life. His spirits were invigorated by this consideratekindness, and his feelings were expressed in glowing terms:

"I dare not say all I feel respecting your opinion of my littlevolume. The extreme acrimony with which the Monthly Review (of allothers the most important) treated me, threw me into a state ofstupefaction. I regarded all that had passed as a dream, and Ithought I had been deluding myself into an idea of possessingpoetic genius, when, in fact, I had only the longing, without the_afflatus. _ I mustered resolution enough, however, to writespiritedly to them: their answer, in the ensuing number, was atacit acknowledgment that they had been somewhat too unsparing intheir correction. It was a poor attempt to salve over a woundwantonly and most ungenerously inflicted. Still I was damped, because I knew the work was very respectable; and therefore couldnot, I concluded, give a criticism grossly deficient in equity, the more especially, as I knew of no sort of inducement toextraordinary severity. Your letter, however, has revived me, andI do again venture to hope that I may still produce somethingwhich will survive me. With regard to your advice and offers ofassistance, I will not attempt, because I am unable, to thank youfor them. To-morrow morning I depart for Cambridge; and I haveconsiderable hopes that, as I do not enter into the Universitywith any sinister or interested views, but sincerely desire toperform the duties of an affectionate and vigilant pastor, andbecome more useful to mankind; I therefore have hopes, I say, thatI shall find means of support in the University. If I do not, Ishall certainly act in pursuance of your recommendations; andshall, without hesitation, avail myself of your offers of service, and of your directions. In a short time this will be determined;and when it is, I shall take the liberty of writing to you atKeswick, to make you acquainted with the result. I have only oneobjection to publishing by subscription, and I confess it hasweight with me; it is, that, in this step, I shall seem to beacting upon the advice so unfeelingly and contumeliously given bythe Monthly Reviewers, who say what is equal to this, that had Igotten a subscription for my poems before their merit was known, Imight have succeeded; provided, it seems, I had made a particularstatement of my case; like a beggar who stands with his hat in onehand, and a full account of his cruel treatment on the coast ofBarbary in the other, and so gives you his penny sheet for yoursixpence, by way of half purchase, half charity. I have materialsfor another volume; but they were written principally whileClifton Grove was in the press, or soon after, and do not now atall satisfy me. Indeed, of late, I have been obliged to desist, almost entirely, from converse with the dames of Helicon. Thedrudgery of an attorney's office, and the necessity of preparingmyself, in case I should succeed in getting to college, in whatlittle leisure I could boast, left no room for the flights of theimagination. "

As soon as there were reasonable hopes of an adequate supportbeing obtained for him at Cambridge, he went to the village ofWilford, for a month, to recruit his health, on which intenseapplication had made great inroads. Near this place were CliftonWoods, the subject of one of his Poems, and which had long beenhis favourite resort. Here he fully indulged in that love of thebeauties of nature, which forms a leading trait in the Poeticcharacter: and on this occasion he gave full reins to thosereveries of the imagination, of the delight of which a Poet onlyis sensible. His lines on Wilford Church Yard show the melancholytone of his mind; and those Verses, as well as his "Ode toDisappointment, " of which no praise would be too extravagant, appear to have been written, on learning from his mother, beforehe left Wilford, that the efforts made to place him at Cambridgehad failed. It was evidently to this circumstance, which for thetime blighted his aspirations, that he alluded, when he says hewas, "From Hope's summit hurl'd. "

His remark to his mother on this occasion evinced, nevertheless, great energy of mind. His complaints were confined to verse, forthe disappointment had no other effect upon his conduct than toinduce him to apply to his studies with unprecedented vigour, that, since he was to revert to the law as a profession, he mightnot be, as he observed, "a _mediocre_ attorney. " He read regularlyfrom five in the morning until some time after midnight, andoccasionally passed whole nights without lying down; and theentreaties, even when accompanied by the tears of his mother, that he would not thus destroy his health, did not induce him torelax his zeal. 

Symptoms of consumption, the disease to which he ultimately becamea victim, and which he designates, in one of his many allusions toit, as

 "The most fatal of Pandora's train, "

began now to excite the anxiety of his family. Illness was, however, forgotten in the realization of the hope dearest to his heart. Theexertions of his friends proved successful at a time when allexpectations had vanished; and by their united efforts it wasresolved that he should become a sizer of St. John's College, Cambridge, his brother Neville, his mother, and a benevolentindividual, whose name is not mentioned, having agreed to contributeto support him. It appears, that if he had not succeeded in thatobject, he intended to have joined the society of orthodox dissenters, for which purpose he underwent an examination. Though his attainmentsand character proved satisfactory on that occasion, his volume ofPoems rose in judgment against him, and nothing but the approbationMr. Southey had expressed of them prevented his work from beingconsidered a disqualification for the ministry. His feelings onthe prospect of entering the Church are described with great forcein his letter, dated in April, 1804. 

"Most fervently do I return thanks to God for this providentialopening: it has breathed new animation into me, and my breastexpands with the prospect of becoming the minister of Christ whereI most desired it; but where I almost feared all probability ofsuccess was nearly at an end. Indeed, I had begun to turn mythoughts to the dissenters, as people of whom I was destined, notby choice, but necessity, to become the pastor. Still, although Iknew I should be happy anywhere, so that I were a profitablelabourer in the vineyard, I did, by no means, feel that calm, thatindescribable satisfaction which I do when I look toward thatChurch, which I think in the main formed on the apostolic model, and from which I am decidedly of opinion there is no positivegrounds for dissent. I return thanks to God for keeping me so long in suspense, for I know it has been beneficial to my soul, and Ifeel a considerable trust that the way is now about to be madeclear, and that my doubts and fears on this head will, in duetime, be removed. "

Being advised to degrade for a year, and to place himself with aprivate tutor, he went to the Rev. Mr. Grainger of Winteringham, in Lincolnshire, in the autumn of 1804. While under that gentleman'scare he studied with such intense fervour, that fears were excitednot for his health only, but for his intellect; and a second severeattack of illness was the consequence. Poetry was now laid aside, and as he himself told a friend in February, 1805, "My poor neglected Muse has lain absolutely unnoticed by me forthe last four months, during which period I have been digging inthe mines of Scapula for Greek roots, and instead of drinking witheager delight the beauties of Virgil have been culling and dryinghis phrases for future use. "--"I fear my good genius, who waswont to visit me with nightly visions in woods and brakes and bythe river's marge, is now dying of a fen ague, and I shall thusprobably emerge from my retreat not a hair-brained son ofimagination, but a sedate black-lettered book worm, with a headlike an etymologicon magnum. "

To Mr. Capel Lofft, in the September following, after stating thatall his time was employed in preparing himself for orders, hisestimate of the necessary qualifications being, very high, heobserved:

"I often, however, cast a look of fond regret to the darlingoccupations of my younger hours, and the tears rush into my eyes, as I fancy I see the few wild flowers of poetic genius, with whichI have been blessed, withering with neglect. Poetry has been to mesomething more than amusement; it has been a cheering companionwhen I have had no other to fly to, and a delightful solace whenconsolation has been in some measure needful. I cannot, therefore, discard so old and faithful a friend without deep regret, especially when I reflect that, stung by my ingratitude, he maydesert me for ever!"

But the old fire was, he adds, rekindled by looking over some ofhis pieces which Mr. Lofft wished to print; and he transmitted tothat gentleman a short Poem, expressive of his sorrow at takingleave of his favourite pursuit. The following passages could onlyhave arisen from a love of Poetry, which it was not in the powerof severer studies to extinguish:

 Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased To hover o'er the many voiced strings Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, And with recalled images of bliss Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw, Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased, It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy! The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month, Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress! I cannot burst thy bonds!

In October, 1805, Kirke White became a resident member of St. John's College, Cambridge; and such was the use he had made of histime at Winteringham, that he was distinguished for his classicalknowledge. But he had dearly purchased his superiority. Hisconstitution was much shattered when he went to Mr. Grainger, andevery day brought with it new proofs that his career had nearlyreached its bounds. The only chance of prolonging his life was toseek a milder climate, and to abandon study entirely. As in allgreat minds, Fame was, however, dearer to him than existence. Hefelt that every thing connected with his future prospects was atstake; and he adhered to a course of rigorous application untilnature gave way. During his first term he became a candidate forone of the University scholarships; but the increased exertion heunderwent was attended by results that obliged him to retire fromthe contest. At this moment the general college examinationapproached, and thinking that if he failed his hopes would beblasted for ever, he taxed his energies to the uttermost, duringthe fortnight which intervened, to meet the trial. His illness, however, speedily returned; and, with tears in his eyes, heinformed his tutor, Mr. Catton, that he could not go into the Hallto be examined. That gentleman, whose kindness to the Poetentitles his name to respect, urged him to support himself duringthe six days of the examination. Powerful stimulants wereadministered, and he was pronounced the first man of his year. Thetriumph, complete and exhilarating as it was, too closelyresembled that of the generous steed, who, in distancing hiscompetitors, reaches the goal, and dies; and his own ideas of thesacrifices with which such an honour must be attended were verypoetical. He said to an intimate friend, almost the last time hesaw him, that were he to paint a picture of Fame crowning adistinguished under graduate after the senate house examination, he would represent her as concealing a death's head under a maskof beauty. 

Soon after this event, Kirke White went to London, and onChristmas Eve he wrote to his mother from town, stating that hishealth had been rather affected by study, that he came to Londonfor amusement, and that his tutor had, in the kindest manner, relieved his mind from pecuniary cares, and cheered him with theassurance that his talents would be rewarded by his College. Butit is from his letters to his friend that the real state to whichexcitement and labour had reduced him, is to be learnt, because, to allay the fears of his relations, he represented himself tothem, as being much better than he actually was:

London, Christmas, 1805. 

"I wrote you a letter, which now lies in my drawer at St. John's;but in such a weak state of body, and in so desponding andcomfortless a tone of mind, that I knew it would give you pain, and therefore I chose not to send it. I have indeed been ill; butthanks to God, I am recovered. My nerves were miserably shatteredby over application, and the absence of all that could amuse, andthe presence of many things which weighed heavy upon my spirits. When I found myself too ill to read, and too desponding to enduremy own reflections, I discovered that it is really a miserablething to be destitute of the soothing and supporting hand whennature most needs it. I wandered up and down from one man's roomto another, and from one College to another, imploring society, alittle conversation, and a little relief of the burden whichpressed upon my spirits; and I am sorry to say, that those who, when I was cheerful and lively, sought my society with avidity, now, when I actually needed conversation, were too busy to grantit. Our College examination was then approaching, and I perceivedwith anguish that I had read for the university scholarship untilI had barely time to get up our private subjects, and that as Iwas now too ill to read, all hope of getting through theexamination with decent respectability was at an end. This was anadditional grief. I went to our tutor, with tears in my eyes, andtold him I must absent myself from the examination, --a step whichwould have precluded me from a station amongst the prize-men untilthe second year. He earnestly entreated me to run the risk. Mysurgeon gave me strong stimulants and supporting medicines duringthe examination week; and I passed, I believe, one of the mostrespectable examinations amongst them. As soon as ever it wasover, I left Cambridge, by the advice of my surgeon and tutor, and I feel myself now pretty strong. I have given up the thoughtof sitting for the University scholarship, in consequence of myillness, as the course of my reading was effectually broken. Inthis place I have been much amused, and have been received with anattention in the literary circles which I neither expected nordeserved. But this does not affect me as it once would have done:my views are widely altered; and I hope that I shall in time learnto lay my whole heart at the foot of the cross. "

Early in January following he returned to Cambridge, andimprudently resumed his old habits of study, according to thefollowing plan: "Rise at half-past five; devotions and walk tillseven; chapel and breakfast till eight; study and lectures tillone; four and a half clear reading; walk, &c. And dinner, andWollaston, and chapel to six; six to nine reading, three hours;nine to ten devotions; bed at ten. " With him, however, exercisewas but slight relaxation, as his intellectual faculties were kepton the stretch during his walks, and he is known to have committedto memory a whole tragedy of Euripides in this manner, and as theywere not less exerted in his devotions, his mind must have beenintensely occupied for twelve or fourteen hours a day, at a momentwhen perfect quiet and rest were indispensable. Within a very fewweeks he paid a heavy penalty for his indiscretion. To his friend, Mr. Haddock, he wrote on the 17th of February, 1806:

"Do not think I am reading hard; I believe it is all over withthat. I have had a recurrence of my old complaint within this lastfour or five days, which has half unnerved me for every thing. Thestate of my health is really miserable; I am well and lively inthe morning, and overwhelmed with nervous horrors in the evening. I do not know how to proceed with regard to my studies:--a veryslight overstretch of the mind in the daytime occasions me notonly a sleepless night, but a night of gloom and horror. Thesystole and diastole of my heart seem to be playing at ball--thestake, my life. I can only say the game is not yet decided:--Iallude to the violence of the palpitation. I am going to mount theGog-magog hills this morning, in quest of a good night's sleep. The Gog-magog hills for my body, and the Bible for my mind, are myonly medicines. I am sorry to say, that neither are quiteadequate. Cui, igitur; dandum est vitio? Mihi prorsus. I hope, asthe summer comes, my spirits (which have been with the swallows, awinter's journey) will come with it. When my spirits are restored, my health will be restored:--the 'fons mali' lies there. Give meserenity and equability of mind, and all will be well. "

He, however, rallied again; but he seems to have been aware thathis end was not far distant, for in March he told his brother thatthough his stay at Cambridge, in the long vacation, was important, he intended to go to Nottingham for his health, and moreparticularly for his mother's sake; adding, "I shall be glad tomoor all my family in the harbour of religious trust, and in thecalm seas of religious peace. These concerns are apt at times toescape me; but they now press much upon my heart, and I think itis my first duty to see that my family are safe in the mostimportant of all affairs. "

In April, however, he drew a pleasing picture of his future life, in which his filial and paternal tenderness are conspicuous; buthe soon afterwards went to Nottingham; and in a letter to hisfriend Mr. Leeson, written from that town, on the 7th of April, he gave a very melancholy account of himself:

"It seems determined upon, by my mother, that I cannot be spared, since the time of my stay is so very short, and my health so veryuncertain. The people here can scarcely be persuaded that anything ails me; so well do I look; but occasional depressions, especially after any thing has occurred to occasion uneasiness, still harass me. My mind is of a very peculiar cast. I began tothink too early; and the indulgence of certain trains of thought, and too free an exercise of the imagination, have superinduced amorbid kind of sensibility; which is to the mind what excessiveirritability is to the body. Some circumstances occurred on myarrival at Nottingham, which gave me just cause for inquietudeand anxiety; the consequences were insomnia, and a relapse intocauseless dejections. It is my business now to curb theseirrational and immoderate affections, and, by accustoming myselfto sober thought and cool reasoning, to restrain these freaks andvagaries of the fancy, and redundancies of [Greek: melancholia]. When I am well, I cannot help entertaining a sort of contempt forthe weakness of mind which marks my indispositions. Titus whenwell, and Titus when ill, are two distinct persons. The man, whenin health, despises the man, when ill, for his weakness, and thelatter envies the former for his felicity. "

As his health declined his prospects seemed to brighten. He wasagain pronounced first at the great College examination; he wasone of the three best theme writers, whose merits were so nearlyequal that the examiners could not decide between them; and hewas a prize-man both in the mathematical and logical or generalexamination, and in Latin composition. His College offered him aprivate tutor at its expense, and Mr. Catton obtained exhibitionsfor him to the value of sixty-six pounds per annum, by which hewas enabled to give up the pecuniary assistance he had receivedfrom his friends. But even at this moment, when the world promisedso much, his situation was truly deplorable. The highest honoursof the University were supposed to be within his grasp, and theconviction that such was the general opinion, goaded him on to themost strenuous exertions when he was incapable of the slightest. This struggle between his mental and physical powers, was not, however, of long duration. In July he was seized with an attackthat threatened his life, and which he thus described in a letterto Mr. Maddock:

"Last Saturday morning I rose early, and got up some ratherabstruse problems in mechanics for my tutor, spent an hour withhim, between eight and nine got my breakfast, and read the GreekHistory (at breakfast) till ten, then sat down to decipher somelogarithm tables. I think I had not done any thing at them, whenI lost myself. At a quarter past eleven my laundress found mebleeding in four different places in my face and head, andinsensible. I got up and staggered about the room, and she, beingfrightened, ran away, and told my gyp to fetch a surgeon. Beforehe came I was sallying out with my flannel gown on, and myacademical gown over it; he made me put on my coat, and then Iwent to Mr. Farish's: he opened a vein, and my recollectionreturned. My own idea was, that I had fallen out of bed, and so Itold Mr. Farish at first; but I afterwards remembered that I hadbeen to Mr. Fiske, and breakfasted. Mr. Catton has insisted on myconsulting Sir Isaac Pennington, and the consequence is, that Iam to go through a course of blistering, &c. Which, after thebleeding, will leave me weak enough. 

"I am, however, very well, except as regards the doctors, andyesterday I drove into the country to Saffron Walden, in a gig. My tongue is in a bad condition, from a bite which I gave iteither in my fall, or in the moments of convulsion. My nose hasalso come badly off. I believe I fell against my reading desk. My other wounds are only rubs and scratches on the carpet. I amordered to remit my studies for a while, by the common advice bothof doctors and tutors. Dr. Pennington hopes to prevent anyrecurrence of the fit. He thinks it looks towards epilepsy, of thehorrors of which malady I have a very full and precise idea; and Ionly pray that God will spare me as respects my faculties, howeverelse it may seem good to him to afflict me. Were I my own master, I know how I should act; but I am tied here by bands which Icannot burst. I know that change of place is needful; but I mustnot indulge in the idea. The college must not pay my tutor fornothing. Dr. Pennington and Mr. Farish attribute the attack to atoo continued tension of the faculties. As I am much alone now, Inever get quite off study, and I think incessantly. I know naturewill not endure this. They both proposed my going home, but Mr. * *did not hint at it, although much concerned; and, indeed, I knowhome would be a bad place for me in my present situation. I lookround for a resting place, and I find none. Yet there is one, which I have long too, too much disregarded, and thither I mustnow betake myself. There are many situations worse than mine, andI have no business to complain. If these afflictions should drawthe bonds tighter which hold me to my Redeemer, it will be well. You may be assured that you have here a plain statement of my casein its true colours without any palliation. I am now well again, and have only to fear a relapse, which I shall do all I can toprevent, by a relaxation in study. I have now written too much. 

"I am, very sincerely yours, "H. K. WHITE. 

"P. S. I charge you, as you value my peace, not to let my friendshear, either directly or indirectly of my illness. "

A few weeks afterwards he again directed his mother's hopes to atranquil retreat for his family in his parsonage, but said nothingof his illness; and he told Mr. Haddock, in September, "I am perfectly well again, and have experienced no recurrence ofthe fit: my spirits, too, are better, and I read very moderately. I hope that God will be pleased to spare his rebellious child;this stroke has brought me nearer to Him; whom indeed have I formy comforter but Him? I am still reading, but with moderation, asI have been during the whole vacation, whatever you may persistin thinking. My heart turns with more fondness towards theconsolations of religion than it did, and in some degree I havefound consolation. "

But notwithstanding these flattering expressions, he appears tohave felt that he had but a short time to live; and it wasprobably about this period that he wrote his lines on the"Prospect of Death, " perhaps one of the most beautiful andaffecting compositions in our language:

 "On my bed, in wakeful restlessness, I turn me wearisome; while all around, All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness; I only wake to watch the sickly taper Which lights me to my tomb. --Yes, 'tis the hand Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals, Slow sapping the warm current of existence My moments now are few--the sand of life Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little, And the last fleeting particle will fall, Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate While meditate we may. * * * * * I hoped I should not leave The earth without a vestige; Fate decrees It shall be otherwise, and I submit. Henceforth, O world, no more of thy desires! No more of Hope! the wanton vagrant Hope; I abjure all. Now other cares engross me, And my tired soul, with emulative haste, Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven. "

On the 22nd of September he wrote to Mr. Charlesworth, and hisletter indicates the possession of higher spirits and moresanguine hopes, than almost any other in his correspondence. About the end of that month he went to London, on a visit to hisbrother Neville, but returned to College within a few weeks, in astate that precluded all chance of prolonging his existence; butstill he did not cease to hope, or rather sought to delude hisbrother into the belief that he should recover; for in a letteraddressed to him, which was found in his pocket after his decease, dated Saturday, 11th of October, he says, "I am safely arrived, and in College, but my illness has increasedupon me much. The cough continues, and is attended with a gooddeal of fever. I am under the care of Mr. Parish, and entertainvery little apprehension about the cough; but my over-exertionsin town have reduced me to a state of much debility; and, untilthe cough be gone, I cannot be permitted to take any strengtheningmedicines. This places me in an awkward predicament; but I thinkI perceive a degree of expectoration this morning, which will soonrelieve me, and then I shall mend apace. Under these circumstancesI must not expect to see you here at present; when I am a littlerecovered, it will be a pleasant relaxation to me. Our lecturesbegan on Friday, but I do not attend them until I am better. Ihave not written to my mother, nor shall I while I remain unwell. You will tell her, as a reason, that our lectures began on Friday. I know she will be uneasy if she do not hear from me, and stillmore so, if I tell her I am ill. 

"I cannot write more at present than that I am

"Your truly affectionate Brother, "H. K. WHITE. "

A friend acquainted his brother with his situation, who hastenedto him; but when he arrived he was delirious, and though reasonreturned for a few moments, as if to bless him with theconsciousness that the same fond relative, to whose attachmenthe owed so much, was present at his last hour, he sunk into astupor, and on Sunday, the 19th of October, 1806, he breathedhis last. 

Thus died, in his twenty-second year, Henry Kirke White, whosegenius and virtues justified the brightest hopes, and whosefitness for Heaven does not bring the consolation for his untimelyfate which perhaps it ought. It is impossible to refrain fromanticipating what his talents might have produced, had hisexistence been extended; and though it is extremely doubtful if hewere capable of worldly happiness, there is a selfishness in ournature which makes us grieve when those who are likely to increaseour intellectual pleasures are hurried to the grave. 

In whatever light the character of this unhappy youth becontemplated, it is full of instruction. His talents were unusuallyprecocious, and their variety was as astonishing as their extent. Besides the Poetical pieces in this volume, and his scholasticattainments, his ability was manifested in various other ways. His style was remarkable for its clearness and elegance, and hiscorrespondence and prose pieces show extensive information. Togreat genius and capacity, he united the rarest and more importantgifts of sound judgment and common sense. It is usually themisfortune of genius to invest ordinary objects with a meretriciouscolouring, that perverts their forms and purposes, to make itspossessor imagine that it exempts him from attending to thosestrict rules of moral conduct to which others are bound to adhere, and to render him neglectful of the sacred assurance that "to whommuch is given from him will much be required. " Nature, in KirkeWhite's case, appears, on the contrary, to have determined thatshe would, in one instance at least, prove that high intellectualattainments are strictly compatible with every social and moralvirtue. At a very early period of his life, religion became thepredominant feeling of his mind, and she imparted her sober andchastened effects to all his thoughts and actions. The cherishedobject of every member of his family, he repaid their affection bythe most anxious solicitude for their welfare, offering his adviceon spiritual affairs with impressive earnestness, and indicating, in every letter of his voluminous correspondence, the greatestconsideration for their feelings and happiness. For the last sixyears he deemed himself marked out for the service of his Maker, not like the member of a convent, whose duties consist only inprayer, but in the exercise of that philanthropy and practicalbenevolence which ought to adorn every parish priest. To qualifyhimself properly for the holy office, he subjected his mind to theseverest discipline; and his letters display a rational piety, andan enlightened view of religious obligations, that confer muchgreater honour upon his name, than his Poetical pieces, whether asproofs of talent, or of the qualities of his heart. 

Such was Henry Kirke White as he appeared to others; but there areminuter traits of character which no observer can catch, and whichthe possessor must himself delineate. Though early impressed withmelancholy, it was not of a misanthropic nature; and while despairand disappointment were preying on his heart, he was all sweetnessand docility to others. A consciousness of the possession ofabilities, and of being capable of better things than those whichhe seemed destined to perform, gives to some of his productions theappearance of discontent, and of having overrated his pretensions. He was, like many youthful Poets, too fond of complaining offortune, of supposing himself neglected, and of comparing hishumble lot with those situations for which he believed himselfqualified; but these were the lucubrations of his earliest years, before he found friends to foster his talents. So far, indeed, from having reason to lament the indifference of others to hismerits, his life affords one of the most striking examples in thehistory of genius, that talents when united to moral worth, will berewarded by honours and fame, that obscure birth is no impedimentto advancement, and that a person of the humblest origin may, byhis own exertions, become, in the great arena of learning, anobject of envy even to those of the highest rank. It is due to him, whose good sense was so remarkable, to point out the time in hiscareer to which the passages in question refer; and to add that hiscorrespondence, after he entered the University, expressed nothingbut satisfaction with his lot, and a desire to justify the kindnessand expectations of his patrons. Still, Kirke White was unhappy;and, since no other cause then existed for his mental wretchedness, it must be ascribed to a morbid temperament, induced partly by illhealth, and partly by constitutional infirmity. The uncertainty ofhis early prospects, and the fear of ridicule if he expressed hisfeelings, rendered him reserved, and made him confine his thoughtsto his own bosom, for he says, "When all was new, and life was in its spring, I lived an unloved solitary thing; E'en then I learn'd to bury deep from day The piercing cares that wore my youth away;"

and in a letter to Mr. Maddock, in September, 1804, he thus spokeof himself:

"Perhaps it may be that I am not formed for friendship, that Iexpect more than can ever be found. Time will tutor me; I am asingular being under a common outside: I am a profound dissemblerof my inward feelings, and necessity has taught me the art. I amlong before I can unbosom to a friend, yet, I think, I am sincerein my friendship: you must not attribute this to any suspiciousnessof nature, but must consider that I lived seventeen years my ownconfidant, my own friend, full of projects and strange thoughts, and confiding them to no one. I am habitually reserved, andhabitually cautious in letting it be seen that I hide any thing. "

None knew better than himself that the aspirations and feelings ofwhich genius is the parent are often found to be inconsistent withfelicity:

 "Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, His melancholy moan, He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, Pangs that his sensibility uprouse To curse his being and his thirst for praise. Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn; And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel, His high indignant pride. "

Nor was he unconscious that the toils necessary to secure literarydistinction, when endured by a shattered frame, are in the highestdegree severe. How much truth and feeling are there in the Lineswhich he wrote after spending a whole night in study, an hour whenreligious impressions force themselves with irresistible weight onthe exhausted mind:

 "Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, How insignificant do all the joys, The gaudes, and honours of the world appear! How vain ambition!--Why has my wakeful lamp Out watch'd the slow-paced night?--Why on the page, The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd The hours devoted by the world to rest, And needful to recruit exhausted nature? Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay The loss of health? or can the hope of glory Lend a new throb unto my languid heart, Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye, Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?"

What a picture of mental suffering does the following passagepresent, and how impressive does it become when the fate of theauthor is remembered:

 "These feverish dews that on my temples hang, This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame; These, the dread signs of many a secret pang-- These are the meed of him who pants for Fame!"

Like so many other ardent students, the night was his favouritetime for reading; and, dangerous as the habit is to health, whatstudent will not agree in his descriptions of the pleasures thatattend it?

 "The night's my own, they cannot steal my night! When evening lights her folding star on high, I live and breathe; and, in the sacred hours Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies, Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven. "

Kirke White's poetry is popular, because it describes feelings, passions, and associations, which all have felt, and with whichall can sympathize. It is by no means rich in metaphor, nor doesit evince great powers of imagination; but it is pathetic, plaintive, and agreeable; and emanating directly from his ownheart, it appeals irresistibly to that of his reader. His meaningis always clear, and the force and vigour of his expressions areremarkable. In estimating his poetical powers, however, it shouldbe remembered, that nearly all his Poems were written before hewas nineteen; and that they are, in truth, but the germs of futureexcellence, and ought not to be criticized as if they were thefruits of an intellect on which time and education had bestowedtheir advantages. It is, however, in his prose works, andespecially in his correspondence, that the versatility of histalents, his acquirements, his piety, and his moral excellenceare most conspicuous. 

A question arises with respect to him which, in the history of ayoung Poet, is always interesting, but which Mr. Southey has nottouched. Abundance of proof exists in his writings of thesusceptibility of his heart; but it is not stated that he everformed an attachment. In many of his pieces he speaks withtenderness of a female whom he calls Fanny; and in one of them, from which it appears that she was dead, he expresses his regardin no equivocal manner; but there are other grounds for concludingthat his happiness was affected by disappointed affection. To hisfriend Mr. Maddock, in July, 1804, he observed:

"I shall never, never marry. It cannot, must not be. As toaffections, mine are already engaged as much as they ever willbe, and this is one reason why I believe my life will be a lifeof celibacy. I love too ardently to make love innocent, andtherefore I say farewell to it. "

With this passage one of his Sonnets singularly agrees:

 When I sit musing on the chequer'd past (A term much darken'd with untimely woes), My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows The tear, though half disowned; and binding fast Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, I say to her, she robb'd me of my rest, When that was all my wealth. 'T is true my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart; Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; Though wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love, For she was most unworthy. Then I prove Vindictive joy: and on my stern front gleams, Throned in dark clouds, inflexible.... The native pride of my much injured heart. 

Was the subject of this Sonnet wholly imaginary, or was there someunfortunate story which, for sufficient reasons, his biographershave suppressed? It is true, that in his letters, written ata much later period, he speaks of marriage in a manner not tobe reconciled with the idea that he was then suffering fromrecollections of that description; but he may, in the interval oftwo years, have partially recovered from his loss. 

Kirke White was buried in the Church of All Saints, Cambridge, butno monument was erected to him until a liberal minded American, Mr. Francis Boott, of Boston, placed a tablet to his memory, witha medallion, by Chantrey, with the following inscription, byProfessor Smyth, one of his numerous friends:

 "Warm'd with fond hope and learning's sacred flame, To Granta's bowers the youthful Poet came; Unconquer'd powers the immortal mind display'd, But worn with anxious thought, the frame decay'd: Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retired, The martyr student faded and expired. Oh! genius, taste, and piety sincere, Too early lost 'midst studies too severe! Foremost to mourn, was generous Southey seen, He told the tale, and show'd what White had been, Nor told in vain. For o'er the Atlantic wave A wanderer came, and sought the Poet's grave; On yon low stone he saw his lonely name, And raised this fond memorial to his fame. "

POEMS. 

_CLIFTON GROVE. _

_DEDICATION. _

_To Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire, the following triflingeffusions of a very youthful Muse are, by permission, dedicatedby her Grace's much obliged and grateful Servant, _

_HENRY KIRKE WHITE_

_Nottingham. _

PREFACE. 

The following attempts in Verse are laid before the Public withextreme diffidence. The Author is very conscious that the juvenileefforts of a youth, who has not received the polish of Academicaldiscipline, and who has been but sparingly blessed withopportunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, mustnecessarily be defective in the accuracy and finished elegancewhich mark the works of the man who has passed his life in theretirement of his study, furnishing his mind with images, and atthe same time attaining the power of disposing those images tothe best advantage. 

The unpremeditated effusions of a Boy, from his thirteenth year, employed, not in the acquisition of literary information, but inthe more active business of life, must not be expected to exhibitany considerable portion of the correctness of a Virgil, or thevigorous compression of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, frequently known to bestow much, labour on their amusements; andthese poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile aleisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals of studies of aseverer nature. 

[Greek: Pas to oicheios ergon agapao], "Every one loves his ownwork, " says Stagyrite; but it was no overweening affection of thiskind which induced this publication. Had the author relied on hisown judgment only, these Poems would not, in all probability, everhave seen the light. 

Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives for thispublication? He answers--simply these: The facilitation, throughits means, of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, havebeen the principal objects of his ambition; and the increase ofthe capacity to pursue those inclinations which may one day placehim in an honourable station in the scale of society. 

The principal Poem in this little collection (Clifton Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers and harmonious coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of anocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with suchreflections as the scene naturally suggested. It was writtentwelve months ago, when the Author was in his sixteenth year:--TheMiscellanies are some of them the productions of a very earlyage. --Of the Odes, that "To an early Primrose" was written atthirteen--the others are of a later date. --The Sonnets are chieflyirregular; they have, perhaps, no other claim to that specificdenomination, than that they consist only of fourteen lines. 

Such are the Poems towards which I entreat the lenity of thePublic. The Critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn;he may likewise possibly discover something to commend. Let himscan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in the work of thatcorrection which I invite, let him remember he is holding the ironMace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth ofseventeen; and, remembering that, may he forbear from crushing, bytoo much rigour, the painted butterfly whose transient colours mayotherwise be capable of affording a moment's innocent amusement. 

H. K. WHITE. 

Nottingham. 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

CLIFTON GROVE. 

A SKETCH. 

Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke, Which with the dawn from yonder dingle broke;No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head, The crows assembling seek their wind-rock'd bed;Still'd is the village hum--the woodland soundsHave ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, And general silence reigns, save when belowThe murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow;And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate;Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. 

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, Released from day and its attendant toil, And draws his household round their evening fire, And tells the ofttold tales that never tire;Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, And manufacture taints the ambient skies, The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom, The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, And rushes out, impatient to beginThe stated course of customary sin:Now, now my solitary way I bendWhere solemn groves in awful state impend:And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain, Bespeak, bless'd Clifton! thy sublime domain. Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, I come to pass the meditative hour;To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, And woo the calms of solitude and peace. And oh! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on highThy leafy throne where wavy poplars sigh!Genius of woodland shades! whose mild controlSteals with resistless witchery to the soul, Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspireMy glowing bosom with thy hallow'd fire. And thou, too, Fancy, from thy starry sphere, Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. At thy command the gale that passes byBears in its whispers mystic harmony. Thou wavest thy wand, and lo! what forms appear!On the dark cloud what giant shapes career!The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale, And hosts of sylphids on the moonbeams sail. This gloomy alcove darkling to the sight, Where meeting trees create eternal night;Save, when from yonder stream the sunny ray, Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day;Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind, Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined, I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood;Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food;Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, And at each gay response delighted smiled. How oft, when childhood threw its golden rayOf gay romance o'er every happy day, Here, would I run, a visionary boy, When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's formSternly careering on the eddying storm;And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul, His voice terrific in the thunders roll. With secret joy I view'd with vivid glareThe vollied lightnings cleave the sullen air;And, as the warring winds around reviled, With awful pleasure big, --I heard and smiled. Beloved remembrance!--Memory which endearsThis silent spot to my advancing years, Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest, In shades like these to live is to be bless'd. While happiness evades the busy crowd, In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flameShoots with electric swiftness through the frame, Thou here dost love to sit with upturn'd eye, And listen to the stream that murmurs by, The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight, The mellow music of the listening night. Congenial calms more welcome to my breastThan maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd, To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise, That ye may bless my unambitious days, Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife, May trace with me the lowly vale of life, And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave, May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, A livelier light upon my vision flows. No more above the embracing branches meet, No more the river gurgles at my feet, But seen deep down the cliff's impending side, Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide. Dim is my upland path, --across the greenFantastic shadows fling, yet oft betweenThe chequer'd glooms the moon her chaste ray sheds, Where knots of bluebells droop their graceful heads. And beds of violets, blooming 'mid the trees, Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze. 

Say, why does Man, while to his opening sightEach shrub presents a source of chaste delight, And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, And gives to him alone his bliss to know, Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms?Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms?And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death?Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clingsKnow what calm joy from purer sources springs;Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, No more his soul would pant for joys impure, The deadly chalice would no more allure, But the sweet potion he was wont to sipWould turn to poison on his conscious lip. 

Fair Nature! thee, in all thy varied charms, Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms!Thine are the sweets which never, never sate, Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. Though not for me, 't was Heaven's divine commandTo roll in acres of paternal land, Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoyThine opening beauties with a lover's eye. 

Happy is he, who, though the cup of blissHas ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss, Who, still in abject poverty or pain, Can count with pleasure what small joys remain:Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone, He would not find one spot of ground his own, Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee, These bounding prospects all were made for me:For me yon waving fields their burden bear, For me yon labourer guides the shining share, While happy I in idle ease recline, And mark the glorious visions as they shine. This is the charm, by sages often told, Converting all it touches into gold. Content can soothe where'er by fortune placed, Can rear a garden in the desert waste. 

How lovely, from this hill's superior height, Spreads the wide view before my straining sight!O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground, E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound, My ken is borne; while o'er my head sereneThe silver moon illumes the misty scene:Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade, In all the soft varieties of shade. 

Behind me, lo! the peaceful hamlet lies, The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. No more, where late the social faggot blazed, The vacant peal resounds, by little raised, But locked in silence, o'er Arion's[1] starThe slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car:The church bell tolls, deep sounding down the glade, The solemn hour for walking spectres made;The simple ploughboy, wakening with the sound, Listens aghast, and turns him startled round, Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes, Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise. Now ceased the long, the monitory toll, Returning silence stagnates in the soul;Save when, disturbed by dreams, with wild affright, The deep mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night:Or where the village alehouse crowns the vale, The creaking signpost whistles to the gale. A little onward let me bend my way, Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay. That spot, oh! yet it is the very same;That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name:There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom, There yet the violet sheds its first perfume, And in the branch that rears above the restThe robin unmolested builds its nest. 'T was here, when hope, presiding o'er my breast, In vivid colours every prospect dress'd:'T was here, reclining, I indulged her dreams, And lost the hour in visionary schemes. Here, as I press once more the ancient seat, Why, bland deceiver! not renew the cheat!Say, can a few short years this change achieve, That thy illusions can no more deceive!Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread, And thou too, gay seducer, art thou fled?

Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear, And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy wayCould throw a gleam of transitory day. How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems;How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams;The dire mistake too soon is brought to light. And all is buried in redoubled night. Yet some can rise superior to the pain, And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain;While others, dead to feeling, can survey, Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away:But yet a few there be, --too soon o'ercast!Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast, And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom, To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. So in these shades the early primrose blows, Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows:So falls untimely on the desert waste, Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. 

Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display, Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way;Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. And oh! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood, That winds the margin of the solemn flood!What rural objects steal upon the sight!What rising views prolong the calm delight!

The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, The woody island, and the naked mead, The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, The rural wicket, and the rural stile, And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise, What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes!Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head. And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind, Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. Still every rising sound of calm delightStamps but the fearful silence of the night, Save when is heard between each dreary rest, Discordant from her solitary nest, The owl, dull screaming to the wandering moon;Now riding, cloud-wrapp'd, near her highest noon:Or when the wild duck, southering, hither rides, And plunges, sullen in the sounding tides. 

How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youthGave to each tale the holy force of truth, Have I long linger'd, while the milkmaid sungThe tragic legend, till the woodland rung!That tale, so sad! which, still to memory dear, From its sweet source can call the sacred tear, And (lull'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control)Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. These hallow'd shades, --these trees that woo the wind, Recall its faintest features to my mind. A hundred passing years, with march sublime, Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, Reclusely dwelt the far famed Clifton Maid, The beauteous Margaret; for her each swainConfess'd in private his peculiar pain, In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair, Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. No more the Shepherd on the blooming meadAttuned to gaiety his artless reed, No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deckHis favourite wether's unpolluted neck, But listless, by yon bubbling stream reclined, He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind, Bemoan'd his hapless love; or, boldly bent, Far from these smiling fields a rover went, O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, A self-will'd exile from his native home. 

Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain;Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, The echoing vault responded to their vows, As here deep hidden from the glare of day, Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way. 

Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name;'T was there the blushing maid confessed her flame. Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, When evening slumber'd on the western sky. That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare. Each bears mementos of the fated pair. 

One eve, when Autumn loaded every breezeWith the fallen honours of the mourning trees, The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower. And waited long beyond the appointed hour, Yet Bateman came not;--o'er the woodland drear, Howling portentous did the winds career;And bleak and dismal on the leafless woodsThe fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods;The night was dark; as, now and then, the galePaused for a moment--Margaret listen'd pale;But through the covert to her anxious earNo rustling footstep spoke her lover near. Strange fears now fill'd her breast, --she knew not why, She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. She hears a noise, --'t is he, --he comes at last, --Alas! 't was but the gale which hurried past:But now she hears a quickening footstep sound, Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound;'T is Bateman's self, --he springs into her arms, 'T is he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. "Yet why this silence?--I have waited long, And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. 

And now thou'rt here my fears are fled--yet speak, Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek?Say, what is wrong?" Now through a parting cloudThe pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud, And Bateman's face was seen; 't was deadly white, And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. "Oh, speak! my love!" again the maid conjured, "Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured?"He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell, Thrice from his lips the unfinished accents fell;When thus at last reluctantly he brokeHis boding silence, and the maid bespoke:"Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advanceI on these fields must cast my parting glance;For three long years, by cruel fate's command, I go to languish in a foreign land. Oh, Margaret! omens dire have met my view, Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true?Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, And on the silken couch of wealth reclined, Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?"

"Oh! why, " replies the maid, "my faith thus prove, Canst thou! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love?Hear me, just God! if from my traitorous heartMy Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, If, when he hail again his native shore, He finds his Margaret true to him no more, May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, Conjoin'd then drag me from my perjured bed, And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps, To find deserved death in yonder deeps!"[2]Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drewA golden ring, and broke it quick in two;One half she in her lovely bosom hides, The other, trembling, to her love confides. "This bind the vow, " she said, "this mystic charmNo future recantation can disarm, The right vindictive does the fates involve, No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve. "

She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry, The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, And once again the lady of the nightBehind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay;But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away:Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart. 

When to the distant land the youth was sped, A lonely life the moody maiden led. Still would she trace each dear, each well known walk, Still by the moonlight to her love would talk, And fancy, as she paced among the trees, She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. 

Thus two years glided on in silent grief;The third her bosom own'd the kind relief:Absence had cool'd her love--the impoverish'd flameWas dwindling fast, when lo! the tempter came;He offered wealth, and all the joys of life, And the weak maid became another's wife!Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime, When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime. Sure of her constancy, elate he came, The lovely partner of his soul to claim;Light was his heart, as up the well known wayHe bent his steps--and all his thoughts were gay. Oh! who can paint his agonizing throes, When on his ear the fatal news arose!Chill'd with amazement, --senseless with the blow, He stood a marble monument of woe;Till call'd to all the horrors of despair, He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair;Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot, And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er forgot), Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame, And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 'T was night--he sought the river's lonely shore, And traced again their former wanderings o'er. Now on the bank in silent grief he stood, And gazed intently on the stealing flood, Death in his mein and madness in his eye, He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by;Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave--Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. 

Yet still he stood irresolutely bent, Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent. He knelt. --Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind, And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind, The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, The paly moonbeam on its surface slept, And all was peace;--he felt the general calmO'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm:When casting far behind his streaming eye, He saw the Grove, --in fancy saw her lie, His Margaret, lull'd in Germain's[3] arms to rest, And all the demon rose within his breast. Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand, Cast his dark eye once more upon the land, Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank, And in the calm deceitful current sank. 

Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound, As in the stream he plunged, was heard around:Then all was still--the wave was rough no more, The river swept as sweetly as before;The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene, And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. 

Now, see upon the perjured fair one hangRemorse's glooms and never ceasing pang. Full well she knew, repentant now too late, She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast, The offended God prolong'd her life unbless'd. But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away, And near and nearer drew the dreaded day;That day foredoom'd to give her child the light, And hurl its mother to the shades of night. The hour arrived, and from the wretched wifeThe guiltless baby struggled into life. --As night drew on, around her bed a bandOf friends and kindred kindly took their stand;In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time, Intent to expiate her awful crime. Their prayers were fruitless. --As the midnight cameA heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame. In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load, Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. They slept till in the blushing eastern skyThe blooming Morning oped her dewy eye;Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed, But lo! the hapless Margaret was fled;And never more the weeping train were doom'dTo view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd. 

The neighbouring rustics told that in the nightThey heard such screams as froze them with affright;And many an infant, at its mother's breast, Started dismay'd, from its unthinking rest. And even now, upon the heath forlorn, They show the path down which the fair was borne, By the fell demons, to the yawning wave, Her own, and murder'd lover's, mutual grave. 

Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening ear, That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweetsIn the drear silence of these dark retreats;And even now, with melancholy power, Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 'Mid all the charms by magic Nature givenTo this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, With double joy enthusiast Fancy leansOn the attendant legend of the scenes. This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods;This, as the distant cataract swells around, Gives a romantic cadence to the sound;This, and the deepening glen, the alley green, The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between, The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas, The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees, The lengthening vista, and the present gloom, The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume:These are thy charms, the joys which these impartBind thee, bless'd Clifton! close around my heart. 

Dear Native Grove! where'er my devious track, To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back. Whether in Arno's polish'd vales I stray, Or where "Oswego's" swamps obstruct the day;Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide, The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side;Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse, Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views;Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. When Splendour offers, and when Fame incites, I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights, Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change, Renounce the wish which first induced to range;Turn to these scenes, these well known scenes once more, Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore, And tired with worlds, and all their busy ways, Here waste the little remnant of my days. But if the Fates should this last wish deny, And doom me on some foreign shore to die;Oh! should it please the world's supernal King, That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing;Or that my corse should, on some desert strand, Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand;Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb, My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom, Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove, Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove, Sit a lorn spectre on yon well known grave, And mix its moanings with the desert wave. 

Footnotes:

[1] The constellation Delphinus. For authority for this appelation, seeOvid's Fasti, B. Xi. 113. 

[2] This part of the Trent is commonly called "The Clifton Deeps. "

[3] Germain is the traditionary name of her husband. 

TIME, A POEM. [1]

Genius of musings, who, the midnight hourWasting in woods or haunted forests wild, Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower, Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance;Or when the vollied lightnings cleave the air, And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm, Sitt'st in some lonely watchtower, where thy lamp, Faint blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far, And, 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved, Dost ponder on the awful scene, and traceThe vast effect to its superior source, --Spirit, attend my lowly benison!For now I strike to themes of import highThe solitary lyre; and, borne by theeAbove this narrow cell, I celebrateThe mysteries of Time!

 Him who, august, Was e'er these worlds were fashion'd, --ere the sunSprang from the east, or Lucifer display'dHis glowing cresset in the arch of morn, Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. Yea, He had been for an eternity!Had swept unvarying from eternityThe harp of desolation--ere his tones, At God's command, assumed a milder strain, And startled on his watch, in the vast deep, Chaos's sluggish sentry, and evokedFrom the dark void the smiling universe. 

Chain'd to the groveling frailties of the flesh, Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross, Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye, The dim uncertain gulf, which now the muse, Adventurous, would explore; but dizzy grown, He topples down the abyss. --If he would scanThe fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpseOf its unfathomable depths, that soHis mind may turn with double joy to God, His only certainty and resting place;He must put off awhile this mortal vest, And learn to follow, without giddiness, To heights where all is vision, and surprise, And vague conjecture. --He must waste by nightThe studious taper, far from all resortOf crowds and folly, in some still retreat;High on the beetling promontory's crest, Or in the caves of the vast wilderness, Where, compass'd round with Nature's wildest shapes, He may be driven to centre all his thoughtsIn the great Architect, who lives confess'dIn rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes. 

So has divine Philosophy, with voiceMild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes, Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy, His faint, neglected song--intent to snatchSome vagrant blossom from the dangerous steepOf poesy, a bloom of such a hue, So sober, as may not unseemly suitWith Truth's severer brow; and one withalSo hardy as shall brave the passing windOf many winters, --rearing its meek headIn loveliness, when he who gathered itIs number'd with the generations gone. Yet not to me hath God's good providenceGiven studious leisure, [2] or unbroken thought, Such as he owns, --a meditative man;Who from the blush of morn to quiet evePonders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er, Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din:From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'dWith Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the dayHath duties which require the vigorous handOf steadfast application, but which leaveNo deep improving trace upon the mind. But be the day another's;--let it pass!The night's my own!--They cannot steal my night!When evening lights her folding star on high, I live and breathe; and in the sacred hoursOf quiet and repose my spirit flies, Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space. And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for Heaven. 

Hence do I love the sober-suited maid;Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my theme, And she shall aid me now to magnifyThe night of ages, --now when the pale rayOf starlight penetrates the studious gloom, And, at my window seated, while mankindAre lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breezeOf stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, Assumes her wonted sway. 

 Behold the worldRests, and her tired inhabitants have pausedFrom trouble and turmoil. The widow nowHas ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lieLock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. The man of sorrow has forgot his woes;The outcast that his head is shelterless, His griefs unshared. --The mother tends no moreHer daughter's dying slumbers, but surprisedWith heaviness, and sunk upon her couch, Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lull'dOn Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapp'd, Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shuddering nurse, Poor victim! smiles. --Silence and deep reposeReign o'er the nations; and the warning voiceOf Nature utters audibly withinThe general moral:--tells us that repose, Deathlike as this, but of far longer span, Is coming on us--that the weary crowds, Who now enjoy a temporary calm, Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapp'd aroundWith grave clothes: and their aching restless headsMouldering in holes and corners unobserved, Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep. 

Who needs a teacher to admonish himThat flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist?What are our joys but dreams? and what our hopesBut goodly shadows in the summer cloud?There's not a wind that blows but bears with itSome rainbow promise:--Not a moment fliesBut puts its sickle in the fields of life, And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. 'T is but as yesterday since on yon stars, Which now I view, the Chaldee shepherd[3] gazedIn his mid watch observant, and disposedThe twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. Yet in the interim what mighty shocksHave buffeted mankind--whole nations razed--Cities made desolate--the polish'd sunkTo barbarism, and once barbaric statesSwaying the wand of science and of arts;Illustrious deeds and memorable namesBlotted from record, and upon the tongueOf gray Tradition, voluble no more. 

Where are the heroes of the ages past?Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty onesWho flourish'd in the infancy of days?All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fameExultant, mocking at the pride of man, Sits grim Forgetfulness. --The warrior's armLies nerveless on the pillow of its shame;Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blazeOf his red eyeball. --Yesterday his nameWas mighty on the earth. --To-day--'t is what?The meteor of the night of distant years, That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, Musing at midnight upon prophecies, Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleamPoint to the mist-poised shroud, then quietlyClosed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret upSafe in the enamel's treasures. 

 Oh how weakIs mortal man! how trifling--how confinedHis scope of vision! Puff'd with confidence, His phrase grows big with immortality, And he, poor insect of a summer's day!Dreams of eternal honours to his name;Of endless glory and perennial bays. He idly reasons of eternity, As of the train of ages, --when, alas!Ten thousand thousand of his centuriesAre, in comparison, a little pointToo trivial for account. --O, it is strange, 'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies;Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, And smile, and say, My name shall live with thisTill time shall be no more; while at his feet, Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dustOf the fallen fabric of the other dayPreaches the solemn lesson. --He should knowThat time must conquer; that the loudest blastThat ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trumpFades in the lapse of ages, and expires. Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloomOf the gigantic pyramid? or whoRear'd its huge walls? Oblivion laughs, and says, The prey is mine. --They sleep, and never moreTheir names shall strike upon the ear of man, Their memory burst its fetters. 

 Where is Rome?She lives but in the tale of other times;Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home, And her long colonnades, her public walks, Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet, Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace, Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honour'd dust. But not to Rome alone has fate confinedThe doom of ruin; cities numberless, Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, And rich Phoenicia--they are blotted out, Half razed from memory, and their very nameAnd being in dispute. --Has Athens fallen?Is polish'd Greece become the savage seatOf ignorance and sloth? and shall we dare

 * * * * *

And empire seeks another hemisphere. Where now is Britain?--Where her laurel'd names. Her palaces and halls? Dash'd in the dust. Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride, And with one big recoil hath thrown her backTo primitive barbarity. ----Again, Through her depopulated vales, the screamOf bloody Superstition hollow rings, And the scared native to the tempest howlsThe yell of deprecation. O'er her marts, Her crowded ports, broods Silence; and the cryOf the low curlew, and the pensive dashOf distant billows, breaks alone the void;Even as the savage sits upon the stoneThat marks where stood her capitols, and hearsThe bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinksFrom the dismaying solitude. --Her bardsSing in a language that hath perished;And their wild harps suspended o'er their graves, Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain. 

Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy, Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance, Some bold adventurer, fill'd with golden dreams, Steering his bark through trackless solitudes, Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prowHath ever ploughed before, --espies the cliffsOf fallen Albion. --To the land unknownHe journeys joyful; and perhaps descriesSome vestige of her ancient stateliness:Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mindOf the unheard-of race, which had arrivedAt science in that solitary nook, Far from the civil world; and sagely sighs, And moralizes on the state of man. 

Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt, Moves on our being. We do live and breathe, And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. We have our springtime and our rottenness;And as we fall, another race succeeds, To perish likewise. --Meanwhile Nature smiles--The seasons run their round--The Sun fulfilsHis annual course--and heaven and earth remainStill changing, yet unchanged--still doom'd to feelEndless mutation in perpetual rest. Where are conceal'd the days which have elapsed?Hid in the mighty cavern of the past, They rise upon us only to appall, By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. 

Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch, When the rude rushing winds forget to rave, And the pale moon, that through the casement highSurveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hourOf utter silence, it is fearful thenTo steer the mind, in deadly solitude. Up the vague stream of probability;To wind the mighty secrets of the past, And turn the key of time!--Oh! who can striveTo comprehend the vast, the awful truth, Of the eternity that hath gone by, And not recoil from the dismaying senseOf human impotence? The life of manIs summ'd in birthdays and in sepulchres;But the Eternal God had no beginning;He hath no end. Time had been with himFor everlasting, ere the dredal worldRose from the gulf in loveliness. --Like himIt knew no source, like him, 't was uncreate. What is it then? The past Eternity!We comprehend a future without end;We feel it possible that even yon sunMay roll for ever: but we shrink amazed--We stand aghast, when we reflect that timeKnew no commencement. --That heap age on age, And million upon million, without end, And we shall never span the void of daysThat were and are not but in retrospect. The Past is an unfathomable depth, Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapseWhich hath no mensuration, but hath beenFor ever and for ever. 

 Change of daysTo us is sensible; and each revolveOf the recording sun conducts us onFurther in life, and nearer to our goal. Not so with Time, --mysterious chronicler, He knoweth not mutation;--centuriesAre to his being as a day, and daysAs centuries. --Time past, and Time to come, Are always equal; when the world beganGod had existed from eternity. 

 * * * * *

 Now look on manMyriads of ages hence. --Hath time elapsed?Is he not standing in the selfsame placeWhere once we stood?--The same eternityHath gone before him, and is yet to come;His past is not of longer span than ours, Though myriads of ages intervened;For who can add to what has neither sum, Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end?Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind?Who can unlock the secrets of the high?In speculations of an altitudeSublime as this, our reason stands confess'dFoolish, and insignificant, and mean. Who can apply the futile argumentOf finite beings to infinity?

He might as well compress the universeInto the hollow compass of a gourd, Scoop'd out by human art; or bid the whaleDrink up the sea it swims in!--Can the lessContain the greater? or the dark obscureInfold the glories of meridian day?What does philosophy impart to manBut undiscovered wonders?--Let her soarEven to her proudest heights--to where she caughtThe soul of Newton and of Socrates, She but extends the scope of wild amazeAnd admiration. All her lessons endIn wider views of God's unfathom'd depths. 

Lo! the unletter'd hind, who never knewTo raise his mind excursive to the heightsOf abstract contemplation, as he sitsOn the green hillock by the hedge-row side, What time the insect swarms are murmuring, And marks, in silent thought, the broken cloudsThat fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky, Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouseThe thrill of gratitude, to him who form'dThe goodly prospect; he beholds the GodThroned in the west, and his reposing earHears sounds angelic in the fitful breezeThat floats through neighbouring copse or fairy brake, Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. Go with the cotter to his winter fire, Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon;Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar. Silent, and big with thought; and hear him blessThe God that rides on the tempestuous clouds, For his snug hearth, and all his little joys:Hear him compare his happier lot with hisWho bends his way across the wintry wolds, A poor night traveller, while the dismal snowBeats in his face, and, dubious of his path, He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, He hears some village mastiff's distant howl, And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light;Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, And clasps his shivering hands; or overpowered, Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep, From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praiseAnd glowing gratitude, --he turns to bless, With honest warmth, his Maker and his God!And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bredIn want and labour, glows with nobler zealTo laud his Maker's attributes, while heWhom starry Science in her cradle rock'd, And Castaly enchasten'd with his dews, Closes his eyes upon the holy word, And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, Dares to declare his infidelity, And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts?What is philosophy, if it impartIrreverence for the Deity, or teachA mortal man to set his judgment upAgainst his Maker's will? The Polygar, Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with himWho thus perverts the talents he enjoys, Is the most bless'd of men! Oh! I would walkA weary journey, to the furthest vergeOf the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, Feeling the sense of his own littleness, Is as a child in meek simplicity!What is the pomp of learning? the paradeOf letters and of tongues? e'en as the mistsOf the gray morn before the rising sun, That pass away and perish. 

 Earthly thingsAre but the transient pageants of an hour;And earthly pride is like the passing flower, That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 'T is as the tower erected on a cloud, Baseless and silly as the schoolboy's dream. Ages and epochs that destroy our pride, And then record its downfall, what are theyBut the poor creatures of man's teeming brain?Hath Heaven its ages? or doth Heaven preserveIts stated eras? Doth the OmnipotentHear of to-morrows or of yesterdays?There is to God nor future nor a past;Throned in his might, all times to him are present;He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come;He sees before him one eternal now. Time moveth not!--our being 't is that moves;And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream, Dream of swift ages and revolving years, Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days:So the young sailor in the gallant bark, Scudding before the wind, beholds the coastReceding from his eyes, and thinks the while, Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, And that the land is sailing. 

 Such, alas!Are the illusions of this proteus life!All, all is false: through every phasis still'T is shadowy and deceitful. It assumesThe semblances of things and specious shapes;But the lost traveller might as soon relyOn the evasive spirit of the marsh, Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, As we on its appearances. 

 On earthThere is no certainty nor stable hope. As well the weary mariner, whose barkIs toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain, And sunbeams never penetrate, might trustTo expectation of serener skies, And linger in the very jaws of death, Because some peevish cloud were opening, Or the loud storm had bated in its rage;As we look forward in this vale of tearsTo permanent delight--from some slight glimpseOf shadowy, unsubstantial happiness. 

The good man's hope is laid far, far beyondThe sway of tempests, or the furious sweepOf mortal desolation. --He beholdsUnapprehensive, the gigantic strideOf rampant Ruin, or the unstable wavesOf dark Vicissitude. --Even in death, --In that dread hour, when, with a giant pang, Tearing the tender fibres of the heart, The immortal spirit struggles to be free, Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not, For it exists beyond the narrow vergeOf the cold sepulchre. The petty joysOf fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd, And rested on the bosom of its God. This is man's only reasonable hope;And 't is a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, Shall not be disappointed. Even he, The Holy One--Almighty--who elancedThe rolling world along its airy way, Even He will deign to smile upon the good, And welcome him to these celestial seats, Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign. 

Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault, Survey the countless gems which richly studThe night's imperial chariot;--TelescopesWill show thee myriads more innumerousThan the sea sand;--each of those little lampsIs the great source of light, the central sunRound which some other mighty sisterhoodOf planets travel, every planet stock'dWith Hying beings impotent as thee. Now, proud man! now, where is thy greatness fled?What art thou in the scale of universe?Less, less than nothing!--Yet of thee the GodWho built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, As well as of the mendicant who begsThe leavings of thy table. And shalt thouLift up thy thankless spirit, and contemnHis heavenly providence! Deluded fool, Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death, Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell. 

How insignificant is mortal man, Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour!How poor, how trivial in the vast conceitOf infinite duration, boundless space!God of the universe! Almighty One!Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds, Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer, Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, Ridest from pole to pole; Thou who dost holdThe forked lightnings in thine awful grasp, And reignest in the earthquake, when thy wrathGoes down towards erring man, I would addressTo thee my parting pæan; for of Thee, Great beyond comprehension, who thyselfArt Time and Space, sublime Infinitude, Of Thee has been my song!--With awe I kneelTrembling before the footstool of thy state, My God!--my Father!--I will sing to theeA hymn of laud, a solemn canticle, Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshadesThe throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre, And give its wild strings to the desert gale. Rise, Son of Salem! rise, and join the strain, Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp, And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soulTo exultation. Sing hosanna, sing, And halleluiah, for the Lord is great, And full of mercy! He has thought of man;Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds, has thoughtOf us poor worms, that batten in the dewsOf morn, and perish ere the noonday sun. Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful:He gave the Nubian lion but to live, To rage its hour, and perish; but on manHe lavish'd immortality and Heaven. The eagle falls from her aërial tower, And mingles with irrevocable dust:But man from death springs joyful, Springs up to life and to eternity. Oh, that, insensate of the favouring boon, The great exclusive privilege bestow'dOn us unworthy trifles, men should dareTo treat with slight regard the proffer'd Heaven, And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swearIn wrath, "They shall not enter in my rest. "Might I address the supplicative strainTo thy high footstool, I would pray that thouWouldst pity the deluded wanderers, And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock. Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him, Thy well beloved, who, upon the cross, Bled a dread sacrifice for human sin, And paid, with bitter agony, the debtOf primitive transgression. 

 Oh! I shrink, My very soul doth shrink, when I reflectThat the time hastens, when, in vengeance clothed, Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fateOn erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheelsThen shall rebound to earth's remotest caves, And stormy Ocean from his bed shall startAt the appalling summons. Oh I how dread, On the dark eye of miserable man, Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, Will burst the effulgence of the opening Heaven;When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roarThou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend, Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word!The dead shall start astonish'd from their sleep!The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey, The bellowing floods shall disembogue their chargeOf human victims. From the farthest nookOf the wide world shall troop the risen souls, From him whose bones are bleaching in the wasteOf polar solitudes, or him whose corpse, Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides, Is wash'd on some Caribbean prominence, To the lone tenant of some secret cellIn the Pacific's vast ... Realm, Where never plummet's sound was heard to partThe wilderness of water; they shall comeTo greet the solemn advent of the Judge. 

Thou first shalt summon the elected saintsTo their apportion'd Heaven! and thy Son, At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joyOn all his past distresses, when for themHe bore humanity's severest pangs. Then shalt thou seize the avenging scimitar, And, with a roar as loud and horribleAs the stern earthquake's monitory voice, The wicked shall be driven to their abode, Down the immitigable gulf, to wailAnd gnash their teeth in endless agony. 

 * * * * *

Rear thou aloft thy standard. --Spirit, rearThy flag on high!--Invincible, and thronedIn unparticipated might. BeholdEarth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent sway, Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rushOf mighty generations, as they passTo the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stampThy signet on them, and they rise no more. Who shall contend with Time--unvanquish'd Time, The conqueror of conquerors, and lordOf desolation?--Lo! the shadows fly, The hours and days, and years and centuries, They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall, The young are old, the old are in their graves. Heard'st thou that shout? It rent the vaulted skies;It was the voice of people, --mighty crowds, --Again! 't is hushed--Time speaks, and all is hush'd;In the vast multitude now reigns aloneUnruffled solitude. They all are still;All--yea, the whole--the incalculable mass, Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. 

Rear thou aloft thy standard. --Spirit, rearThy flag on high, and glory in thy strength. But do thou know the season yet shall come, When from its base thine adamantine throneShall tumble; when thine arm shall cease to strike, Thy voice forget its petrifying power;When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more. Yea, he doth come--the mighty champion comes, Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death wound, Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors, And desolate stern Desolation's lord. Lo! where he cometh! the Messiah comes!The King! the Comforter! the Christ!--He comesTo burst the bonds of Death, and overturnThe power of Time. --Hark! the trumpet's blastRings o'er the heavens! They rise, the myriads rise--Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chainsOf torpor, --He has ransom'd them, ... 

Forgotten generations live again, Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old, Beyond the flood:--the righteous of their timesEmbrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. The sainted mother wakes, and in her lapClasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave, And heritor with her of Heaven, --a flower, Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stainOf native guilt, even in its early bud. And, hark! those strains, how solemnly sereneThey fall, as from the skies--at distance fall--Again more loud--the halleluiahs swell;The newly risen catch the joyful sound;They glow, they burn; and now with one accordBursts forth sublime from every mouth the songOf praise to God on high, and to the LambWho bled for mortals. 

 * * * * *

Yet there is peace for man. --Yea, there is peaceEven in this noisy, this unsettled scene;When from the crowd, and from the city far, Haply he may be set (in his late walkO'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughsOf honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveysThe solemn shadows of the Heavens sail, And thinks the season yet shall come, when TimeWill waft him to repose, to deep repose, Far from the unquietness of life--from noiseAnd tumult far--beyond the flying clouds, Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more. 

 * * * * *

Footnotes:

[1] This Poem was begun either during the publication of Clifton Grove, orshortly afterwards, but never completed: some of the detached parts wereamong his latest productions. 

[2] The Author was then in an attorney's office. 

[3] Alluding to the first astronomical observations made by the Chaldeanshepherds. 

CHILDHOOD. [1]

A POEM. 

PART I. 

Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how sweetOur infant days, our infant joys, to greet;To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, The village churchyard, and the village green, The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn shade, The whitewashed cottage, where the woodbine grew, And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew!How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, To view the unclouded skies of former days!

Beloved age of innocence and smiles, When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles. When the gay heart, to life's sweet dayspring true, Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. Bless'd Childhood, hail!--Thee simply will I sing, And from myself the artless picture bring;These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more, And every stump familiar to my sightRecalls some fond idea of delight. 

This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat;Here did I love at evening to retreat, And muse alone, till in the vault of night, Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. Here once again, remote from human noise, I sit me down to think of former joys;Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, And once again each infant walk explore, While as each grove and lawn I recognize, My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. 

And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resortTo distant scenes, and picture, them to thought;Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy;Bless'd Memory, guide, with finger nicely true, Back to my youth my retrospective view;Recall with faithful vigour to my mindEach face familiar, each relation kind;And all the finer traits of them afford, Whose general outline in my heart is stored. 

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering wallsIn many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, The village matron kept her little school, Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule;Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien;Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean;Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair, Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care;And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn, Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, A pair of spectacles their want supplies;These does she guard secure, in leathern case, From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place. 

Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain, The low vestibule of learning's fane;Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. Much did I grieve on that ill fated mornWhen I was first to school reluctant borne;Severe I thought the dame, though oft she triedTo soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd;And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, To my lone corner broken-hearted crept, And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. 

But soon inured to alphabetic toils, Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;First at the form, my task for ever true, A little favourite rapidly I grew:And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight;And as she gave my diligence its praise, Talk'd of the honours of my future days. 

Oh! had the venerable matron thoughtOf all the ills by talent often brought;Could she have seen me when revolving yearsHad brought me deeper in the vale of tears, Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fateHad been a lowlier, an unlettered state;Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life. 

Where in the busy scene, by peace unbless'd, Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest?A lonely mariner on the stormy main, Without a hope the calms of peace to gain;Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore, When shall his spirit rest to toil no more?Not till the light foam of the sea shall laveThe sandy surface of his unwept grave. Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, Serenest season of perpetual calms, --Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, --And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles, But each new object brings attendant smiles;When future evils never haunt the sight, But all is pregnant with unmix'd delight;To thee I turn from riot and from noise, Turn to partake of more congenial joys. 

'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er, What clamorous throngs, what happy groups wereIn various postures scattering o'er the green!Some shoot the marble, others join the chase seen, Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race;While others, seated on the dappled grass, With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, A band of soldiers oft with pride we march'd;For banners to a tall ash we did bindOur handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind;And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, And guns and spears we made of brittle reed;Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown, We storm'd some ruin'd pigsty for a town. 

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wontTo set her wheel before the cottage front, And o'er her spectacles would often peer, To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round, With its beloved monotony of sound. When tired with play, we'd set us by her side(For out of school she never knew to chide), And wonder at her skill--well known to fame--For who could match in spinning with the dame?Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with prideTo strangers, still her thriftness testified;Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth, How't was her spinning manufactured cloth. 

Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our playTo chat at home the vacant hour away. Many's the time I' we scamper'd in the glade, To ask the promised ditty from the maid, Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing, While we around her form'd a little ring:She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed, Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, Or little children murder'd as they slept;While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. Sad was such tale, and wonder much did weSuch hearts of stone there in the world could be. Poor simple wights, ah! little did we weenThe ills that wait on man in life's sad scene!Ah, little thought that we ourselves should knowThis world's a world of weeping and of woe!

Beloved moment! then 'twas first I caughtThe first foundation of romantic thought!Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear. Soon stored with much of legendary lore, The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more. Far from the scene of gaiety and noise, Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, I hied me to the thick overarching shade, And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, The days of wild romance antique I'd scan;Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. 

 * * * * *

PART II. 

There are who think that Childhood does not shareWith age the cup, the bitter cup, of care:Alas! they know not this unhappy truth, That every age, and rank, is born to ruth. 

From the first dawn of reason in the mind, Man is foredoomed the thorns of grief to find;At every step has farther cause to knowThe draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe. 

Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caughtWith some new object for romantic thought, The impression of the moment quickly flies, And with the morrow every sorrow dies. 

How different manhood!--then does Thought's controlSink every pang still deeper in the soul;Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smartBecomes a painful resident in the heart;And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. Then, as each long known friend is summon'd hence, We feel a void no joy can recompense, And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb, Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom. 

Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, No forms of future ill salute thy view, No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep, But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life, Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife. Yet e'en round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shrine, Affection's little thread will ever twine;And though but frail may seem each tender tie, The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. Thus, when the long expected moment came, When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame, Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast, And a still tear my silent grief express'd. 

When to the public school compelled to go, What novel scenes did on my senses flow?There in each breast each active power dilates, Which 'broils whole nations, and convulses states;Their reigns, by turns alternate, love and hate, Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate;And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere, The dark deformities of man appear. Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim, There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame, There mild Benevolence delights to dwell, And sweet Contentment rests without her cell;And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we findThe good of heart, the intelligent of mind. 

'T was there, O George! with thee I learn'd to joinIn Friendship's bands--in amity divine. Oh, mournful though!--Where is thy spirit now?As here I sit on favorite Logar's brow, And trace below each well remember'd glade, Where arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd. Where art thou laid--on what untrodden shore, Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar?Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state, At last repose from all the storms of fate?Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save;See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend, And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend:Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way, While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife, Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. Again I see his door against thee shut, The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut;I see thee, spent with toil and worn with grief, Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief;Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er, Think on thy native land--and rise no more!

Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode, Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road, That thou couldst see him, at this moment here, Embalm thy memory with a pious tear, And hover o'er him as he gazes round, Where all the scenes of infant joys surround. 

Yes! yes! his spirit's near!--The whispering breezeConveys his voice sad sighing on the trees;And lo! his form transparent I perceive, Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve:He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe, While deathly silence reigns upon the globe. 

Yet ah! whence comes this visionary scene?'T is Fancy's wild aërial dream I ween:By her inspired, when reason takes its flight, What fond illusions beam upon the sight!She waves her hand, and lo! what forms appear!What magic sounds salute the wondering ear!Once more o'er distant regions do we tread, And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead;While, present sorrows banish'd far away, Unclouded azure gilds the placid day, Or, in the future's cloud-encircled face, Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, And draw minutely every little wile, Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile. 

So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate, The Royal Mary solitary sate, And view'd the moonbeam trembling on the wave, And heard the hollow surge her prison lave, Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight, For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight;There did she form full many a scheme of joy, Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy, Which bright thro' Hope's deceitful optics beam'd, And all became the surety which it seem'd;She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm, In every tear a melancholy charm. 

To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, Just yield a scanty sustenance to the sheep, With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, To see the sun rise from his healthy bed;To watch the aspect of the summer morn, Smiling upon the golden fields of corn, And taste, delighted, of superior joys, Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes:With silent admiration oft we view'dThe myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd;The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade, Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd, And the round orb itself, in azure throne, Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone;We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay, Reviving Nature hail'd returning day;Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping heads, And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads, While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight, The birds sung pasans to the source of light:Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise, Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies, And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no moreCould trace him in his high aërial tour;Though on the ear, at intervals, his songCame wafted slow the wavy breeze along;And we have thought how happy were our lot, Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot, Where, from the peep of day, till russet eveBegan in every dell her forms to weave, We might pursue our sports from day to day, And in each other's arms wear life away. 

At sultry noon too, when our toils were done, We to the gloomy glen were wont to run;There on the turf we lay, while at our feetThe cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet;And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore, Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more;Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept, Sung woe unto the wicked land--and wept;Or, fancy-led, saw Jeremiah mournIn solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn. Then to another shore perhaps would rove, With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove;Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose, Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes. 

Sweet then to us was that romantic band, The ancient legends of our native land--Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair, And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair, By turns our thoughts engaged; and oft we talk'dOf times when monarch superstition stalk'd, And when the blood-fraught galliots of RomeBrought the grand Druid fabric to its doom:While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow, The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe. 

While thus employed, to us how sad the bellWhich summon'd us to school! 'T was Fancy's knell, And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear, It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. Yet even then, (for oh! what chains can bind, What powers control, the energies of mind!)E'en then we soar'd to many a height sublime, And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time. 

At evening too, how pleasing was our walk, Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk, When to the upland heights we bent our way. To view the last beam of departing day;How calm was all around! no playful breezeSigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees, But all was still, save when, with drowsy song, The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along;And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee, The distant church bells' mellow harmony;The silver mirror of the lucid brook, That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took;The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides, With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides;The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight;The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight;All, all was pregnant with divine delight. We loved to watch the swallow swimming high, In the bright azure of the vaulted sky;Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd prideWas scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide, And tinged with such variety of shade, To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd. In these what forms romantic did we trace, While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space!Now we espied the Thunderer in his car, Leading the embattled seraphim to war, Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky--Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, A ridge of glaciers in mural white, Hugely terrific. --But those times are o'er, And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more;For thou art gone, and I am left below, Alone to struggle through this world of woe. 

The scene is o'er--still seasons onward roll, And each revolve conducts me toward the goal;Yet all is blank, without one soft relief, One endless continuity of grief;And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time. 

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pantFor hoards of wealth which ye will never want:And lost to all but gain, with ease resignThe calms of peace and happiness divine!Far other cares be mine--Men little craveIn this short journey to the silent grave;And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health, I envy more than Croesus with his wealth. Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decreePaternal acres to await on me;She gave me more, she placed within my breastA heart with little pleased--with little bless'd:I look around me, where, on every side, Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride;And could my sight be borne to either zone, I should not find one foot of land my own. 

But whither do I wander? shall the muse, For golden baits, her simple theme refuse?Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greetsThe fading scenes of childhood's far gone sweets, It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, And prattles on in desultory song. That song must close--the gloomy mists of nightObscure the pale stars' visionary light, And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet, Steals on the welkin in primæval jet. 

The song must close. --Once more my adverse lotLeads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot:Again compels to plunge in busy life, And brave the hateful turbulence of strife. 

Scenes of my youth--ere my unwilling feetAre turn'd for ever from this loved retreat. Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er, My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, Let me ejaculate, to feeling due, One long, one last affectionate adieu. Grant that, if ever Providence should pleaseTo give me an old age of peace and ease, Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my daysMay wear away in gradual decays:And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play, Unseen upon the pinions of the day, Kind genii of my native fields benign, Who were.... * * * * *

[1] This appears to be one of the Author's earliest productions: writtenwhen about the age of fourteen. 

THE CHRISTIAD. 

A DIVINE POEM. 

BOOK I. 

I. 

 I sing the Cross!--Ye white-robed angel choirs, Who know the chords of harmony to sweep, Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep, Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep, Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep, Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme. 

II. 

 Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled state, Thy glittering fanes are level'd with the ground! Fallen is thy pride!--Thine halls are desolate! Where erst was heard the timbrels' sprightly sound, And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, There breeds the wild fox lonely, --and aghast Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blastSighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. 

III. 

 It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn, That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born; And, with most bitter persecuting ire, Pursued his footsteps till the last day dawn Rose on his fortunes--and thou saw'st the fireThat came to light the world, in one great flash expire. 

IV. 

 Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light, To paint the agonies that Jesus bore! Oh! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might, To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore; While seraph hosts the lofty pæan pour, And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim! May a frail mortal dare the theme explore? May he to human ears his weak song frame?Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name. 

V. 

 Spirits of pity! mild crusaders, come! Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float, And give him eloquence who else were dumb, And raise to feeling and to fire his note! And thou, Urania! who dost still devote Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote, Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine, And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. 

VI. 

 When from the temple's lofty summit prone, Satan, o'ercome, fell down; and 'throned there, The son of God confess'd in splendour shone: Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air, Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, * * * * * Fled the stern king of Hell--and with the glare Of gliding meteors, ominous and red, Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head. 

VII. 

 Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late The rude Massagetæ adored, he bent His northering course, while round, in dusky state The assembling fiends their summon'd troops augment; Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went, While as they pass'd to regions more severe, The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament The solitary gale; and, fill'd with fear, The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near. 

VIII. 

 Where the North Pole, in moody solitude, Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around, There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude, Form a gigantic hall, where never sound Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for aye Thrones him, --and, fix'd on his primæval mound, Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern DismayStalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way. 

IX. 

 In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair, No sweet remain of life encheers the sight; The dancing heart's blood in an instant there Would freeze to marble. --Mingling day and night (Sweet interchange, which makes our labours light) Are there unknown; while in the summer skies The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height, Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies, And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise. 

X. 

 'T was there, yet shuddering from the burning lake, Satan had fix'd their next consistory, When parting last he fondly hoped to shake Messiah's constancy, --and thus to free The powers of darkness from the dread decree Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent, Discern the colours clear of every dark event. 

XI. 

 Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight, And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall, Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light, Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call. He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fall, Dropp'd on the echoing ice. Instant the sound Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the hall, Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound, Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround. 

XII. 

 High on a solium of the solid wave, Prank'd with rude shapes by the fantastic frost, He stood in silence;--now keen thoughts engrave Dark figures on his front; and, tempest-toss'd, He fears to say that every hope is lost. Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute; So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast, Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute, Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute. 

XIII. 

 At length collected, o'er the dark Divan The arch fiend glanced as by the Boreal blaze Their downcast brows were seen, and thus began His fierce harangue:--"Spirits! our better days Are now elapsed; Moloch and Belial's praise Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod. Lo! the light breaks;--The astonish'd nations gaze, For us is lifted high the avenging rod!For, spirits! this is He, --this is the Son of God!

XIV. 

 "What then!--shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear? Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear? Madness! The very thought would make me fain To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain, And hurl them at their Maker!--Fix'd as Fate I am his foe!--Yea, though his pride should deign To soothe mine ire with half his regal state, Still would I burn with fix'd unalterable hate. 

XV. 

 "Now hear the issue of my cursed emprize. When from our last sad synod I took flight, Buoyed with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise, To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write His own self-condemnation; in the plight Of aged man in the lone wilderness, Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight; And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to guessWhat cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess. 

XVI. 

 "Then thus in homely guise I featly framed My lowly speech:--'Good Sir, what leads this way Your wandering steps? must hapless chance be blamed That you so far from haunt of mortals stray? Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day. Nor trace of man have seen: but how! methought Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy ray I saw descend in Jordan, when John taughtThat he to fallen man the saving promise brought. '

XVII. 

 "'I am that man, ' said Jesus, 'I am He. But truce to questions--Canst thou point my feet To some low hut, if haply such there be In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet With homely greeting, and may sit and eat; For forty days I have tarried fasting here, Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, And now I hunger; and my fainting earLongs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing near. '

XVIII. 

 "Then thus I answer'd wily:--'If, indeed, Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek For food from men?--Lo! on these flint stones feed, Bid them be bread! Open thy lips and speak, And living rills from yon parch'd rock will break' Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye Fix'd on my face;--the blood forsook my cheek, I could not bear his gaze;--my mask slipp'd by;I would have shunn'd his look, but had not power to fly. 

XIX. 

 "Then he rebuked me with the holy word-- Accursed sounds; but now my native pride Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd, I bore him from the mountain's woody side Up to the summit, where extending wide Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes, Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried, And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains, Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated swains. 

XX. 

 "'Behold, ' I cried, 'these glories! scenes divine! Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays; And these, O rapture! these shall all be thine, If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise. Hath he not given to indigence thy days? Is not thy portion peril here and pain? Oh! leave his temples, shun his wounding ways! Seize the tiara! these mean weeds disdain, Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and splendour gain. '

XXI. 

 "'Is it not written, ' sternly he replied, 'Tempt not the Lord thy God!' Frowning he spake, And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide, Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake, And caught me up aloft, till in one flake The sidelong volley met my swift career, And smote me earthward. --Jove himself might quake At such a fall; my sinews crack'd, and near, Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in mine ear. 

XXII. 

 "Senseless and stunn'd I lay; till casting round My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe Borne on a car of roses to the ground, By volant angels; and as sailing slow He sunk the hoary battlement below, While on the tall spire slept the slant sunbeam, Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the flow Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem, On star-light hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's dream. 

XXIII. 

 "I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength; I smote the ether with my iron wing, And left the accursed scene. --Arrived at length In these drear halls, to ye, my peers! I bring The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king Thrice vanquished, baffled, smitten, and dismay'd! O shame! Is this the hero who could fling Defiance at his Maker, while array'd, High o'er the walls of light, rebellion's banners play'd!

XXIV. 

 "Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph long; Hell yet shall have revenge. O glorious sight, Prophetic visions on my fancy throng, I see wild Agony's lean finger write Sad figures on his forehead!--Keenly bright Revenge's flambeau burns! Now in his eyes Stand the hot tears, --immantled in the night, Lo! he retires to mourn!--I hear his cries!He faints--he falls--and lo!--'t is true, ye powers, he dies. "

XXV. 

 Thus spake the chieftain, --and as if he view'd The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced And chest inflated, motionless he stood, While under his uplifted shield he glanced, With straining eyeball fix'd, like one entranced, On viewless air;--thither the dark platoon Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there danced The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon, Darken'd the disk of the descending moon. 

XXVI. 

 Silence crept stilly through the ranks. --The breeze Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands, When all the midnight gasping from the seas Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands High on the shrouds the spirit that commands The ocean-farer's life; so stiff--so sear Stood each dark power;--while through their numerous bands Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fearNow told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear. 

XXVII. 

 One there was there, whose loud defying tongue Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long His passion mock'd, and long he strove to tell His labouring ire; still syllable none fell From his pale quivering lip, but died away For very fury; from each hollow cell Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray, And.... * * * * *

XXVIII. 

 "This comes, " at length burst from the furious chief, "This comes of distant counsels! Here behold The fruits of wily cunning! the relief Which coward policy would fain unfold, To soothe the powers that warr'd with Heaven of old! O wise! O potent! O sagacious snare! And lo! our prince--the mighty and the bold, There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air, While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her standard there. "

XXIX. 

 Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye Full on the speaker; dark it was and stern; He wrapp'd his black vest round him gloomily, And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts concern. Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again to turn His soul to rage. "Behold, behold, " he cried, "The lord of Hell, who made these legions spurn Almighty rule--behold he lays asideThe spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied. "

XXX. 

 Thus ended Moloch, and his burning tongue Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat In slaughter. So, his native wilds among, The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his seat, Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet. Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the seat Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord, As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. 

 * * * * *

"Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I provedthis of old: who led your forces against the armiesof Jehovah? Who coped with Ithuriel and thethunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunnedand confused ye lay on the burning lake, who firstawoke, and collected your scattered powers? Lastly, who led you across the unfathomable abyss to thisdelightful world, and established that reign herewhich now totters to its base? How, therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan'sbravery? he who preys only on the defenceless--whosucks the blood of infants, and delights only inacts of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention. Away with the boaster who never joins in action, but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feedupon the wounded, and overwhelm the dying. Truebravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation;let us counsel coolly, but let us execute ourcounselled purposes determinately. In power wehave learned, by that experiment which lost usHeaven, that we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer:--Insubtlety, in subtlety alone we are his equals. Open war is impossible. 

 * * * * *

 "Thus we shall pierce our conqueror through the race Which as himself he loves; thus if we fall, We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace, Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call Of vengeance rings within me! Warriors all, The word is vengeance, and the spur despair. Away with coward wiles!--Death's coal-black pall Be now our standard!--Be our torch the glareOf cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air!"

 Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old, Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves, Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms untold And mystery. His wandering spirit roves, Now vainly searching for the flame it loves; And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire, Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves And cinnamon unheap'd the sacred pyre, And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire. 

 He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast, And sighing--his papyrus scarf survey'd, Woven with dark characters, then thus address'd The troubled council. 

 * * * * *

I. 

 Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem The lyre which I in early days have strung: And now my spirit's faint, and I have hung The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no more. 

 And must the harp of Judah sleep again? Shall I no more reanimate the lay? Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men, Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, One little space prolong my mournful day! One little lapse suspend thy last decree! I am a youthful traveller in the way, And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. 

 * * * * *

LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS, IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK. 

 Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do holdYour brilliant places in the sable vaultOf night's dominions!--Planets, and central orbsOf other systems!--big as the burning sunWhich lights this nether globe, --yet to our eyeSmall as the glowworm's lamp!--To you I raiseMy lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd, My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts;Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold, And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, The great Creator! Him! who now sublime, Wrapt in the solitary amplitudeOf boundless space, above the rolling spheresSits on his silent throne and meditates. 

 The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great, "In varied harmonies. --The glorious soundsRoll o'er the air serene--The Æolian spheres, Harping along their viewless boundaries, Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great, "Responding to the Seraphim. O'er allFrom orb to orb, to the remotest vergeOf the created world, the sound is borne, Till the whole universe is full of Him. Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which nowIn fancy strikes upon my listening ear, And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smileOn the vain world, and all its bustling cares, And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. 

 Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height, What even are kings, when balanced in the scaleOf these stupendous worlds! Almighty God!Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works!Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, One look of kind benevolence?--Thou canst:For Thou art full of universal love, And in thy boundless goodness wilt impartThy beams as well to me as to the proud, The pageant insects of a glittering hour. 

Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, How insignificant do all the joys, The gaudes, and honours of the world appear!How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lampOutwatch'd the slow-paced night!--Why on the page, The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'dThe hours devoted by the world to rest, And needful to recruit exhausted nature?Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repayThe loss of health? or can the hope of gloryLend a new throb into my languid heart, Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye, Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?

Say, foolish one--can that unbodied fame, For which thou barterest health and happiness, Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave?Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangsOf everlasting punishment condign?Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires!How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God!Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth, And oh! assist me so to live on earth, That I may die in peace, and claim a placeIn thy high dwelling. --All but this is folly, The vain illusions of deceitful life. 

LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVERAT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS. 

OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE. 

Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave, And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling, The big tear in his eye. --Mary, awake, From thy dark house arise, and bless his sightOn the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low. Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale, Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love, To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul, And cheer his breaking heart. --Come, as thou didst, When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd, And the deep thunders shook the ebon throneOf the startled night!--O! then, as lone reclining, I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm, Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careeringDidst strike my moody eye;--dead pale thou wert, Yet passing lovely. --Thou didst smile upon me, And oh! thy voice it rose so musical, Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm, That at the sound the winds forgot to rave, And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd, Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose, Lock'd in the arms of silence. 

 Spirit of her!My only love! O! now again arise, And let once more thine aëry accents fallSoft on my listening ear. The night is calm, The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadenceWith the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swellingOn the still air, the distant waterfallMingles its melody;--and, high above, The pensive empress of the solemn night, Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky. No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knollDare now assemble at their mystic revels. It is a night when, from their primrose beds, The gentle ghosts of injured innocentsAre known to rise and wander on the breeze, Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. The spirit of my love might now awake, And hold its custom'd converse. 

 Mary, lo!Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blowsOn his wan cheek will soon sweep over himIn solemn music a funereal dirge, Wild and most sorrowful. His cheek is pale, The worm that prey'd upon thy youthful bloomIt canker'd green on his. Now lost he stands, The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew, Which bathes his aching temples, gives sure omenOf speedy dissolution. Mary, soonThy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine, And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death. 

MY STUDY. 

A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE. 

 You bid me, Ned, describe the placeWhere I, one of the rhyming race, Pursue my studies con amore, And wanton with the muse in glory. 

 Well, figure to your senses straight, Upon the house's topmost height, A closet just six feet by four, With whitewash'd walls and plaster floor. So noble large, 'tis scarcely ableTo admit a single chair and table:And (lest the muse should die with cold)A smoky grate my fire to hold:So wondrous small, 'twould much it poseTo melt the icedrop on one's nose;And yet so big, it covers o'erFull half the spacious room and more. 

 A window vainly stuff'd about, To keep November's breezes out, So crazy, that the panes proclaimThat soon they mean to leave the frame. 

 My furniture I sure may crack--A broken chair without a back;A table wanting just two legs, One end sustain'd by wooden pegs;A desk--of that I am not fervent, The work of, Sir, your humble servant;(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler;)A glass decanter and a tumbler, From which my night-parch'd throat I lave, Luxurious, with the limpid wave. A chest of drawers, in antique sections, And saw'd by me in all directions;So small, Sir, that whoever views 'emSwears nothing but a doll could use 'em. To these, if you will add a storeOf oddities upon thee floor, A pair of globes, electric balls, Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, You'll have my earthly catalogue. But stay, --I nearly had left outMy bellows destitute of snout;And on the walls, --Good Heavens! why thereI've such a load of precious ware, Of heads, and coins, and silver medals, And organ works, and broken pedals;(For I was once a-building music, Though soon of that employ I grew sick);And skeletons of laws which shootAll out of one primordial root;That you, at such a sight, would swearConfusion's self had settled there. There stands, just by a broken sphere, A Cicero without an ear, A neck, on which, by logic good, I know for sure a head once stood;But who it was the able masterHad moulded in the mimic planter, Whether 't was Pope, or Coke, or Burn, I never yet could justly learn:But knowing well, that any headIs made to answer for the dead, (And sculptors first their faces frame, And after pitch upon a name, Nor think it aught of a misnomerTo christen Chaucer's busto Homer, Because they both have beards, which, you know, Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno, )For some great man, I could not tellBut Neck might answer just as well, So perch'd it up, all in a rowWith Chatham and with Cicero. 

 Then all around, in just degree, A range of portraits you may see, Of mighty men and eke of women, Who are no whit inferior to men. 

 With these fair dames, and heroes round, I call my garret classic ground. For though confined, 't will well containThe ideal flights of Madam Brain. No dungeon's walls, no cell confinedCan cramp the energies of mind!Thus, though my heart may seem so small, I've friends, and 't will contain them all;And should it e'er become so coldThat these it will no longer hold, No more may Heaven her blessings give, I shall not then be fit to live. 

DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. 

 Down the sultry arc of dayThe burning wheels have urged their way;And eve along the western skiesSheds her intermingling dyes. Down the deep, the miry lane, Creaking comes the empty wain, And driver on the shaft-horse sits, Whistling now and then by fits:And oft, with his accustom'd call, Urging on the sluggish Ball. The barn is still, the master's gone, And thresher puts his jacket on, While Dick, upon the ladder tall, Nails the dead kite to the wall. Here comes shepherd Jack at last, He has penn'd the sheepcote fast, For 't was but two nights before, A lamb was eaten on the moor:His empty wallet Rover carries, Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries. With lolling tongue he runs to tryIf the horse-trough be not dry. The milk is settled in the pans, And supper messes in the cans;In the hovel carts are wheel'd, And both the colts are drove a-field;The horses are all bedded up, And the ewe is with the tup. The snare for Mister Fox is set, The leaven laid, the thatching wet, And Bess has slink'd away to talkWith Roger in the holly walk. 

 Now, on the settle all, but Bess, Are set to eat their supper mess;And little Tom and roguish KateAre swinging on the meadow gate. Now they chat of various things, Of taxes, ministers, and kings, Or else tell all the village news, How madam did the squire refuse;How parson on his tithes was bent, And landlord oft distrain'd for rent. Thus do they talk, till in the skyThe pale-eyed moon is mounted high, And from the alehouse drunken NedHad reel'd--then hasten all to bed. The mistress sees that lazy KateThe happing coal on kitchen grateHas laid--while master goes throughout, Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out, The candles safe, the hearths all clear, And nought from thieves or fire to fear;Then both to bed together creep, And join the general troop of sleep. 

LINES, Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. CapelLofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield'sPoems, just published:--"It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepensthe impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I havesaid in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours oflife less offend my taste than its sweets delight it. "

 Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still!"Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will;Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, But tell not Misery's son that life is fair. 

 Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd, And every year with new delight hast told, Thou, who, recumbent on the lacquer'd barge, Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, Thou mayst extol life's calm untroubled sea, The storms of misery never burst on thee. 

 Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines, Go to the shade obscure, where merit pines;Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, Survey his sleepless couch, and, standing there, Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair! Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled;Mark his dew'd temples, and his half shut eye, His trembling nostrils, and his deep drawn sigh, His muttering mouth contorted with despair, And ask if Genius could inhabit there. 

 Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd, And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd:But now Neglect has stung him to--the core, And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more;Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round, And added Grief compels him to the ground. Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan, The shades of death with gradual steps steal on;And the pale mother, pining to decay, Weeps for her boy her wretched life away. 

 Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave, Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave;Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her headOn the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!

 Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth, To encourage genius, and to foster worth;On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 'T is just that every blessing should descend;'T is just that life to thee should only showHer fairer side but little mix'd with woe. 

WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils. Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind;Communing lonely with his sinking soul, And musing on the dubious glooms that lieIn dim obscurity before him, --thee, Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I callAt this still midnight hour, this awful season, When, on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, I turn me wearisome; while all around, All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;I only wake to watch the sickly taperWhich lights me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the handOf death I feel press heavy on my vitals, Slow sapping the warm current of existence. My moments now are few--the sand of lifeEbbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little, And the last fleeting particle will fallSilent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate, While meditate we may. --We have now--But a small portion of what men call timeTo hold communion; for even now the knife, The separating knife, I feel divideThe tender bond that binds my soul to earth. Yes, I must die--I feel that I must die;And though to me has life been dark and dreary, Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive, And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments, Yet do I feel my soul recoil within meAs I contemplate the dim gulf of death, The shuddering void, the awful blank--futurity. Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine schemeOf earthly happiness--romantic schemes, And fraught with loveliness; and it is hardTo feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps, Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes, And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry?Oh! none;--another busy brood of beingsWill shoot up in the interim, and noneWill hold him in remembrance. I shall sinkAs sinks a stranger in the crowded streetsOf busy London:--Some short bustle's caused, A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, And all's forgotten. --On my grassy graveThe men of future times will careless tread, And read my name upon the sculptured stone;Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, Recall my vanish'd memory. I did hopeFor better things!--I hoped I should not leaveThe earth without a vestige;--Fate decreesIt shall be otherwise, and I submit. Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires!No more of hope! the wanton vagrant Hope!I abjure all. Now other cares engross me, And my tired soul, with emulative haste, Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for heaven. 

VERSES. 

When pride and envy, and the scorn Of wealth my heart with gall imbued, I thought how pleasant were the morn Of silence, in the solitude;To hear the forest bee on wing;Or by the stream, or woodland spring, To lie and muse alone--alone, While the tinkling waters moan, Or such wild sounds arise, as say, Man and noise are far away. 

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow To fill life's dusty way;And who will miss a poet's feet, Or wonder where he stray:So to the woods and wastes I'll go, And I will build an osier bower, And sweetly there to me shall flow The meditative hour. 

And when the Autumn's withering hand, Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, I'll to the forest caverns hie:And in the dark and stormy nightsI'll listen to the shrieking sprites, Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, Keep jubilee, and shred the woods;Or, as it drifted soft and slow, Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. 

 * * * * *

FRAGMENT. 

Oh! thou most fatal of Pandora's train, Consumption! silent cheater of the eye;Thou comest not robed in agonizing pain, Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye, But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie;O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse, And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye, While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues, E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues. 

Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth, Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd;And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth I knew would never stay, till all consumed, In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd. 

But oh! what sorrow did I feel, as swift, Insidious ravager, I saw thee flyThrough fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow, Preparing swift her passage to the sky. Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance, The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye;Yet soon did languid listlessness advance, And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance. 

Even when her end was swiftly drawing near, And dissolution hover'd o'er her head:Even then so beauteous did her form appear, That none who saw her but admiring said, Sure so much beauty never could be dead. Yet the dark lash of her expressive eyeBent lowly down upon the languid--

 * * * * *

FRAGMENT. 

 Loud rage the winds without. --The wintry cloudO'er the cold northstar casts her flitting shroud;And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale, Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale;Where now, shut out from every still retreat, Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat, Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood, Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood?Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askanceThe drifted fleeces that around him dance, And hurries on his half-averted form, Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm. Him soon shall greet his snow-topp'd [cot of thatch], Soon shall his numb'd hand tremble on the latch, Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flameDiffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame;Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud, What merry groups of vacant faces crowd;These hail his coming--these his meal prepare, And boast in all that cot no lurking care. 

 What though the social circle be denied, Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside, Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze, While musing Memory dwells on former days;Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles--and still forgiven, Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven. Then heap the fire--shut out the biting air, And from its station wheel the easy chair:Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweetTo hear without the bitter tempest beat, All, all alone--to sit, and muse, and sigh, The pensive tenant of obscurity. 

 * * * * *

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, WHO, WHEN THE AUTHOR REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, ASKED, "IF HE DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM. "

"Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel. Yea, I do feel--most exquisitely feel;My heart can weep, when, from my downcast eye, I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. On this I act--whatever pangs surround, 'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!When all was new, and life was in its spring, I lived an unloved, solitary thing;Even then I learn'd to bury deep from dayThe piercing cares that wore my youth away:Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel;Even then I wept I had not power to heal:Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom. Who were my friends in youth?--The midnight fire--The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir;To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight, To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn;The sacred source of woe I never ope, My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show, Though the cold crowd the secret never know;With them I laugh--yet, when no eye can see, I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. Yes, thou didst wrong me, ... I fondly thought, In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought!I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise, And read the truth that in my bosom lies;I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gone, Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!Yes--and they yet will mingle. Days and yearsWill fly, and leave us partners in our tears:We then shall feel that friendship has a powerTo soothe affliction in her darkest hour;Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, And wait the passport to a better land. 

Thine

H. K. WHITE. 

Half past Eleven o'clock at Night. 

CHRISTMAS DAY. 

1804. 

 Yet once more, and once more, awake, my Harp, From silence and neglect--one lofty strain;Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven, And speaking mysteries more than words can tell, I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high, Would join the dirge of the departing year. 

 Yet with no wintry garland from the woods, Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear, Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, And fearful joy, to celebrate the dayOf the Redeemer. --Near two thousand sunsHave set their seals upon the rolling lapseOf generations, since the dayspring firstBeam'd from on high!--Now to the mighty massOf that increasing aggregate we addOne unit more. Space in comparisonHow small, yet mark'd with how much misery;Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness, Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong, Forcing the scanty portion from the weak, And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears. 

 So has the year been character'd with woeIn Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes;Yet 't was not thus He taught--not thus He lived, Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayerAnd much thanksgiving. He, a man of woes, Went on the way appointed, --path, though rude, Yet borne with patience still:--He came to cheerThe broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, And on the wandering and benighted mindTo pour the light of truth. O task divine!O more than angel teacher! He had wordsTo soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds;And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm, He, pointing to the star of peace on high, Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smileAt the surrounding wreck. ----When with deep agony his heart was rack'd, Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd, His persecutors--"Father, pardon them, They know not what they do. "

 Angels of Heaven, Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross, And did him homage, say, may mortal joinThe halleluiahs of the risen God?Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heardAmid the seraphim in light divine?Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign, For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith, Low though it be and humble. Lord of life, The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent nowFills my uprising soul. --I mount, I flyFar o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes, And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more. 

 * * * * *

NELSONI MORS. 

 Yet once again, my Harp, yet once againOne ditty more, and on the mountain ashI will again suspend thee. I have feltThe warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last, At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, I woke to thee the melancholy song. Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaksOf frolic fancy to the line of truth;Not unrepining, for my froward heartStills turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flowOf spring-gales past--the woods and storied hauntsOf my not songless boyhood. --Yet once more, Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink;The good, the brave--he must not, shall not sinkWithout the meed of some melodious tear. 

 Though from the Muse's chalice I may pourNo precious dews of Aganippe's well, Or Castaly, --though from the morning cloudI fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse:Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scentOf Britain, my loved country; and with tearsMost eloquent, yet silent, I will batheThy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warmAnd honest as the ebbing blood that flow'dFast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too, If ever I have loved, with faltering step, To follow thee in the cold and starless night, To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff;And, as I heard the deep gun bursting loudAmid the pauses of the storm, have pour'dWild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, The dying soul's viaticum; if oftAmid the carnage of the field I've sateWith thee upon the moonlight throne, and sungTo cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, With mercy and forgiveness--visitantOf Heaven--sit thou upon my harp, And give it feeling, which were else too coldFor argument so great, for theme so high. 

 How dimly on that morn the sun arose, 'Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when--

 * * * * *

EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 

Bloomfield, thy happy omen'd nameEnsures continuance to thy fame;Both sense and truth this verdict give, While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!

ELEGY

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WASDROWNED IN THE RIVER TRENT, WHILEBATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802. 

He sunk, the impetuous river roll'd along, The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath;And rising sad the rustling sedge among, The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death. 

Nymph of the Trent! why didst thou not appear To snatch the victim from thy felon wave!Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier, And deck with waterflags his early grave. 

Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey, Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride;While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide. 

The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye, The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, I mark them rise--I mark the general sigh! Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved?

On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink, When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade;On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink To hold mysterious converse with thy shade. 

Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet, Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale, Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet, And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale. 

And, oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside O'er running rill and salutary stream. Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide From the rude death-shriek and the dying scream. 

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER. 

 Reader! if with no vulgar sympathyThou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth, Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot. Here Cowper rests. Although renown have madeHis name familiar to thine ear, this stoneMay tell thee that his virtues were aboveThe common portion:--that the voice, now hush'dIn death, was once serenely querulousWith pity's tones, and in the ear of woeSpake music. Now, forgetful, at thy feet, His tired head presses on its last long rest, Still tenant of the tomb;--and on the cheek, Once warm with animation's lambent flush, Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay. Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part;And, these sad garments of MortalityPut off, we trust, that to a happier landHe went a light and gladsome passenger. Sigh'st thou for honours, reader? Call to mindThat glory's voice is impotent to pierceThe silence of the tomb! but virtue bloomsEven on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies. So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walkWith Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ. 

"I'M PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD. "

When twilight steals along the ground, And all the bells are ringing round, One, two, three, four, and five, I at my study window sit, And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit, To bliss am all alive. 

But though impressions calm and sweetThrill round my heart a holy heat, And I am inly glad;The tear-drop stands in either eye, And yet I cannot tell thee why, I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad. 

The silvery rack that flies away, Like mortal life or pleasure's ray, Does that disturb my breast?Nay, what have I, a studious man, To do with life's unstable plan, Or pleasure's fading vest?

Is it that here I must not stop, But o'er yon blue hill's woody top Must bend my lonely way?No, surely no! for give but meMy own fireside, and I shall be At home where'er I stray. 

Then is it that yon steeple there, With music sweet shall fill the air, When thou no more canst hear?Oh, no! oh, no! for then, forgiven, I shall be with my God in heaven, Released from every fear. 

Then whence it is I cannot tell, But there is some mysterious spell That holds me when I'm glad;And so the tear-drop fills my eye, When yet in truth I know not why, Or wherefore I am sad. 

SOLITUDE. 

It is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow;It is not grief that bids me moan;It is that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home;Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast. 

Yet when the silent evening sighs, With hallow'd airs and symphonies, My spirit takes another tone, And sighs that it is all alone. 

The autumn leaf is sere and dead, It floats upon the water's bed;I would not be a leaf, to dieWithout recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sullen wail, Tell all the same unvaried tale;I've none to smile when I am free, And when I sigh, to sigh with me. 

Yet in my dreams a form I view, That thinks on me, and loves me too;I start, and when the vision's flown, I weep that I am all alone. 

If far from me the Fates removeDomestic peace, connubial love, The prattling ring, the social cheer, Affection's voice, affection's tear, Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart, To me your iron aid impart!O teach me when the nights are chill, And my fireside is lone and still;When to the blaze that crackles near, I turn a tired and pensive ear, And Nature conquering bids me sighFor love's soft accents whispering nigh;O teach me, on that heavenly road, That leads to Truth's occult abode, To wrap my soul in dreams sublime, Till earth and care no more be mine. Let bless'd Philosophy impartHer soothing measures to my heart;And while with Plato's ravish'd earsI list the music of the spheres, Or on the mystic symbols pore, That hide the Chald's sublimer lore, I shall not brood on summers gone, Nor think that I am all alone. 

Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie! Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak!Where art thou, love?--Around I turn my eye, And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. Was it a dream? or did my love behold Indeed my lonely couch?--Methought the breathFann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold And hollow, and the livery of deathInvested her pale forehead. Sainted maid! My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, Through the long wintry night, when wind and waveRock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore Of better promise; and I know at last, When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, We two shall meet in Christ--to part no more. 

FRAGMENTS. [1]

Saw'st thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and paused:Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the streamThat skirts the woods it for a moment play'd. Again, more light it gleam'd, --or does some spriteDelude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams, And lamp far beaming through the thicket's gloom, As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voiceOf revelry, or thrifty watchfulness, Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour?No sprite deludes mine eyes, --the beam now glowsWith steady lustre. --Can it be the moonWho, hidden long by the invidious veilThat blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods?No moon to-night has look'd upon the seaOf clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger, She has been sleeping with Endymion. 

 * * * * *

 The pious man, In this bad world, when mists and couchant stormsHide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faithAbove the clouds that threat him, to the fieldsOf ether, where the day is never veil'dWith intervening vapours, and looks downSerene upon the troublous sea, that hidesThe earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether faceTo grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all;But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd, The glaring sunbeam plays. 

Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, And from his tower of mist, Night's watchman hurries down. 

There was a little bird upon that pile;It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle, And made sweet melody. The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear, For other note none swell'd the air but his. It seem'd as if the little chorister, Sole tenant of the melancholy pile, Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind, Yet withal cheerful. I have heard the noteEchoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn, ----Much musing----

O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint Thy melancholy ray:When the still night's unclouded saint Is walking on her way. Through my lattice leaf embower'd, Fair she sheds her shadowy beam, And o'er my silent sacred room Casts a checker'd twilight gloom; I throw aside the learned sheet, I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. Sad vestal, why art thou so fair, Or why am I so frail?

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon, And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards!Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd;So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloudThou shinest, like a cresset, beaming farFrom the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave. 

O give me music--for my soul doth faint; I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine earLongs for some air of peace, some dying plaint, That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. 

Hark how it falls! and now it steals along, Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, When all is still; and now it grows more strong, As when the choral train their dirges weave, Mellow and many-voiced; where every close, O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. 

Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores, And floating pæans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed, Far from its clayey cell it springs, --

 * * * * *

And must thou go, and must we part? Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit;The pang that rends in twain my heart, Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it?

Thy sex is fickle, --when away, Some happier youth may win thy----

 * * * * *

Ah! who can say, however fair his view, Through what sad scenes his path may lie? Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh, Secure his own will never need it too?

Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye The illusive past and dark futurity;Soon will they know--

 * * * * *

Hush'd is the lyre--the hand that swept The low and pensive wires, Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. 

Yes--it is still--the lyre is still; The spirit which its slumbers broke Hath pass'd away, --and that weak hand that wokeIts forest melodies hath lost its skill. 

Yet I would press you to my lips once more, Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy;Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour, Mix'd with decaying odours: for to meYe have beguiled the hours of infancy, As in the wood-paths of my native--

 * * * * *

When high romance o'er every wood and stream Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire, Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering dream, First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre. All there was mystery then, the gust that woke The midnight echo was a spirit's dirge, And unseen fairies would the moon invoke To their light morrice by the restless surge. Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles, Too much ... The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. 

Once more, and yet once more, I give unto my harp a dark woven lay;I heard the waters roar, I heard the flood of ages pass away. O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell In thine eternal cell, Noting, gray chronicler! the silent years, I saw thee rise, --I saw the scroll complete; Thou spakest, and at thy feet The universe gave way. 

Footnotes:

[1] These Fragments were written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the last year of his life. 

FRAGMENT OF AN ECCENTRIC DRAMA. 

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. 

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. 

 Ding-dong! ding-dong! Merry, merry go the bells, Ding-dong! ding-dong!Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, "Swinging slow with sullen roar, "Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay!Ding-dong, ding-dong calls us away. 

 Round the oak, and round the elm, Merrily foot it o'er the ground! The sentry ghost it stands aloof, So merrily, merrily foot it round. Ding-dong! ding-dong! Merry, merry go the bells, Swelling in the nightly gale, The sentry ghost, It keeps its post, And soon, and soon our sports must fail: But let us trip the nightly ground, While the merry, merry bells ring round. 

Hark! Hark! the deathwatch ticks! See, see, the winding-sheet! Our dance is done, Our race is run, And we must lie at the alder's feet! Ding-dong! ding-dong! Merry, merry go the bells, Swinging o'er the weltering wave! And we must seek Our deathbeds bleak, Where the green sod grows upon the grave. 

They vanish--The Goddess of Consumption descends, habitedin a sky-blue robe, attended by mournful music. 

Come, Melancholy, sister mine! Cold the dews, and chill the night!Come from thy dreary shrine! The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, And underneath her sickly ray Troops of squalid spectres play, And the dying mortals' groan Startles the night on her dusky throne. Come, come, sister mine! Gliding on the pale moonshine: We'll ride at ease On the tainted breeze, And oh! our sport will be divine. 

The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in therear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil. --Shespeaks. 

 Sister, from my dark abode, Where nests the raven, sits the toad, Hither I come, at thy command: Sister, sister, join thy hand! I will smooth the way for thee, Thou shalt furnish food for me. Come, let us speed our way Where the troops of spectres play. To charnel-houses, churchyards drear, Where Death sits with a horrible leer, A lasting grin, on a throne of bones, And skim along the blue tombstones. Come, let us speed away, Lay our snares, and spread our tether! I will smooth the way for thee, Thou shalt furnish food for me; And the grass shall wave O'er many a grave, Where youth and beauty sleep together. 

CONSUMPTION. 

 Come, let us speed our way, Join our hands, and spread our tether! I will furnish food for thee, Thou shalt smooth the way for me! And the grass shall wave O'er many a grave, Where youth and beauty sleep together. 

MELANCHOLY. 

Hist, sister, hist! who comes here?Oh! I know her by that tear, By that blue eye's languid glare, By her skin, and by her hair: She is mine, And she is thine, Now the deadliest draught prepare. 

CONSUMPTION. 

In the dismal night air dress'd, I will creep into her breast:Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, And feed on the vital fire within. Lover, do not trust her eyes, --When they sparkle most, she dies!Mother, do not trust her breath, --Comfort she will breathe in death!Father, do not strive to save her, --She is mine, and I must have her!The coffin must be her bridal bed!The winding-sheet must wrap her head;The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, For soon in the grave the maid must lie: The worm it will riot On heavenly diet, When death has deflower'd her eye. 

[They vanish. While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters. ]

ANGELINA. 

With [1] what a silent and dejected paceDost thou, wan Moon! upon thy way advanceIn the blue welkin's vault!--Pale wanderer!Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love, That thus, with such a melancholy grace, Thou dost pursue thy solitary course?Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsookThy widow'd breast--on which the spoiler oftHas nestled fondly, while the silver cloudsFantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night, Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd roundWith its thick fringe thy couch? Wan traveller, How like thy fate to mine!--Yet I have stillOne heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st;My woes will soon be buried in the graveOf kind forgetfulness--my journey here. Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn, Is yet but short, and soon my weary feetWill greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd to traceThy lonely walk in the drear realms of night, While many a lagging age shall sweep beneathThe leaden pinions of unshaken time;Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hueTo cheat thy steps along the weary way. O that the sum of human happinessShould be so trifling, and so frail withal, That when possess'd, it is but lessened grief;And even then there's scarce a sudden gustThat blows across the dismal waste of life, But bears it from the view. Oh! who would shunThe hour that cuts from earth, and fear to pressThe calm and peaceful pillows of the grave, And yet endure the various ills of life, And dark vicissitudes! Soon, I hope, I feel, And am assured, that I shall lay my dead, My weary aching head, on its last rest, And on my lowly bed the grass-green sodWill flourish sweetly. And then they will weepThat one so young, and what they're pleased to callSo beautiful, should die so soon. And tellHow painful Disappointment's canker'd fangWither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek. Oh, foolish ones! why, I shall sleep so sweetly, Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselvesMight envy me my rest! And as for them, Who, on the score of former intimacy, May thus remembrance me--they must themselvesSuccessive fall. 

Around the winter fire(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, And shrill the skater's irons on the poolRing loud, as by the moonlight he performsHis graceful evolutions) they not longShall sit and chat of older times, and featsOf early youth, but silent, one by one, Shall drop into their shrouds. Some, in their age, Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me, And falling green beneath the untimely stroke. Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn, Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down, And dwell with me, a happy family. And oh! thou cruel, yet beloved youth, Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn, Do thou but shed one tear upon my corseAnd say that I was gentle, and deservedA better lover, and I shall forgiveAll, all thy wrongs;--and then do thou forgetThe hapless Margaret, and be as bless'dAs wish can make thee--Laugh, and play, and singWith thy dear choice, and never think of me. Yet hist, I hear a step. --In this dark wood--

 * * * * *

Footnotes:

[1] With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and how wan a face!_Sir P. Sidney. _

TO A FRIEND. 

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. 

I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian, And many another noble Grecian, Who wealth and palaces resigned, In cots the joys of peace to find;Maximian's meal of turnip-tops(Disgusting food to dainty chops)I've also read of, without wonder;But such a cursed egregious blunder, As that a man of wit and senseShould leave his books to hoard up pence, --Forsake the loved Aonian maidsFor all the petty tricks of trades, I never, either now, or long since, Have heard of such a peace of nonsense;That one who learning's joys hath felt, And at the Muse's altar knelt, Should leave a life of sacred leisureTo taste the accumulating pleasure;And, metamorphosed to an alley duck, Grovel in loads of kindred muck. Oh! 't is beyond my comprehension!A courtier throwing up his pension, --A lawyer working without a fee, --A parson giving charity, --A truly pious methodist preacher, --Are not, egad, so out of nature. Had nature made thee half a fool, But given thee wit to keep a school, I had not stared at thy backsliding:But when thy wit I can confide in, When well I know thy just pretenceTo solid and exalted sense;When well I know that on thy headPhilosophy her lights hath shed, I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to, I wonder what this world will come to!Yet, whence this strain? shall I repineThat thou alone dost singly shine?Shall I lament that thou alone, Of men of parts, hast prudence known?

LINES

ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. AGE FOURTEEN. 

Oh, Warton! to thy soothing shell, Stretch'd remote in hermit cell, Where the brook runs babbling by, For ever I could listening lie;And catching all the muses' fire, Hold converse with the tuneful quire. 

What pleasing themes thy page adorn, The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn, The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime, And Melancholy's mournful chime!Each with unwonted graces shinesIn thy ever lovely lines. 

Thy muse deserves the lasting meed;Attuning sweet the Dorian reed, Now the lovelorn swain complains, And sings his sorrows to the plains;Now the sylvan scenes appearThrough all the changes of the year;

Or the elegiac strainSoftly sings of mental pain, And mournful diapasons sailOn the faintly dying gale. But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er, On middle flight we cease to soar, For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep, Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep, In strains unheard before. Now, now the rising fire thrills high, Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly, And every throne explore:The soul entranced, on mighty wings, With all the poet's heat upsprings, And loses earthly woes;Till all alarm'd at the giddy height, The Muse descends on gentler flight, And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. 

FRAGMENT. 

 The western gale, Mild as the kisses of connubial love, Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved, Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shadeI lie, exhausted with the noontide heat:While rippling o'er its deep worn pebble bed, The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet, Dispensing coolness. On the fringed margeFull many a floweret rears its head, --or pink, Or gaudy daffodil. 'Tis here, at noon, The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire, And lave them in the fountain; here secureFrom Pan, or savage satyr, they disport:Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf, Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly, Invoke the god of slumber.... * * * * *

 And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower, Ring round the village bells! now on the galeThey rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud;Anon they die upon the pensive ear, Melting in faintest music. They bespeakA day of jubilee, and oft they bear, Commix'd along the unfrequented shore, The sound of village dance and tabor loud, Startling the musing ear of Solitude. 

 Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide, When happy Superstition, gabbling eld!Holds her unhurtful gambols. All the dayThe rustic revellers ply the mazy danceOn the smooth shaven green, and then at eveCommence the harmless rites and auguries;And many a tale of ancient days goes round. 

They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spellsCould hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon, Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence, And still the midnight tempest. Then anonTell of uncharnel'd spectres, seen to glideAlong the lone wood's unfrequented path, Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the soundOf undistinguished murmurs, heard to comeFrom the dark centre of the deepening glen, Struck on his frozen ear. 

 Oh, Ignorance!Thou art fallen man's best friend! With thee he speedsIn frigid apathy along his way. And never does the tear of agonyBurn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steelOf wounded feeling penetrate his breast. 

 E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, I taste of all the keener happinessWhich sense refined affords--E'en now my heartWould fain induce me to forsake the world, Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, With a small flock, and short suspended reed, To sojourn in the woodland. --Then my thoughtDraws such gay pictures of ideal bliss, That I could almost err in reason's spite, And trespass on my judgment. 

 Such is life:The distant prospect always seems more fair, And when attain'd, another still succeeds, Far fairer than before, --yet compass'd roundWith the same dangers, and the same dismay. And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze, Still discontented, chase the fairy formOf unsubstantial Happiness, to find, When life itself is sinking in the strife, 'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat. 

COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR. 

 Some to Aonian lyres of silver soundWith winning elegance attune their song, Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense, And charm the soul with softest harmony:'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seenRoving through Fancy's gay futurity;Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, Pleasure of days to come. Memory, too, thenComes with her sister, Melancholy sad, Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, Scenes never to return. [1]Such subjects merit poets used to raiseThe attic verse harmonious; but for meA deadlier theme demands my backward hand, And bids me strike the strings of dissonanceWith frantic energy. 'Tis wan Despair I sing, if sing I canOf him before whose blast the voice of Song, And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly, Nor ever dare return. His notes are heardAt noon of night, where, on the coast of blood, The lacerated son of AngolaHowls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind;And, when the awful silence of the nightStrikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart, He speaks in every conscience-prompted wordHalf utter'd, half suppressed. 'Tis him I sing--Despair--terrific name, Striking unsteadily the tremulous chordOf timorous terror--discord in the sound:For to a theme revolting as is this, Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, Who love to sit and catch the soothing soundOf lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle, Calling the hero to the field of glory, And firing him with deeds of high empriseAnd warlike triumph: but from scenes like mineShrink they affrighted, and detest the bardWho dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. 

 Hence, then, soft maids, And woo the silken zephyr in the bowersBy Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream:For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for powersOf darker hue to inspire a verse like mine!'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends. 

 Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light, And all the myriads of the burning concave:Souls of the damned:--Hither, oh! come and joinThe infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing!He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pangThan all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair!Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power;Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, Till the loud pæan ring through hell's high vault, And the remotest spirits of the deepLeap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. 

Footnotes:

[1] Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and ofMemory. 

THE EVE OF DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 

Silence of death--portentous calm, Those airy forms that yonder flyDenote that your void foreruns a storm, That the hour of fate is nigh. I see, I see, on the dim mist borne, The Spirit of battles rear his crest!I see, I see, that ere the morn, His spear will forsake its hated rest, And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked breast. 

O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep, No softly ruffling zephyrs fly;But nature sleeps a deathless sleep, For the hour of battle is nigh. Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, But a creeping stillness reigns around;Except when the raven, with ominous croak, On the ear does unwelcomely sound. I know, I know what this silence means; I know what the raven saith--Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp, For this is the eve of death. 

Behold, how along the twilight air The shades of our fathers glide!There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, And Colma with gray side. No gale around its coolness flings, Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees;And hark! how the harp's unvisited strings Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze!'Tis done! the sun he has set in blood! He will never set more to the brave;Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death, For to-morrow he hies to the grave. 

THANATOS. 

Oh! who would cherish life, And cling unto this heavy clog of clay, Love this rude world of strife, Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day; And where, 'neath outward smiles, Conceal'd the snake lies feeding on its prey, Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way, And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles! Hateful it is to me, Its riotous railings and revengeful strife; I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shoutsDinning the ear;--away--away with life! And welcome, oh! thou silent maid, Who in some foggy vault art laid, Where never daylight's dazzling rayComes to disturb thy dismal sway;And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, In such forgetful slumbers deep, That all thy senses stupefiedAre to marble petrified. Sleepy Death, I welcome thee!Sweet are thy calms to misery. Poppies I will ask no more, Nor the fatal hellebore;Death is the best, the only cure, His are slumbers ever sure. Lay me in the Gothic tomb, In whose solemn fretted gloomI may lie in mouldering state, With all the grandeur of the great:Over me, magnificent, Carve a stately monument;Then thereon my statue lay, With hands in attitude to pray, And angels serve to hold my head, Weeping o'er the father dead. Duly too at close of day, Let the pealing organ play;And while the harmonious thunders roll, Chant a vesper to my soul:Thus how sweet my sleep will be, Shut out from thoughtful misery!

ATHANATOS. 

 Away with Death--awayWith all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, Impervious to the day, Where nature sinks into inanity. How can the soul desire Such hateful nothingness to crave, And yield with joy the vital fire To moulder in the grave! Yet mortal life is sad, Eternal storms molest its sullen sky; And sorrows ever rife Drain the sacred fountain dry-- Away with mortal life!But, hail the calm reality, The seraph Immortality!Hail the heavenly bowers of peace, Where all the storms of passion cease. Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er, The wearied spirit weeps no more;But wears the eternal smile of joy, Tasting bliss without alloy. Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, Where no passing tempest lowers;But the azure heavens displayThe everlasting smile of day;Where the choral seraph choirStrike to praise the harmonious lyre;And the spirit sinks to ease, Lull'd by distant symphonies. Oh! to think of meeting thereThe friends whose graves received our tear, The daughter loved, the wife adored, To our widow'd arms restored;And all the joys which death did sever, Given to us again for ever!Who would cling to wretched life, And hug the poison'd thorn of strife;Who would not long from earth to fly, A sluggish senseless lump to lie, When the glorious prospect liesFull before his raptured eyes?

MUSIC

WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN ANDFIFTEEN, WITH A FEW SUBSEQUENTVERBAL ALTERATIONS. 

Music, all powerful o'er the human mind, Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined, And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm. 

At her command the various passions lie; She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace;Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy, And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease. 

Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise;Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire Urge on the warrior gray with length of days. 

Far better she, when, with her soothing lyre, She charms the falchion from the savage grasp, And melting into pity vengeful ire, Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp. 

With her in pensive mood I long to roam, At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline. 

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise, Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd, With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies, And pleased attention claims the passive mind. 

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire, Then burst majestic in the varied swell;Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre, Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell. 

Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give, That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul, With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live For ever 'neath your undefiled control. 

Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent, To cheer the soul when tired with human strife, To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent, And soften down the rugged road of life. 

ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONEPLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 

 The morning sun's enchanting raysNow call forth every songster's praise;Now the lark, with upward flight, Gaily ushers in the light;While wildly warbling from each tree, The birds sing songs to Liberty. 

 But for me no songster sings, For me no joyous lark upsprings;For I, confined in gloomy school, Must own the pedant's iron rule, And far from sylvan shades and bowers, In durance vile must pass the hours;There con the scholiast's dreary lines, Where no bright ray of genius shines, And close to rugged learning cling, While laughs around the jocund spring. How gladly would my soul foregoAll that arithmeticians know, Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach, Or all that industry can reach, To taste each morn of all the joysThat with the laughing sun arise;And unconstrain'd to rove alongThe bushy brakes and glens among;And woo the muse's gentle powerIn unfrequented rural bower:But, ah! such heaven-approaching joysWill never greet my longing eyes;Still will they cheat in vision fine, Yet never but in fancy shine. 

Oh, that I were the little wrenThat shrilly chirps from yonder glen!Oh, far away I then would roveTo some secluded bushy grove;There hop and sing with careless glee. Hop and sing at liberty;And, till death should stop my lays, Far from men would spend my days. 

TO CONTEMPLATION. 

Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys, The soother of my cares, inspiring peace;And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave, And blame and censure me, that I don't tieMy every thought down to the desk, and spendThe morning of my life in adding figuresWith accurate monotony: that soThe good things of the world may be my lot, And I might taste the blessedness of wealth:But, oh! I was not made for money getting;For me no much respected plum awaits. Nor civic honour, envied. For as stillI tried to cast with school dexterityThe interesting sums, my vagrant thoughtsWould quick revert to many a woodland haunt, Which fond remembrance cherished, and the penDropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured, In my mind's eye, how on the shores of TrentI erewhile wander'd with my early friendsIn social intercourse. And then I'd thinkHow contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe;They were set down with sober steadiness, Each to his occupation. I alone, A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veeringWith every wind to every point of the compass. Yes, in the counting-house I could indulgeIn fits of close abstraction; yea, amidThe busy bustling crowds could meditate, And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues awayBeyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youthI woo'd thy heavenly influence! I would walkA weary way when all my toils were done, To lay myself at night in some lone wood, And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. Oh, those were times of happiness, and stillTo memory doubly dear; for growing yearsHad not then taught me man was made to mourn;And a short hour of solitary pleasure, Stolen from sleep, was ample recompenseFor all the hateful bustles of the day. My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic, And soon the marks of care were worn away, While I was sway'd by every novel impulse, Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. But it has now assumed its character;Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone, Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend. Yet still, O Contemplation! I do loveTo indulge thy solemn musings; still the sameWith thee alone I know to melt and weep, In thee alone delighting. Why alongThe dusky tract of commerce should I toil, When, with an easy competence content, I can alone be happy; where with theeI may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, And loose the wings of Fancy? Thus aloneCan I partake the happiness on earth;And to be happy here is a man's chief end, For to be happy he must needs be good. 

MY OWN CHARACTER. 

ADDRESSED (DURING ILLNESS) TO A LADY. 

 Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, To give you a sketch--ay, a sketch of myself. 'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess, And one it would puzzle a painter to dress;But, however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun;For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her, She wont be a cynical father confessor. 

 Come, come, 'twill not do! put that curling brow down;You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction, That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction;Religious--deistic--now loyal and warm;Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform:This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus;Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus;Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle;Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle;Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay, To all points of the compass I veer in a day. 

 I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child, But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild;As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute;Then as for politeness--oh! dear--I'm a brute!I show no respect where I never can feel it;And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it. And so in the suite, by these laudable ends, I've a great many foes, and a very few friends. 

 And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feelThat this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd of steel. It can love (can it not?)--it can hate, I am sure;And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor. For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds;If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds;And though far from faultless, or even so-so, I think it may pass as our worldly things go. 

 Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss;Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss!I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say, But in process of time I may get the wrong way. I'm a general lover, if that's commendation, And yet can't withstand you know whose fascination. But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices, In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices;So as for the good, why, if I possess it, I am not yet learned enough to express it. 

 You yourself must examine the lovelier side, And after your every art you have tried, Whatever my faults, I may venture to say, Hypocrisy never will come in your way. I am upright, I hope; I'm downright, I'm clear!And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere;And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast, 'Tis now when I swear----. 

LINES WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCHYARD. 

ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 

 Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spotWhich I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in. Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred. It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun, From his meridian height, endeavours vainlyTo pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyrComes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nookMost pleasant. Such a one perchance did GrayFrequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd. 

 Come, I will sit me down and meditate, For I am wearied with my summer's walk;And here I may repose in silent ease;And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may findThe haven of its rest--beneath this sodPerchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. 

 I would not have my corpse cemented downWith brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthwormOf its predestined dues; no, I would lieBeneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown, Swath'd down with osiers, just as sleep the cotters. Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;But there at eve may some congenial soulDuly resort, and shed a pious tear, The good man's benison--no more I ask. And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look downFrom where, with cherubim, inspired they sit, Upon this little dim-discover'd spot, The earth, ) then will I cast a glance belowOn him who thus my ashes shall embalm;And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer, Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pineIn this low-thoughted world of darkling woe, But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies. 

 Yet 't was a silly thought, as if the body, Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, And, spite of reason, bids it look beyondHis narrow verge of being, and provideA decent residence for its clayey shell, Endear'd to it by time. And who would layHis body in the city burial-place, To be thrown up again by some rude sexton, And yield its narrow house another tenant, Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness?No, I will lay me in the village ground;There are the dead respected. The poor hind, Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invadeThe silent resting place of death. I've seenThe labourer, returning from his toil, Here stay his steps, and call his children round, And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes, And, in his rustic manner, moralize. I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken, With head uncover'd, his respectful manner, And all the honours which he paid the grave, And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries, Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, Are not protected from the drunken insolenceOf wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close!Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bonesMay lie--or in the city's crowded bounds, Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, Or left a prey on some deserted shoreTo the rapacious cormorant, --yet still, (For why should sober reason cast awayA thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spiritShall wing its way to these my native regions, And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll thinkOf times when I was seated 'neath this yewIn solemn rumination; and will smileWith joy that I have got my long'd release. 

VERSES. 

Thou base repiner at another's joy, Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, And find on meaner climes a fitter throne. Away, away, it shall not be, Thou shalt not dare defile our plains; The truly generous heart disdains Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while heJoys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity. 

Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed-- Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, Thy happy victim will emerge to light;When o'er his head in silence that reposes Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear;Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses, Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe;Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and allWill curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall. 

 * * * * *

Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure: Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey?Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting, O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp;While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting, Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd? Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion live?Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, That short quick sigh--their sad responses give. 

And canst thou rob a poet of his song; Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise?Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long; Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his laysWhile yet he lives--for to his merits just, Though future ages join his fame to raise, Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust?

 * * * * *

LINES. 

Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd farFrom thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy!And many a flower, which in the passing timeMy heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chillOf undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceasedTo hover o'er the many-voiced stringsOf my long silent lyre, yet thou canst stillCall the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, And with recalled images of blissWarm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw, Once more would throw a quick and hurried handO'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased--It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmthPlays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek;Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy!The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month. Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress!I cannot burst thy bonds. It is but liftThy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault, Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire, Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood, Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. Yet other duties call me, and mine earMust turn away from the high minstrelsyOf thy soul-trancing harp, unwillinglyMust turn away; there are severer strains(And surely they are sweet as ever smoteThe ear of spirit, from this mortal coilReleased and disembodied), there are strainsForbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, Through the probation of revolving years, And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, Have purged and purified. To these my soulAspireth; and to this sublimer endI gird myself, and climb the toilsome steepWith patient expectation. Yea, sometimesForetaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimesSpirits unseen upon my footsteps wait, And minister strange music, which doth seemNow near, now distant, now on high, now low, Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete, And full fruition filling all the soul. Surely such ministry, though rare, may sootheThe steep ascent, and cheat the lassitudeOf toil; and but that my fond heartReverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake, I lay a listless muser, prizing, farAbove all other lore, the poet's theme;But for such recollections I could braceMy stubborn spirit for the arduous pathOf science unregretting; eye afarPhilosophy upon her steepest height, And with bold step and resolute attemptPursue her to the innermost recess, Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. 

THE PROSTITUTE. 

DACTYLICS. 

Woman of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot, Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart;

Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery, Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away, While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings. 

Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite;Spurned by the beings who lured thee from innocence;Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence;

Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled;Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness;Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage!

Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here;Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death;None after thee inquires with solicitude;

Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down, Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind, Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes. 

Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering, And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave. Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid. 

Once wert thou happy--thou wert once innocent;But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness, Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy. 

Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down:But if a wretch like him sleeps in security, God of the red right arm! where is thy thunder-bolt?

ODES. 

TO MY LYRE. 

Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild Has served to charm the weary hour, And many a lonely night has 'guiled, When even pain has own'd, and smiled, Its fascinating power. 

Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd Will little heed thy simple tones;Them mightier minstrels harping loudEngross, --and thou and I must shroud Where dark oblivion 'thrones. 

No hand, they diapason o'er, Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime;For me, no academic loreHas taught the solemn strain to pour, Or build the polish'd rhyme. 

Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar; Thou know'st to charm the woodland train;The rustic swains believe thy power Can hush the wild winds when they roar, And still the billowy main. 

These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, I, still unknown, may live with thee, And gentle zephyr's wing will sweepThy solemn string, where low I sleep, Beneath the alder tree. 

This little dirge will please me more Than the full requiem's swelling peal;I'd rather than that crowds should sighFor me, that from some kindred eye The trickling tear should steal. 

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, Perhaps from me debarr'd;And dear to me the classic zone, Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, Adorns the accepted bard. 

And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell Where Cam or Isis winds along, Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, I yet might call the ear of taste To listen to my song. 

Oh! then, my little friend, thy style I'd change to happier lays, Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile, And through the long, the fretted aisle Should swell the note of praise. 

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds. 

Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the stormsOf chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blowsChastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. 

ODE ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. 

ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS. 

Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of lightThat shoots athwart the gloom opaque below;And listen to the distant death-shriek long From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, While the weird sisters weave the horrid song: Or, when along the liquid sky Serenely chant the orbs on high, Dost love to sit in musing trance, And mark the northern meteor's dance (While far below the fitful oar Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore), And list the music of the breeze, That sweeps by fits the bending seas; And often bears with sudden swell The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, By the spirits sung, who keep Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, And guide the wakeful helmsman's eye To Helice in northern sky; And there upon the rock reclined With mighty visions fill'st the mind, Such as bound in magic spell Him[1] who grasp'd the gates of Hell, And, bursting Pluto's dark domain, Held to the day the terrors of his reign. 

Genius of Horror and romantic awe, Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, Can force the inmost soul to own its law; Who shall now, sublimest spirit, Who shall now thy wand inherit, From him[2] thy darling child who best Thy shuddering images expressed? Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud, His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd, And now he lays his aching headIn the dark mansion of the silent dead. 

Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain Buried beneath the unfathomable deep; And oh! for ever must its efforts sleep, May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain? Oh, yes, 'tis his! Thy other son! He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, Fuesslin waves thy wand, --again they rise, Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes. Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep Where round his head the vollied lightnings flung, And the loud winds that round his pillow rungWoo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep. 

 Or on the highest top of TeneriffeSeated the fearless boy, and bade him look Where far below the weather-beaten skiffOn the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear The death-sob, and, disdaining rest, Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. Then, Superstition, at thy call, She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, And set before his awe-struck sight The savage feast and spectred fight; And summoned from his mountain tomb The ghastly warrior son of gloom, His fabled runic rhymes to sing, While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing; Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, Laid on the stormy Hebrides, Which on the mists of evening gleam, Or crowd the foaming desert stream; Lastly her storied hand she waves, And lays him in Florentian caves; There milder fables, lovelier themes, Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams, There pity's lute arrests his ear, And draws the half reluctant tear; And now at noon of night he roves Along the embowering moonlight groves, And as from many a cavern'd dell The hollow wind is heard to swell, He thinks some troubled spirit sighs, And as upon the turf he lies, Where sleeps the silent beam of night, He sees below the gliding sprite, And hears in Fancy's organs sound Aërial music warbling round. 

 Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole, And breathes her polish o'er his soul; Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, The wondrous work is now complete. 

 The Poet dreams:--The shadow flies, And fainting fast its image dies. But lo! the Painter's magic force Arrests the phantom's fleeting course; It lives--it lives--the canvas glows, And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. The Bard beholds the work achieved, And as he sees the shadow rise Sublime before his wondering eyes, Starts at the image his own mind conceived. 

Footnotes:

[1] Dante. 

[2] Ibid. 

TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G. 

I. 1. 

Retired, remote from human noise, An humble Poet dwelt serene;His lot was lowly, yet his joys Were manifold, I ween. He laid him by the brawling brook At eventide to ruminate, He watch'd the swallow skimming round, And mused, in reverie profound, On wayward man's unhappy state, And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of ancient date. 

II. 1. 

"Oh, 'twas not always thus, " he cried, "There was a time, when genius claim'd Respect from even towering pride, Nor hung her head ashamed: But now to wealth alone we bow, The titled and the rich alone Are honour'd, while meek merit pines, On penury's wretched couch reclines, Unheeded in his dying moan, As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown. 

III. 1. 

"Yet was the muse not always seen In poverty's dejected mien, Not always did repining rue, And misery her steps pursue. Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced By the sweet honours of poetic bays, When Sidney sung his melting song, When Sheffield join'd the harmonious throng, And Lyttelton attuned to love his lays. Those days are gone--alas, for ever gone! No more our nobles love to grace Their brows with anadems, by genius won, But arrogantly deem the muse as base;How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!"

I. 2. 

 Thus sang the minstrel:--still at eve The upland's woody shades among In broken measures did he grieve, With solitary song. And still his shame was aye the same, Neglect had stung him to the core; And he with pensive joy did love To seek the still congenial grove, And muse on all his sorrows o'er, And vow that he would join the abjured world no more. 

II. 2. 

 But human vows, how frail they be! Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, And all amazed, he thought to see The Augustan age anew. Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose, No more he ponders on the woes Which erst he felt that forward goes, Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. 

III. 2. 

 Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore With ills which in the world he bore, Again on futile hope to rest, An unsubstantial prop at best, And not to know one swallow makes no summer! Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, Which flash'd across the hemisphere, Illumining the darkness there, Was but a single solitary beam, While all around remained in custom'd night. Still leaden ignorance reigns serene, In the false court's delusive height, And only one Carlisle is seenTo illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light. 

TO CONTEMPLATION. 

 Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwellIn some retired Lapponian cell, Where, far from noise and riot rude, Besides sequester'd solitude. Come, and o'er my longing soulThrow thy dark and russet stole, And open to my duteous eyesThe volume of thy mysteries. 

 I will meet thee on the hill, Where, with printless footsteps still, The morning in her buskin graySprings upon her eastern way;While the frolic zephyrs stir, Playing with the gossamer, And, on ruder pinions borne, Shake the dewdrops from the thorn. There, as o'er the fields we pass, Brushing with hasty feet the grass, We will startle from her nestThe lively lark with speckled breast, And hear the floating clouds amongHer gale-transported matin song, Or on the upland stile, embower'dWith fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd, Will sauntering sit, and listen stillTo the herdsman's oaten quill, Wafted from the plain below;Or the heifer's frequent low;Or the milkmaid in the grove, Singing of one that died for love. Or when the noontide heats oppress, We will seek the dark recess, Where, in the embower'd translucent stream, The cattle shun the sultry beam, And o'er us on the marge reclined, The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, While echo, from her ancient oak, Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;Or the little peasant's song, Wandering lone the glens among, His artless lip with berries dyed, And feet through ragged shoes descried. 

 But oh! when evening's virgin queenSits on her fringed throne serene, And mingling whispers rising nearSteal on the still reposing ear;While distant brooks decaying round, Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, And the zephyr flitting byWhispers mystic harmony, We will seek the woody lane, By the hamlet, on the plain, Where the weary rustic nighShall whistle his wild melody, And the croaking wicket oftShall echo from the neighbouring croft;And as we trace the green path lone, With moss and rank weeds overgrown, We will muse on penbive lore?Till the full soul, brimming o'er, Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, Embodied in a quivering tear. Or else, serenely silent, sitBy the brawling rivulet, Which on its calm unruffled breastRears the old mossy arch impressed, That clasps its secret stream of glass, Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, We'll watch in eve's ethereal braidThe rich vermilion slowly fade;Or catch, faint twinkling from afarThe first glimpse of the eastern star;Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light, That heralds in imperial night:Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear, Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, The distant sounds of pastoral lute, Invoking soft the sober suitOf dimmest darkness--fitting wellWith love, or sorrow's pensive spell, (So erst did music's silver toneWake slumbering chaos on his throne). And haply then, with sudden swell, Shall roar the distant curfew bell, While in the castle's mouldering towerThe hooting owl is heard to pourHer melancholy song, and scareDull silence brooding in the air. Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering carBlack-suited night drives on from far, And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, Arrests the waxing darkness drear, And summons to her silent call, Sweeping, in their airy pall, The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, To join her moonshine morris-dance;While around the mystic ringThe shadowy shapes elastic spring, Then with a passing shriek they fly, Wrapt in mists, along the sky, And oft are by the shepherd seenIn his lone night-watch on the green. 

 Then, hermit, let us turn our feetTo the low abbey's still retreat, Embower'd in the distant glen, Far from the haunts of busy men, Where as we sit upon the tomb, The glowworm's light may gild the gloom, And show to fancy's saddest eyeWhere some lost hero's ashes lie. And oh, as through the mouldering arch, With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, The night gale whispers sadly clear, Speaking dear things to fancy's ear, We'll hold communion with the shadeOf some deep wailing, ruin'd maid--Or call the ghost of Spenser down, To tell of woe and fortune's frown;And bid us cast the eye of hopeBeyond this bad world's narrow scope. Or if these joys, to us denied, To linger by the forest's side;Or in the meadow, or the wood, Or by the lone, romantic flood;Let us in the busy town, When sleep's dull streams the people drown, Far from drowsy pillows flee, And turn the church's massy key;Then, as through the painted glassThe moon's faint beams obscurely pass, And darkly on the trophied wallHer faint, ambiguous shadows fall, Let us, while the faint winds wailThrough the long reluctant aisle, As we pace with reverence meet, Count the echoings of our feet, While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, Distinct responds the voice of death. If thou, mild sage, wilt condescendThus on my footsteps to attend, To thee my lonely lamp shall burnBy fallen Genius' sainted urn, As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, And sagely spell of ancient lore, Till I can rightly guess of allThat Plato could to memory call, And scan the formless views of things;Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, Arrange the mystic trains that shineIn night's high philosophic mine;And to thy name shall e'er belongThe honours of undying song. 

TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE. 

Oh! thou who, in my early youth, When fancy wore the garb of truth, Wert wont to win my infant feetTo some retired, deep fabled seat, Where, by the brooklet's secret tide, The midnight ghost was known to glide;Or lay me in some lonely glade, In native Sherwood's forest shade, Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, Was wont his sylvan courts to hold;And there, as musing deep I lay, Would steal my little soul away, And all my pictures represent, Of siege and solemn tournament;Or bear me to the magic scene, Where, clad in greaves and gabardine, The warrior knight of chivalryMade many a fierce enchanter flee;And bore the high-born dame away, Long held the fell magician's prey. Or oft would tell the shuddering taleOf murders, and of goblins pale, Haunting the guilty baron's side(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed), Which o'er the vaulted corridorOn stormy nights was heard to roar, By old domestic, waken'd wideBy the angry winds that chide:Or else the mystic tale would tellOf Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell. 

 * * * * *

TO MIDNIGHT. 

Season of general rest, whose solemn stillStrikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, But speaks to philosophic souls delight;Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, My candle waning melancholy by, I sit and taste the holy calm of night. 

Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, And gilds the misty shadows of the vales, Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame;To her, while all around in sleep recline, Wakeful I raise my orisons divine, And sing the gentle honours of her name;

While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends, To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, And Superstition's gentle terrors come, --See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng!

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, My flageolet--and as I pensive play, The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene:The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, Hears them aghast, --(while still the dull owl pours Her hollow screams each dreary pause between). 

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep, And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene, Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep. 

TO THOUGHT. 

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 

 Hence, away, vindictive thought; Thy pictures are of pain; The visions through thy dark eye caught, They with no gentle charms are fraught, So pr'y thee back again. I would not weep, I wish to sleep, Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?

 Why dost o'er bed and couch recline? Is this thy new delight? Pale visitant, it is not thine To keep thy sentry through the mine, The dark vault of the night: 'Tis thine to die, While o'er the eyeThe dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. 

 Go thou, and bide with him who guides His bark through lonely seas; And as reclining on his helm, Sadly he marks the starry realm, To him thou mayst bring ease: But thou to me Art misery, So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my pillow flee. 

 And, memory, pray what art thou? Art thou of pleasure born? Does bliss untainted from thee flow? The rose that gems thy pensive brow, Is it without a thorn? With all thy smiles, And witching wiles, Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles. 

 The drowsy night-watch has forgot To call the solemn hour; Lull'd by the winds, he slumbers deep, While I in vain, capricious sleep, Invoke thy tardy power; And restless lie, With unclosed eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. 

GENIUS. 

AN ODE. 

I. 1. 

Many there be, who, through the vale of life, With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go, While jarring discord's inharmonious strife Awakes them not to woe. By them unheeded, carking care, Green-eyed grief and dull despair;Smoothly they pursue their way, With even tenor and with equal breath, Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death. 

II. 1. 

But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour, And weeping woe, and disappointment keen, Repining penury, and sorrow sour, And self-consuming spleen. And these are Genius' favourites: these Know the thought-throned mind to please, And from her fleshy seat to draw To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law, The captivated soul. 

III. 1. 

Genius, from thy starry throne, High above the burning zone, In radiant robe of light array'd, Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, His melancholy moan. He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, Pangs that his sensibility uprouse To curse his being and his thirst for praise. Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel, His high indignant pride. 

I. 2. 

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life. That Genius visits not your lowly shed;For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife Distract his hapless head! For him awaits no balmy sleep, He wakes all night, and wakes to weep;Or by his lonely lamp he sits At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps, In feverish study, and in moody fits His mournful vigils keeps. 

II. 2. 

And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil? For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath?'T is for neglect and penury he doth toil, 'Tis for untimely death. Lo! where dejected pale he lies, Despair depicted in his eyes, He feels the vital flame decrease, He sees the grave wide yawning for its prey, Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, And cheer the expiring ray. 

III. 2. 

 By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, By gentle Otway's magic name, By him, the youth, who smiled at death, And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, Will I thy pangs proclaim; For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, And far resounding Fame. What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, And to thy posthumous merit bend them low; Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe, And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw, Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain, And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky, A melancholy train. 

 Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, Mocking thy derided state; Thee chill Adversity will still attend, Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend And leaves thee all forlorn; While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs, And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides, And while the cup of affluence he quaffs With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides, Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, To gain the meed of praise when he is mouldering in his grave. 

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON. 

Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night, A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled. Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, Nocturnal study's still retreat, It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, And through my lofty casement weaves, Dim through the vine's encircling leaves, An intermingled beam. 

These feverish dews that on my temples hang, This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame;These the dread signs of many a secret pang, These are the meed of him who pants for fame!Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul; Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high;My lamp expires;--beneath thy mild controlThese restless dreams are ever wont to fly. 

Come, kindred mourner, in my breastSoothe these discordant tones to rest, And breathe the soul of peace;Mild visitor, I feel thee here, It is not pain that brings this tear, For thou hast bid it cease. Oh! many, a year has pass'd awaySince I, beneath thy fairy ray, Attuned my infant reed;When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, Those happy moments now no more--

 * * * * *

When on the lake's damp marge I lay, And mark'd the northern meteor's dance, Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there To inspirate my trance. Twin sisters, faintly now ye deignYour magic sweets on me to shed, In vain your powers are now essay'd To chase superior pain. 

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb! So swiftly pleasure flies, So to mankind, in darkness lost, The beam of ardour dies. Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, And now, encurtain'd in the main, Thou sinkest into rest;But I, in vain, on thorny bedShall woo the god of soft repose--

 * * * * *

TO THE MUSE. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 

 Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy trainChill poverty and misery are seen, Anguish and discontent, the unhappy baneOf life, and blackener of each brighter scene. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feelSo keenly all the scorns--the jeers of life?Why not endow them to endure the strife With apathy's invulnerable steel, Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal?

 Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb? What is the charm which leads thy victims onTo persevere in paths that lead to woe?What can induce them in that route to go, In which innumerous before have gone, And died in misery poor and woe-begone?

 Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found;I, who have drunk from thine ethereal rill, And tasted all the pleasures that aboundUpon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill? I, through whose soul the Muse's strains aye thrill!Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied; And though our annals fearful stories tell, How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. 

TO LOVE. 

Why should I blush to own I love?'Tis Love that rules the realms above. Why should I blush to say to all, That Virtue holds my heart in thrall?

Why should I seek the thickest shade, Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd?Why the stern brow deceitful move, When I am languishing with love?

Is it weakness thus to dwellOn passion that I dare not tell?Such weakness I would ever prove;'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet to love. 

ON WHIT-MONDAY. 

Hark! how the merry bells ring jocund round, And now they die upon the veering breeze Anon they thunder loud Full on the musing ear. 

Wafted in varying cadence, by the shoreOf the still twinkling river, they bespeak A day of jubilee, An ancient holiday. 

And lo! the rural revels are begun, And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, On the smooth shaven green Resounds the voice of Mirth. 

Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate, That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they Who now are in their graves Kept up the Whitsun dance. 

And that another hour, and they must fallLike those who went before, and sleep as still Beneath the silent sod, A cold and cheerless sleep. 

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scareThe vagrant Happiness, when she will deign To smile upon us here, A transient visitor?

Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy; In time the bell will toll That warns ye to your graves. 

I to the woodland solitude will bendMy lonesome way--where Mirth's obstreperous shout Shall not intrude to break The meditative hour. 

There will I ponder on the state of man, Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate This day of jubilee To sad reflection's shrine;

And I will cast my fond eye far beyondThis world of care, to where the steeple loud Shall rock above the sod, Where I shall sleep in peace. 

TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT. 

Not unfamiliar to mine ear, Blasts of the night! ye howl as now My shuddering casement loud With fitful force ye beat. 

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, The howling sweep, the sudden rush; And when the passing gale Pour'd deep the hollow dirge. 

 * * * * *

TO THE HARVEST MOON. 

 Cum ruit imbriferum ver:Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cumFrumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent. Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. VIRGIL. 

 Moon of Harvest, herald mild Of plenty rustic labour's child, Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam, As soft it trembles o'er the stream, And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide, Where Innocence and Peace reside!'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song. 

 Moon of Harvest, I do love O'er the uplands now to rove, While thy modest ray serene Gilds the wide surrounding scene; And to watch thee riding high In the blue vault of the sky, Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray, But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. 

 Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon! Now the night is at her noon, 'Neath thy sway to musing lie, While around the zephyrs sigh, Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, Ripen'd by the summer's heat; Picturing all the rustic's joy When boundless plenty greets his eye, And thinking soon, Oh, modest Moon! How many a female eye will roam Along the road, To see the load, The last dear load of harvest home. 

 Storms and tempests, floods and rains, Stern despoilers of the plains, Hence, away, the season flee, Foes to light-heart jollity: May no winds careering high Drive the clouds along the sky, But may all nature smile with aspect boon, When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh Harvest Moon!

 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, The husbandman, with deep-seal'd eyes: He dreams of crowded barns, and round The yard he hears the flail resound; Oh! may no hurricane destroy His visionary views of joy!God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare. 

 Sons of luxury, to you Leave I sleep's dull power to woo; Press ye still the downy bed, While feverish dreams surround your head; I will seek the woodland glade, Penetrate the thickest shade, Wrapp'd in contemplation's dreams, Musing high on holy themes, While on the gale Shall softly sailThe nightingale's enchanting tune, And oft my eyes Shall grateful riseTo thee, the modest Harvest Moon!

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. [1]

Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drearTo waft thy waste perfume!Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And I will bind thee round my brow; And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song;And sweet the strain shall be, and long, The melody of death. 

Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloomA sweet decaying smell. Come, press my lips, and lie with meBeneath the lowly alder tree, And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrudeTo break the marble solitude, So peaceful and so deep. 

And hark! the wind god, as he flies, Moans hollow in the forest trees, And sailing on the gusty breeze, Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead: My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. 

Footnotes:

[1] The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put inthe coffins of the dead. 

TO THE MORNING. 

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. 

 Beams of the daybreak faint! I hail Your dubious hues, as on the robe Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, I mark your traces pale. Tired with the taper's sickly light, And with the wearying, number'd night, I hail the streaks of morn divine: And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths 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, And o'er the spangled uplands tread; Now through 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 gray, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. 

 Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale It breathes into my breast! My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, Is with new colours dress'd. 

 Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease! Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze, Invigorate my frame: I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, With thee the distant clime will trace Beyond those clouds of flame. 

 Above, below, what charms unfold In all the varied view! Before me all is burnish'd gold, Behind the twilight's hue. The mists which on old Night await, Far to the west they hold their state, They shun the clear blue face of Morn; Along the fine cerulean sky The fleecy clouds successive fly, While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn. 

 And hark! the thatcher has begun His whistle on the eaves, And oft the hedger's bill is heard Among the rustling leaves. The slow team creaks upon the road, The noisy whip resounds, The driver's voice, his carol blithe, The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe Mix with the morning's sounds. 

 Who would not rather take his seat Beneath these clumps of trees, The early dawn of day to greet, And catch the healthy breeze, Than on the silken couch of Sloth Luxurious to lie; Who would not from life's dreary waste Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, An interval of joy!

 To him who simply thus recounts The morning's pleasures o'er, Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close To ope on him no more. Yet Morning! unrepining still, He'll greet thy beams awhile; And surely thou, when o'er his grave Solemn the whispering willows wave, Wilt sweetly on him smile: And the pale glowworm's pensive lightWill guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. 

ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 

 Come, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad: Come, in thy meekest, saddest guise; Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine. 

 Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye the lingering knell That tells her hopes are dead; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. 

 Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, For thou severe wert sent from heaven To wean me from the world; To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 

 What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun--a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain. And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 

 Oh, what is Beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er Beauty's fall;Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 

 The most beloved on earth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, But now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. 

 Then since this world is vain, And volatile, and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat? Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still. 

 Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; Sad Monitress! I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun My race will run, I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done!

On another paper are a few lines, written probably in thefreshness of his disappointment. 

I dream no more--the vision flies away, And Disappointment.... There fell my hopes--I lost my all in this, My cherish'd all of visionary bliss. Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below;Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe. Plunge me in glooms.... 

ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY THE POET. 

Child of Misfortune! Offspring of the Muse! Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad career; With hollow cheeks and haggard eye, Behold he shrieking passes by: I see, I see him near: That hollow scream, that deepening groan; It rings upon mine ear. 

Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth, Who clasp the syren pleasure to your breast, Behold the wreck of genius here, And drop, oh drop the silent tear For Dermody at rest: His fate is yours, then from your loins Tear quick the silken vest. 

Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye, Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil; How ghastly did it seem; And then his dying scream: Oh God! I hear it still: It sounds upon my fainting sense, It strikes with deathly chill. 

Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death; Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed, Or pitying friends around him stand: Or didst thou see a mother's hand Support his languid head: Oh none of these--no friend o'er him The balm of pity shed. 

Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth, Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low; Now come around who pant for fame, And learn from hence, a poet's name Is purchased but by woe: And when ambition prompts to rise, Oh think of him below. 

For me, poor moralizer, I will run, Dejected, to some solitary state: The muse has set her seal on me, She set her seal on Dermody, It is the seal of fate: In some lone spot my bones may lie, Secure from human hate. 

Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear, Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head: May peace her banners o'er him wave; For me in my deserted grave No friend a tear shall shed: Yet may the lily and the rose Bloom on my grassy bed. 

SONNETS. 

SONNET TO THE RIVER TRENT. 

WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 

Once more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge A pensive invalid, reduced and pale, From the close sick-room newly set at large, Woos to his wan worn cheek the pleasant gale. O! to his ear how musical the tale Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat!And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, How wildly novel on his senses float!It was on this that many a sleepless night, As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright, The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir. 

SONNET. 

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, Where far from cities I may spend my days;And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, May pity man's pursuits and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, I shall not want the world's delusive joys;But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild waveShall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. 

SONNET. [1]

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY. 

Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe, And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young;Oh! may thy bosom never, never know The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung. I had a mother once--a brother too-- (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:)I had a lover once, and kind and true, But mother, brother, lover, all are fled!Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye? Oh! gentle lady--not for me thus weep, The green sod soon upon my breast will lie, And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom-- My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. 

Footnotes:

[1] This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, "occasioned byseeing a young female Lunatic, " written by Mrs. Lofft, and published inthe Monthly Mirror. 

SONNET. 

Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody inStorm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's service. 

Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds Successive fly, and the loud piping windRocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds, While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined, Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad, Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad, And the half strangled tear bedews his eyes; I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn, View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, For not for me shall wife or children mourn, And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell, Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell. 

SONNET. THE WINTER TRAVELLER. 

God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; The wind is bitter keen, --the snow o'erlays The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways, And darkness will involve thee. No kind starTo-night will guide thee, Traveller, --and the war Of winds and elements on thy head will break, And in thy agonizing ear the shriekOf spirits howling on their stormy carWill often ring appalling--I portend A dismal night--and on my wakeful bed Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, And him who rides where winds and waves contend, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. 

SONNET. 

BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 

This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this volume, andwas occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomeredSonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begsleave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, forthe permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for thegood opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions. 

Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays, "Severest of those orders which belong, Distinct and separate, to Delphic song, "Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze?And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days, Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throngThe muse selects, their ear the charm obeys Of its full harmony:--they fear to wrongThe sonnet, by adorning with a name Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet, Yet not in magic texture taught to meetOf that so varied and peculiar frame. O think! to vindicate its genuine praiseThose it beseems, whose lyre a favouring impulse sways. 

SONNET. 

RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANTADMONITION. 

Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapp'd in night, Rides on the raven pennons of the storm, Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight;Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, Disdain the plaintive sonnet's little form, And scorn to its wild cadence to conform, The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. But me, far lowest of the sylvan train, Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade With wildest song;--me, much behoves thy aidOf mingled melody, to grace my strain, And give it power to please, as soft it flowsThrough the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close. 

SONNET ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN ÆOLIAN HARP. 

So ravishingly soft upon the tide Of the infuriate gust, it did career, It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, And sunk him to a zephyr; then it died, Melting in melody;--and I descried, Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear Of Druid sage, who on the far-off earPour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied:Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell, Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, By unseen beings sung; or are these soundsSuch as, 'tis said, at night are known to swellBy startled shepherd on the lonely heath, Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death?

SONNET. 

What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat? Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands. And thou dost bear within thine awful handsThe rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, Thou guidest the northern storm at night's dead noon, Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon, Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. In the drear silence of the polar span Dost thou repose? or in the solitudeOf sultry tracts, where the lone caravan Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood?Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. 

SONNET TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 

Lofft, unto thee one tributary song The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring;She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth, Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth, And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child:Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal, Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, And show thy labours for the public weal, Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme. 

SONNET TO THE MOON. 

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. 

Sublime, emerging from the misty verge Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, As, sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the galeSeems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night, With double joy my homage do I pay. When clouds disguise the glories of the day, And stern November sheds her boisterous blight, How doubly sweet to mark the moony rayShoot through the mist from the ethereal height, And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring. 

SONNET WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. 

Fast from the west the fading day-streaks fly, And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie, And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'dThe maid of musings by yon moaning wave;And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which, now renew'd, Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave!The busy world pursues its boisterous way, The noise of revelry still echoes round, Yet I am sad while all beside is gay; Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, And 'neath the greensward sleep the sleep of peace. 

SONNET TO MISFORTUNE. 

Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare, And I have wonder'd much when men have told. How youth was free from sorrow and from care, That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old. Sure dost not like me!--Shrivel'd hag of hate, My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long; I am not either, beldame, over strong;Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate;I am yet young, and do not like thy face;And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, --Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age. 

SONNET. 

As thus oppressed with many a heavy care (Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet To the dark woodland, longing much to greetThe form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there;Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil, I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. And as, amid the leaves, the evening airWhispers still melody, --I think ere long, When I no more can hear, these woods will speak; And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, And mournful phantasies upon me throng, And I do ponder, with most strange delight, On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. 

SONNET TO APRIL. 

Emblem of life! see changeful April sail In varying vest along the shadowy skies, Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise, Anon recalling winter's stormy gale, And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail; Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes, While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail. So, to us, sojourners in life's low vale, The smiles of fortune flatter to deceive, While still the fates the web of misery weave. So Hope exultant spreads her aëry sail, And from the present gloom the soul conveysTo distant summers and far happier days. 

SONNET. 

Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies, At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear, Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies;When he, who now invokes you, low is laid, His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed;Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head, And chant a dirge to his reposing shade!For he was wont to love your madrigals; And often by the haunted stream, that laves The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, Would sit and listen to the dying falls, Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy. 

SONNET TO A TAPER. 

'Tis midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits, And all is silence--in the hour of sleep;Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. I wake alone to listen and to weep, To watch my taper, thy pale beacon burn;And, as still Memory does her vigils keep, To think of days that never can return. By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, My eye surveys the solitary gloom;And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread, Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. Like thee I wane;--like thine my life's last rayWill fade in loneliness, unwept, away. 

SONNET TO MY MOTHER. 

And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think That we, thy children, when old age shall shed Its blanching honours on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink?Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought!--where'er our steps may roam, O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. 

SONNET. 

Yes, 'twill be over soon. --This sickly dream Of life will vanish from my feverish brain;And death my wearied spirit will redeem From this wild region of unvaried pain. Yon brook will glide as softly as before, Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow. Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar When Henry's name is heard no more below. I sigh when all my youthful friends caress, They laugh in health, and future evils brave;Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, While I am mouldering in the silent grave. God of the just, Thou gavest the bitter cup;I bow to thy behest, and drink it up. 

SONNET TO CONSUMPTION. 

Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head. Consumption, lay thine hand!--let me decay Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, And softly go to slumber with the dead. And if 'tis true what holy men have said, That strains angelic oft foretell the dayOf death to those good men who fall thy prey, O let the aërial music round my bed, Dissolving sad in dying symphony, Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear;That I may bid my weeping friends good-by Ere I depart upon my journey drear:And, smiling faintly on the painful past, Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. 

SONNET. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. 

Thy judgments, Lord, are just; thou lovest to wear The face of pity and of love divine;But mine is guilt--thou must not, canst not spare, While heaven is true, and equity is thine. Yes, oh my God!--such crimes as mine, so dread, Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!Thy will be done, since 'tis thy glory's due, Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;Smite--it is time--though endless death ensue, I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood?

SONNET. 

When I sit musing on the chequer'd past (A term much darken'd with untimely woes), My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flowsThe tear, though half disown'd; and binding fastPride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breastReceived from her this wearying, lingering smart;Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; Though wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love, For she was most unworthy. --Then I proveVindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, Throned in dark clouds, inflexible.... The native pride of my much injured heart. 

SONNET. 

Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile, Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring;But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile, Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-- Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, While in my ears the howls of furies ring, And melancholy waste the vital fire?Away with thoughts like these--To some lone cave Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave, Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear, I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse, And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear. 

SONNET. 

Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts-- Bleak blows the blast--now howls--then faintly dies--And oft upon its awful wings it wafts The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries. Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt Horror stalks, And midnight hags their damned vigils hold, The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks, And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold. Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes, Insensible to every outward ill;Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes, And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill. Ah! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore, Which gnaws his heart, and bids him hope no more. 

BALLADS, SONGS, AND HYMNS. 

GONDOLINE

A BALLAD. 

The night it was still, and the moon it shone Serenely on the sea, And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock They murmur'd pleasantly, When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, A maiden full fair to the sight;Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, And turn'd it to deadly white. 

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear It fill'd her faint blue eye, As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, Her Bertrand's dying sigh. 

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth Of all our good king's men, And he was gone to the Holy Land To fight the Saracen. 

And many a month had pass'd away, And many a rolling year, But nothing the maid from Palestine Could of her lover hear. 

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce The ocean's misty face;Full oft she thought her lover's bark She on the wave could trace. 

And every night she placed a light In the high rock's lonely tower, To guide her lover to the land, Should the murky tempest lower. 

But now despair had seized her breast, And sunken in her eye;"Oh tell me but if Bertrand live, And I in peace will die. "

She wander'd o'er the lonely shore, The curlew scream'd above, She heard the scream with a sickening heart, Much boding on her love. 

Yet still she kept her lonely way, And this was all her cry. "Oh! tell me but if Bertrand live, And I in peace shall die. "

And now she came to a horrible rift All in the rock's hard side, A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread The cavern yawning wide. 

And pendant from its dismal top The deadly nightshade hung;The hemlock and the aconite Across the mouth was flung. 

And all within was dark and drear, And all without was calm;Yet Gondoline enter'd, her soul upheld By some deep-working charm. 

And as she enter'd the cavern wide, The moonbeam gleamed pale, And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, It clung by its slimy tail. 

Her foot it slipp'd, and she stood aghast, She trod on a bloated toad;Yet, still upheld by the secret charm, She kept upon her road. 

And now upon her frozen ear Mysterious sounds arose;So, on the mountain's piny top The blustering north wind blows. 

Then furious peals of laughter loud Were heard with thundering sound, Till they died away in soft decay, Low whispering o'er the ground. 

Yet still the maiden onward went, The charm yet onward led, Though each big glaring ball of sight Seem'd bursting from her head. 

But now a pale blue light she saw, It from a distance came;She follow'd, till upon her sight Burst full a flood of flame. 

She stood appall'd; yet still the charm Upheld her sinking soul;Yet each bent knee the other smote, And each wild eye did roll. 

And such a sight as she saw there No mortal saw before, And such a sight as she saw there No mortal shall see more. 

A burning cauldron stood in the midst, The flame was fierce and high, And all the cave so wide and long Was plainly seen thereby. 

And round about the cauldron stout Twelve withered witches stood;Their waists were bound with living snakes, And their hair was stiff with blood. 

Their hands were gory too; and red And fiercely flamed their eyes:And they were muttering indistinct Their hellish mysteries. 

And suddenly they join'd their hands, And utter'd a joyous cry, And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily. 

And now they stopp'd; and each prepared To tell what she had done, Since last the lady of the night Her waning course had run. 

Behind a rock stood Gondoline, Thick weeds her face did veil, And she lean'd fearful forwarder, To hear the dreadful tale. 

The first arose: She said she'd seen Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd, She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, And a jovial storm had brew'd. 

She'd called around the winged winds, And raised a devilish rout;And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard Full fifteen leagues about. 

She said there was a little bark Upon the roaring wave, And there was a woman there who'd been To see her husband's grave. 

And she had got a child in her arms, It was her only child, And oft its little infant pranks Her heavy heart beguiled. 

And there was too in that same bark A father and his son:The lad was sickly, and the sire Was old and woe-begone. 

And when the tempest waxed strong, And the bark could no more it 'bide, She said it was jovial fun to hear How the poor devils cried. 

The mother clasp'd her orphan child Unto her breast and wept;And sweetly folded in her arms The careless baby slept. 

And she told how, in the shape of the wind, As manfully it roar'd, She twisted her hand in the infant's hair, And threw it overboard. 

And to have seen the mother's pangs, 'Twas a glorious sight to see;The crew could scarcely hold her down From jumping in the sea. 

The hag held a lock of her hair in her hand, And it was soft and fair:It must have been a lovely child, To have had such lovely hair. 

And she said the father in his arms He held his sickly son, And his dying throes they fast arose, His pains were nearly done. 

And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands, And his face grew deadly blue;And the father he tore his thin gray hair, And kiss'd the livid hue. 

And then she told how she bored a hole In the bark, and it fill'd away:And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear, And some did vow and pray. 

The man and woman they soon were dead, The sailors their strength did urge;But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet, And the winds sung their funeral dirge. 

She threw the infant's hair in the fire, The red flame flamed high, And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily. 

The second begun: She said she had done The task that Queen Hecate had set her, And that the devil, the father of evil, Had never accomplished a better. 

She said, there was an aged woman, And she had a daughter fair, Whose evil habits fill'd her heart With misery and care. 

The daughter had a paramour, A wicked man was he, And oft the woman him against Did murmur grievously. 

And the hag had work'd the daughter up To murder her old mother, That then she might seize on all her goods, And wanton with her lover. 

And one night as the old woman Was sick and ill in bed. And pondering solely on the life Her wicked daughter led, She heard her footstep on the floor, And she raised her pallid head, And she saw her daughter, with a knife, Approaching to her bed. 

And said, My child, I'm very ill, I have not long to live, Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die Thy sins I may forgive. 

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, And she lifted the sharp bright knife, And the mother saw her fell intent, And hard she begg'd for life. 

But prayers would nothing her avail, And she scream'd aloud with fear, But the house was lone, and the piercing screams Could reach no human ear

And though that she was sick, and old, She struggled hard, and fought;The murderess cut three fingers through Ere she could reach her throat. 

And the hag she held her fingers up, The skin was mangled sore, And they all agreed a nobler deed Was never done before. 

And she threw the fingers in the fire, The red flame flamed high, And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily. 

The third arose: She said she'd been To holy Palestine;And seen more blood in one short day Than they had all seen in nine. 

Now Gondoline, with fearful steps, Drew nearer to the flame, For much she dreaded now to hear Her hapless lover's name. 

The hag related then the sports Of that eventful day, When on the well contested field Full fifteen thousand lay. 

She said that she in human gore Above the knees did wade, And that no tongue could truly tell The tricks she there had play'd. 

There was a gallant featured youth, Who like a hero fought;He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, And every danger sought. 

And in a vassal's garb disguised, Unto the knight she sues, And tells him she from Britain comes, And brings unwelcome news. 

That three days ere she had embark'd His love had given her handUnto a wealthy Thane:--and thought Him dead in Holy Land. 

And to have seen how he did writhe When this her tale she told, It would have made a wizard's blood Within his heart run cold. 

Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, And sought the battle's bed;And soon all mangled o'er with wounds He on the cold turf bled. 

And from his smoking corse she tore His head, half clove in two. She ceased, and from beneath her garb The bloody trophy drew. 

The eyes were starting from their socks, The mouth it ghastly grinn'd, And there was a gash across the brow, The scalp was nearly skinn'd. 

'Twas Bertrand's head! With a terrible scream The maiden gave a springAnd from her fearful hiding-place She fell into the ring. 

The lights they fled--the cauldron sunk, Deep thunders shook the dome, And hollow peals of laughter came Resounding through the gloom. 

Insensible the maiden lay Upon the hellish ground, And still mysterious sounds were heard At intervals around. 

She woke--she half arose--and wild She cast a horrid glare, The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, And all was stillness there. 

And through an awning in the rock The moon it sweetly shone, And show'd a river in the cave Which dismally did moan. 

The stream was black, it sounded deep As it rush'd the rocks between, It offer'd well, for madness fired The breast of Gondoline. 

She plunged in, the torrent moan'd With its accustom'd sound, And hollow peals of laughter loud Again rebellow'd round. 

The maid was seen no more. --But oft Her ghost is known to glide, At midnight's silent, solemn hour, Along the ocean's side. 

A BALLAD. 

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, Ye pelting rains, a little rest;Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, That wring with grief my aching breast. 

Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To triumph o'er an artless maid;Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To leave the breast by him betray'd. 

When exiled from my native home, He should have wiped the bitter tear;Nor left me faint and lone to roam, A heart-sick weary wanderer here. 

My child moans sadly in my arms, The winds they will not let it sleep:Ah, little knows the hapless babe What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still, my infant dear, I cannot bear thy sobs to see, Harsh is thy father, little one, And never will he shelter thee. 

Oh, that I were but in my grave, And winds were piping o'er me loud, And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud!

THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD THE NIGHT PREVIOUSTO EXECUTION. 

Sleep, baby mine, [1] enkerchieft on my bosom, Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast;Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. 

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining? Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled;Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, And I would fain compose my aching head. 

Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping, When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be?Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping In her low grave of shame and infamy?

Sleep, baby mine--Tomorrow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest:Sleep these last moments ere the laws bereave thee, For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. 

Footnotes:

[1] Sir Philip Sidney has a poem, beginning, "Sleep, baby mine. "

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. 

Oh! yonder is the well known spot, My dear, my long lost native home!Oh, welcome is yon little cot, Where I shall rest, no more to roam!Oh! I have travell'd far and wide, O'er many a distant foreign land;Each place, each province I have tried. And sung and danced my saraband. But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale. 

Of distant climes the false report It lured me from my native land;It bade me rove--my sole support My cymbals and my saraband. The woody dell, the hanging rock, The chamois skipping o'er the heights;The plain adorn'd with many a flock, And, oh! a thousand more delights, That grace yon dear beloved retreat, Have backward won my weary feet. 

Now safe return'd, with wandering tired, No more my little home I'll leave;And many a tale of what I've seen Shall while away the winter's eve. Oh! I have wandered far and wide, O'er many a distant foreign land;Each place, each province I have tried, And sung and danced my saraband; But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale. 

A PASTORAL SONG. 

Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns, Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies;Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, And watch the early lark arise; While nature, clad in vesture gay, Hails the loved return of day. 

Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;And then, secure beneath the shade, We'll listen to the throstle's tale; And watch the silver clouds above, As o'er the azure vault they rove. 

Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute, That with its tones, so softly sweet, In cadence with my mellow flute, We may beguile the noontide heat; While near the mellow bee shall join, To raise a harmony divine. 

And then at eve, when silence reigns, Except when heard the beetle's hum, We'll leave the sober tinted plains, To these sweet heights again we'll come; And thou to thy soft lute shalt play A solemn vesper to departing day. 

MELODY. 

Yes, once more that dying strain, Anna, touch thy lute for me;Sweet, when pity's tones complain, Doubly sweet is melody. 

While the Virtues thus enweave Mildly soft the thrilling song, Winter's long and lonesome eve Glides unfelt, unseen, along. 

Thus when life hath stolen away, And the wintry night is near, Thus shall virtue's friendly ray Age's closing evening, cheer. 

SONG. 

BY WALLER. 

A Lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the Author, andwhen he returned them to her, she discovered an additionalstanza written by him at the bottom of the song here copied. 

 Go, lovely rose!Tell her, that wastes her time on me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

 Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. 

 Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired, Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. 

 Then die, that sheThe common fate of all things rare May read in thee;How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 

 [Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; And teach the maidThat Goodness Time's rude hand defies, That Virtue lives when Beauty dies. H. K. WHITE. ]

THE WANDERING BOY. 

A SONG. 

When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door;When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy. 

The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast;No father, no mother, no kindred have I, For I am a parentless Wandering Boy. 

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, A mother who granted each infant desire;Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale, Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful tale. 

But my father and mother were summoned away, And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey;I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy. 

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, And no one will list to my innocent tale;I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy. 

CANZONET. 

Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee, Cold the rain beats on thy breast:Why should Horror's voice astound thee? Death can bid the wretched rest! All under the tree Thy bed may be, And thou mayst slumber peacefully. 

Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee, Now thy cheeks are pale and deep:Love has been a felon to thee, Yet, poor maiden, do not weep: There's rest for thee All under the tree, Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. 

SONG. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 

Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, Gently o'er my Edwy fly!Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly; Softly, zephyrs, pass him by! My love is asleep, He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh. 

I have cover'd him with rushes, Water-flags, and branches dry. Edwy, long have been thy slumbers; Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye! My love is asleep, He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh. 

Still he sleeps; he will not waken, Fastly closed is his eye;Paler is his cheek, and chiller Than the icy moon on high. Alas! he is dead, He has chose his death-bedAll along where the salt waves sigh. 

Is it, is it so, my Edwy? Will thy slumbers never fly?Couldst thou think I would survive thee? No, my love, thou bid'st me die. Thou bid'st me seek Thy death-bed bleakAll along where the salt waves sigh. 

I will gently kiss thy cold lips, On thy breast I'll lay my head, And the winds shall sing our death dirge, And our shroud the waters spread; The moon will smile sweet, And the wild wave will beat, Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed. 

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT. 

Thou, spirit of the spangled night!I woo thee from the watchtower high, Where thou dost sit to guide the bark Of lonely mariner. 

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, The distant main is moaning low;Come, let us sit and weave a song-- A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn, And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, But sweeter far the solemn calm That marks thy mournful reign. 

I've pass'd here many a lonely year, And never human voice have heard;I've pass'd here many a lonely year, A solitary man. 

And I have linger'd in the shade, From sultry noon's hot beams; and IHave knelt before my wicker door, To sing my evening song. 

And I have hail'd the gray morn high, On the blue mountain's misty brow, And tried to tune my little reed To hymns of harmony. 

But never could I tune my reed, At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, As when upon the ocean shore I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 

The dayspring brings not joy to me, The moon it whispers not of peace;But oh! when darkness robes the heavens, My woes are mix'd with joy. 

And then I talk, and often thinkAërial voices answer me;And oh! I am not then alone-- A solitary man. 

And when the blustering winter windsHowl in the woods that clothe my cave, I lay me on my lonely mat, And pleasant are my dreams. 

And fancy gives me back my wife;And fancy gives me back my child;She gives me back my little home, And all its placid joys. 

Then hateful is the morning hour, That calls me from the dream of bliss, To find myself still lone, and hear The same dull sounds again. 

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, The whispering of the boding trees, The brook's eternal flow, and oft The condor's hollow scream. 

THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER. 

A SONG. 

Come all ye true hearts, who, Old England to save, Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave, I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow, Who has ruin'd Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello. Derry down, down, high derry down. 

This juggler is little, and ugly, and black, But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back;'Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns;Some say they are cousins; we know he wears horns. Derry down. 

At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he?He hopp'd o'er an army, he skipped o'er the sea;And he jump'd from the desk of a village attorneyTo the throne of the Bourbons--a pretty long journey. Derry down. 

He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball, And his cup is so fashion'd it catches them all;The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declareHis skill at the long bow has made them both stare. Derry down. 

He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain;And Germany too knows his legerdemain;So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights, He's coming to London to put us to rights. Derry down. 

To encourage his puppets to venture this trip, He has built them such boats as can conquer a ship;With a gun of good metal, that shoots out so far, It can silence the broadsides of three men of war. Derry down. 

This new Katterfelto, his show to complete, Means his boats should all sink as they pass by our fleet;Then, as under the ocean their course they steer right on, They can pepper their foes from the bed of old Triton. Derry down. 

If this project should fail, he has others in store;Wooden horses, for instance, may bring them safe o'er;Or the genius of France (as the Moniteur tells)May order balloons, or provide diving-bells. Derry down. 

When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada, Britain saw his designs, and could meet her invader;But how to greet Bonny she never will know, If he comes in the style of a fish or a crow. Derry down. 

Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas, That his boats have not room to go down when they please, Can't he wait till the channel is quite frozen over, And a stout pair of skates will transport him to Dover. Derry down. 

How welcome he'll be it were needless to say;Neither he nor his puppets shall e'er go away;I am sure at his heels we shall constantly stick, Till we know he has play'd off his very last trick. Derry down, down, high derry down. 

HYMN. 

In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure thesplendours of the Deity. 

Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake;We sing the Saviour of our race, The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place. 

When God's right arm is bared for war, And thunders clothe his cloudy car, Where, where, oh, where shall man retire, To escape the horrors of his ire?

'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly, While the dread tempest passes by;God sees his Well-beloved's face, And spares us in our hiding-place. 

Thus while we dwell in this low scene, The Lamb is our unfailing screen;To him, though guilty, still we run, And God still spares us for his Son. 

While yet we sojourn here below, Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, We deeply need a hiding-place. 

Yet, courage--days and years will glide, And we shall lay these clods aside, Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood. 

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, We through the Lamb shall be decreed;Shall meet the Father face to face, And need no more a hiding-place. [1]

Footnotes:

[1] The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, by theAuthor, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, and singing as he was used to do on such occasions. 

A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. 

O Lord, another day is flown, And we, a lonely band, Are met once more before thy throne, To bless thy fostering hand. 

And wilt thou bend a listening ear, To praises low as ours?Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear The song which meekness pours. 

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign, As we before thee pray;For thou didst bless the infant train, And we are less than they. 

O let thy grace perform its part, And let contention cease;And shed abroad in every heart Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, A flock by Jesus led;The Sun of Holiness shall shine In glory on our head. 

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, And thou wilt bless our way;Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet The dawn of lasting day. 

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 

When marshal'd on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky;One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem;But one alone the Saviour speaks, It is the Star of Bethlehem. 

Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud, --the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd--and rudely blow'd The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze, Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;When suddenly a star arose, It was the Star of Bethlehem. 

It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease;And through the storm and dangers' thrall It led me to the port of peace. 

Now safely moor'd--my peril's o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, For ever, and for evermore, The Star!--The Star of Bethlehem!

A HYMN. 

O Lord, my God, in mercy turn, In mercy hear a sinner mourn!To thee I call, to thee I cry, O leave me, leave me not to die!

I strove against thee, Lord, I know, I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law;The hour is past--the day's gone by, And I am left alone to die. 

O pleasures past, what are ye nowBut thorns about my bleeding brow!Spectres that hover round my brain, And aggravate and mock my pain. 

For pleasure I have given my soul;Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll!Now, Vengeance, smile--and with a blowLay the rebellious ingrate low. 

Yet, Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling, I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing;I'll clasp the cross, and holding there, Even me, oh bliss!--his wrath may spare. 

TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

EULOGY ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE, BYLORD BYRON. 

FROM THE ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 

Unhappy White![1] while life was in its spring, And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler came; and all thy promise fairHas sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, When science self destroy'd 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 nestDrank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 

Footnotes:

[1] Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequenceof too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matureda mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itselfdestroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as mustimpress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period wasallotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functionshe was destined to assume. 

SONNET ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY CAPEL LOFFT. 

Master so early of the various lyre Energic, pure, sublime!--Thus art thou gone? In its bright dawn of fame that spirit flown, Which breathed 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 beamed. --When these the Eternal Sire, --Righteous, and wise, and good are all his ways-- Eclipses 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. 

SONNET OCCASIONED BY THE SECOND OFHENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY CAPEL LOFFT. 

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!And is it vainly that our souls aspire? Falsely does the presaging heart presume That we shall live beyond life's cares and gloom;Grasps it eternity with high desire, But to imagine bliss, feel woe, and die; Leaving survivors to worse pangs than death? Not such the sanction of the Eternal Mind. The harmonious order of the starry sky, And awful revelation's angel breath, Assure these hopes their full effect shall find. 

25th December, 1806. 

WRITTEN IN THE HOMER OFMR. H. K. WHITE. 

PRESENTED TO ME BY HIS BROTHER, J. NEVILLE WHITE. 

BY CAPEL LOFFT. 

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 dispossessed! But thee, Eternity, clasps to her breast, And in celestial splendour thrones thy claim. 

No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace An imitative radiance:[1] thy pure lyre, Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace, And beams and breathes in empyreal fire:The Homeric and Miltonian sacred toneResponsive hail that lyre congenial to their own. 

Bury, 11th Jan. 1807. 

Footnotes:

[1] Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a glory. 

TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. 

BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M. 

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 loved Awoke, responsive still to thee, While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved 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. 

Cold is that heart in which were met More virtues than could ever die;The morning star of hope is set-- The sun adorns another sky. 

O partial grief! to mourn the day So suddenly o'erclouded here, To rise with unextinguish'd ray-- To shine in a superior sphere!

Oft Genius early quits this sod, Impatient of a robe of clay, Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod, And smiles, and soars, and steals away!

But more than genius urged thy flight, And mark'd the way, dear youth! for thee:Henry sprang up to worlds of lightOn wings of immortality!

Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808. 

SONNET TO HENRY KIRKE WHITE, ON HISPOEMS LATELY PUBLISHED. 

BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. 

Hail! gifted youth, whose passion-breathing lay Portrays a mind attuned to noblest themes, A mind, which, wrapt in Fancy's high-wrought dreams, To nature's veriest bounds its daring wayCan 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 heaven-granted fire Of pity, glowing in thy feeling breast, May nought destroy, may nought thy soul divestOf joy--of rapture in the living lyre, Thou tunest so magically: but may fame Each passing year add honours to thy name. 

Richmond, Sept. 1803. 

SONNET, ON SEEING ANOTHER WRITTEN TO H. K. WHITE, IN SEPTEMBER, 1803, INSERTED IN HIS "REMAINS. "

BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. 

 Ah! once again the long left wires among, Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song;With sterner lore now busied, erst the layCheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to strayO'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower; To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from viewAnd courtship of the world: hail'd was the hour That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew, Poor Henry's budding beauties--to a clime Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray Forced their young vigour into transient day, And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them! and shall timeTrample these orphan blossoms?--No! they breatheStill lovelier charms--for Southey culls the wreath!

Oxford, Dec. 17, 1807. 

REFLECTIONS ON READING THE LIFE OFTHE LATE HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, 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-beguiled, In life's fair prime resign a child So duteous, good, and kind?The warblers of the soothing strainMust string the elegiac lyre in vain To soothe the wounded mind!

Yet, Fancy, hovering 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 compress'd, A patriarch's lengthen'd age!

To him a genius sanctified, And purged from literary pride, A sacred boon was given:Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyreCelestial raptures could inspire, And lift the soul to Heaven. 

'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 rescued 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 flower, that droop'd in one cold climeTransplanted from the soil of time To immortality, In full perfection there shall bloom;And those who now lament his doom Must bow to God's decree. 

London, 27th Feb. 1808. 

ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY T. PARK. 

Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell, Impassion'd minstrel! when its pitying wailSigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell Untimely, wither'd by the northern gale. [1]Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime! Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse blast, Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desert clime, But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast, To see thee languish into quick decay. Yet was not thy departing immature;For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away, And pure in spirit, as the bless'd are pure;Pure as the dewdrop, freed from earthly leaven, That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven!

Footnotes:

[1] See Clifton Grove. 

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. HENRYKIRKE WHITE. 

BY THE REV. J. PLUMPTRE. 

Such talents and such piety combined, 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 pleased to stop his fleeting hour, And blight the fragrance of the opening flower. We mourn--but not for him, removed from pain;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. 

TO MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY H. WELKER. 

Hark! 'tis some sprite who sweeps a funeral knell, For Dermody no more. --That fitful toneFrom 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, Roused by the demons from adulterous dream. 

O! say, sweet youth! what genius fires thy soul? The same which tuned the frantic nervous strainTo the wild harp of Collins?--By the pole, Or 'mid the seraphim and heavenly train, Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold, To sing Hell's flaming gulf, or Heaven high arch'd with gold?

VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OFHENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY JOSIAH CONDER. 

 What is this world at best, Though deck'd in vernal bloom, By hope and youthful fancy dress'd, What, but a ceaseless toil for rest, A passage to the tomb? If flowrets strew The avenue, Though fair, alas! how fading, and how few!

 And every hour comes arm'd By sorrow, or by woe:Conceal'd beneath its little wings, A scythe the soft-shod pilferer brings, To lay some comfort low: Some tie to unbind, By love entwined, Some silken bond that holds the captive mind. 

 And every month displays The ravages of time:Faded the flowers!--The spring is past!The scattered leaves, the wintry blast, Warn to a milder clime: The songsters flee The leafless tree, And bear to happier realms their melody. 

 Henry! the world no more Can claim thee for her own!In purer skies thy radiance beams!Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes Before the eternal throne: Yet, spirit dear, Forgive the tearWhich those must shed who're doom'd to linger here. 

 Although a stranger, I In friendship's train would weep:Lost to the world, alas! so young, And must thy lyre, in silence hung, On the dark cypress sleep? The poet, all Their friend may call;And Nature's self attends his funeral. 

 Although with feeble wing Thy flight I would pursue, With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride, Alike our object, hopes, and guide, One heaven alike in view; True, it was thine To tower, to shine;But I may make thy milder virtues mine. 

 If Jesus own my name (Though, fame pronounced it never), Sweet spirit, not with thee alone, But all whose absence here I moan, Circling with harps the golden throne, I shall unite for ever. At death then why Tremble or sigh?Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die?

Dec. 5, 1807. 

ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'SPOEM ON SOLITUDE. 

BY JOSIAH CONDER. 

But art thou thus indeed "alone?"Quite unbefriended--all unknown?And hast thou then his name forgotWho 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 dieUnnoticed by his watchful eye?

Each fluttering hope--each anxious fear--Each lonely sigh--each silent tear--To thine Almighty Friend are known;And say'st thou, thou art "all alone?"

ODE ON THE LATE H. KIRKE WHITE. 

BY JUVENIS. 

And is the minstrel's voyage o'er? And is the star of genius fled?And will his magic harp no more, Mute in the mansions of the dead, Its strains seraphic pour?

A pilgrim in this world of woe, Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray, Where bristly thorns, where briers grow, He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, Its heavenly music flow. 

And oft he bade, by fame inspired, Its wild notes seek the ethereal plain, Till angels, by its music fired, Have, listening, caught the ecstatic strain, Have wonder'd, and admired. 

But now secure on happier shores, With choirs of sainted souls he sings;His harp the Omnipotent adores, And from its sweet, its silver stringsCelestial music pours. 

And though on earth, no more he'll weave The lay that's fraught with magic fire, Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve His now exalted heavenly lyreIn sounds Æolian grieve. 

B. Stoke. 

SONNET IN MEMORY OF HENRYKIRKE WHITE. 

BY J. G. 

"'Tis now the dead of night, " and I will goTo where the brook soft murmuring glides alongIn the still wood; yet does the plaintive songOf 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 dewdrops trickle down the trees, And every flower withholds its rich perfume:'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred groundWhere Henry moulders in a sleep profound!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRYKIRKE WHITE. 

LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

 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 the inquiring 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 trainOf 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 scopeSurpass'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 surveyWitnessed 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 friendWho o'er thy corse in agony did bend;Dead as thyself to all the world inspires, Paid the last rites mortality requires;Closed the dim eye that beam'd with mind before, Composed 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

ADDRESSED TO H. K. WHITE, ON HIS POEMSLATELY PUBLISHED. 

BY G. L. C. 

Henry! I greet thine entrance into life!Sure presage that the myrmidons of fate, The fool's unmeaning laugh, the critic's hate, Will dire assail thee; and the envious strifeOf bookish schoolmen, beings over rife, Whose pia-mater studious is fill'dWith unconnected matter, half distill'dFrom letter'd page, shall bare for thee the knife, Beneath whose edge the poet ofttimes sinks:But fear not! for thy modest work containsThe germ of worth; thy wild poetic strains, How sweet to him, untutor'd bard, who thinksThy verse "has power to please, as soft it flowsThrough the smooth murmurs of the frequent close. "

1803. 

TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY A LADY. 

If 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;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 of genius, 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 saveSo dear an object from the untimely grave, This transcript faint had not essay'd to tellThe 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 canst not inspire, And "in my breast the 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 lyreWith virtue's energies each bosom fire;I saw admiring nations press around, Eager to catch the animating sound: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 visions 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 revealed, The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd. Too strong the portion of celestial flameFor 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 youthWith 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 well 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 griefTells me in duty's path 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 remembrance dwell, And to the world thy worth delight to tell;Though well I feel unworthy thee the laysThat to thy memory weeping friendship pays. 

STANZAS, SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN AT THE GRAVEOF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY A LADY. 

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, O thou, the fragrant rosemary, Where he, "in marble solitude, So peaceful and so deep" doth lie!His harp prophetic sung to theeIn notes of sweetest minstrelsy. 

Ye falling dews, Oh! ever leave Your crystal drops these flowers to steep:At earliest morn, at latest eve, Oh let them for their poet weep!For tears bedew'd his gentle eye, The tears of heavenly sympathy. 

Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams; for he was wont to pace the glade, To watch in pale uncertain gleams, The crimson-zoned horizon fade--Thy last, they setting radiance pour, Where he is set to rise no more. 

THE END