THIS Christian poet was born at Nottingham, in 1785. He was apprenticed to a hosier, and afterwards articled to a lawyer. But neither of these callings was congenial to his feelings and talents; and, by the kindness of some friends, he was enabled to enter himself of St. John's College, Cambridge, to study for the Church. Here he obtained several prizes at the public examinations, but they were dearly purchased; incessant study brought him to the grave, in 1807, in the twenty-second year of his age. The writings of Kirke White show that he possessed in an eminent degree the poetical faculties, and his religious and social character endeared him to all his acquaintances. His works, with the interesting memoir of his life and genius by Dr. Southey, have passed through many editions in this country.
THE CHRISTIAN'S PROGRESS.
THROUGH Sorrow's night, and danger's path,
Amid the deepening gloom,
We, soldiers of an injured King,
Are marching to the tomb.
There, when the turmoil is no more,
And all our powers decay,
Our cold remains in solitude
Shall sleep the years away.
Our labors done, securely laid
In this our last retreat,
Unheeded o'er our silent dust
The storms of life shall beat.
Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,
The vital spark shall lie;
For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise,
To see its kindred sky.
These ashes too, this little dust,
Our Father's care shall keep,
Till the last angel rise and break
The long and dreary sleep.
Then love's soft dew o'er every eye
Shall shed its mildest rays,
And the long silent dust shall burst
With shouts of endless praise.
AWAKE, Sweet harp of Judah, wake,
Retune thy strings for Jesu's 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,
T'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 washed in Jesu's 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.
WHAT art Thou, mighty One? and where thy seat?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands,
And Thou dost bear within thy awful hands
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet;
Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind
Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dread 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 solitude
Of 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.
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.
In this bad world, where mists and couchant storms
Hide heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith
Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields
Of ether, where the day is never veiled
With intervening vapors; and looks down
Serene upon the troublous sea that hides
The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face
To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all;
But on whose billowy back, from man concealed,
The glaring sunbeam plays.
WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS.
YE many twinkling stars, who yet do tread
Your brilliant places in the sable vault
Of night's dominions! planets and central orbs
Of other systems, big as the burning sun
Which lights this nether globe, yet to our eye
Small as the glow-worm's lamp! to you I raise
My lowly orisons, while, all bewildered,
My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts,
Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,
Warped 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,
Wrapped in the solitary amplitude
Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres,
Sits on his silent throne and meditates.
Th' 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 sounds.
Roll o'er the air serene. Th' Æolian spheres,
Harping along their viewless boundaries,
Catch the full note and cry, "The Lord is great!"
Responding to the seraphim. O'er all,
From orb to orb, to the remotest verge
Of the created world, the sound is borne,
Till the whole universe is full of Him.
Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile
On 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 e'en are kings, when balanced in the scale
Of 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 impart
Thy 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 gauds, and honors of the world, appear!
How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp
Outwatched the slow-paced night? Why on the page,
The schoolman's labored page, have I employed
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 colors 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 pangs
Of 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 place
In thy high dwelling. All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.
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