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and the unlearned, the proud intellect and the humble heart, have derived from these mehn choly relics a pleasure, equal perhaps in degre though different in kind.

had not been unobserved, nor would they have sense, his prudence, and his piety. And in this! remained unacknowledged. It was the general was not deceived: youth and age, the learned observation, that he possessed genius without its eccentricities." Of fervent piety, indeed, his letters, his prayers, and his hymns, will afford ample and interesting proofs. It was in him a living and quickening principle of goodness, which sanctified all his hopes and all his affections; which made him keep watch over his own heart, and enabled him to correct the few symptoms, which it ever displayed, of human imperfection.

In consequence of this general acceptation, the relatives of the Author were often advised and solicited to publish a farther selection, and p plications to the same effect were sometimes a dressed to me. The wishes, thus privately es pressed, for a farther selection, having been seconded by the publishers, the present value has been formed.

1 At page 12 will be found the two first stanzas of the

following piece, which, having been discovered in MS. since the appearance of the earlier editions of these Poems, is here given as completed by the author:

His temper had been irritable in his younger days; but this he had long since effectually overcome the marks of youthful confidence, which appear in his earliest letters, had also disappeared; With regard to the poetry, having in the first and it was impossible for any man to be more instance exercised my own judgment, I did not tenderly patient of the faults of others, more uni- now think myself justified in rejecting what others formly meek, or more unaffectedly humble. He recommended for insertion.' The poems had been seldom discovered any sportiveness of imagination, though he would very ably and pleasantly rally any one of his friends for any little peculiarity; his conversation was always sober and to the purpose. That which is most remarkable in him, is his uniform good sense, a faculty perhaps less common than genius. There never existed a more dutiful son, a more affectionate brother, a warmer friend, nor a devouter Christian. Of his powers of mind it is superfluous to speak; they were acknowledged wherever they were known. It would be idle, too, to say what hopes were entertained of him, and what he might have accomplished in literature. This volume contains what he has left, immature buds and blossoms shaken from the tree, and green fruit; yet will they evince what the harvest would have been, and secure for him that remembrance upon earth for which he toiled.

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To a supplementary Volume, the contents of which are included in the present edition.

FEW books have issued from the press, during the last fifteen years, which have excited such general and unabating interest as the Remains of Henry Kirke White. I hoped, and indeed expected, this with some confidence; in reliance upon something better than the taste or judgment of that many-headed idol, the Public. I trusted, that the genius of the writer, and the purity and beauty of his character, would call forth admiration in young and generous hearts; while a large portion of the community would duly appreciate his good

TO THE WIND AT MIDNIGHT.
Nor unfamiliar to mine ear,
Blasts of the night! ye howl, as now
My shudd'ring casement round
With fitful force ye beat.

Mine ear hath caught in silent awe
The howling sweep, the sudden rush;
And when the pausing gale
Pour'd deep the hollow dirge.

Once more I listen; sadly communing
Within me,-once more mark, storm-clothed,
The moon as the dark cloud
Glides rapidly away.

I, deeming that the voice of spirits dwells
In these mysterious moans, in solemn thought
Muse in the choral dance,

The dead man's Jubilee.

Hark! how the spirit knocks,-how loud-
Even at my window knocks,-again :—
I cannot dare not sleep,-
It is a boisterous night.

I would not, at this moment, be
In the drear forest-groves, to hear
This uproar and rude song
Ring o'er the arched aisles.

The ear doth shudder at such sounds
As the embodied winds, in their disport,
Wake in the hollow woods,
When man is gone to sleep.

There have been heard unchristian shrieks,
And rude distemper'd merriment,

As though the autumnal woods
Were all in morrice-dance.

There's mystery in these sounds, and I
Love not to have the grave disturb'd;

seen by many friends of the family, and as in this A tablet to Henry's memory, with a medallion case no possible injury could be done to the repu- by Chantrey, has been placed in All-Saints Church, tation of the dead, I willingly deferred to their Cambridge, at the expense of a young American wishes and feelings. That which has pleased one gentleman, Mr. Francis Boott, of Boston. During person may be expected to please others, and the his travels in this country, he visited the grave of productions of an immature mind will be read by one whom he had learnt to love and regret in other minds in the same stage, with which they America; and finding no other memorial of him will be in unison. The lover of poetry, as well than the initials of his name upon the plain stone as the artist and the antiquary, may be allowed which covers his perishable remains, ordered this to have his relics. Even in the relic-worship of monument to be erected. It bears an inscription1 the Romish superstition, what we condemn, is not by Professor Smyth, who, while Henry was living, the natural and becoming sentiment, but the treated him with characteristic kindness, and has abuse which has been made of it, and the follies consigned to posterity this durable expression of and villanies which have been committed in con- his friendship.

sequence.

Keswick, 1822.

erected by Francis Boott, Esq. an American Gentleman, in All-Saints Church, Cambridge, to the Memory of HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

It is a mournful thing to consider how much the world has lost in a mind so highly gifted, and 1 Lines by Professor Smyth of Cambridge, on a monument, regulated by such principles. The country is overflowing with talents: and mere talents, directed as they are more frequently to evil than to good, are to be regretted when they are cut off, only in compassion for those who must answer for their misapplication: but one who had chosen his part well, and would have stood forward, armed at all points, among the conservative spirits of the age, can ill be spared. Yet he has not lived in vain, either for himself or others. Perhaps no after-works which he might have left on earth, however elaborate, could have been so influential as his youthful example. For many are the young and ardent minds who have received, and many, many more are they who will receive from him a right bias in the beginning of their course. Many are the youthful poets who will recognise their own feelings concerning Henry Kirke White, in this sweet Sonnet :

Though as the dew of morning, short thy date,
Though Sorrow look'd on thee, and said-" Be mine!"
Yet with a holy ardor, bard divine,

I burn-I burn to share thy glorious fate,
Above whate'er of honors or estate,

This transient world can give! I would resign,
With rapture, Fortune's choicest gifts for thine,—
More truly noble, more sublimely great!
For thou hast gain'd the prize of well-tried worth,
That prize which from thee never can be riven;
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?
CHAUNCY HARE TOWNSEND.

And dismal trains arise
From the unpeopled tombs.

Spirits, I pray ye, let them sleep
Peaceful in their cold graves, nor waft

The sear and whispering leaf
From the inhumed breast.

Warm with fond hope, and learning's sacred flame,
To Granta's bowers, the youthful poet came;
Unconquer'd powers th' 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 gen'rous Southey seen,
He told the tale, and show'd what White had been,
Nor told in vain-Far o'er th' Atlantic wave
A wanderer cane, and sought the poet's grave;
On yon low stone, he saw his lonely name,
And raised this fond memorial to his fame.

Lines and Note by Lord Byron.

Unhappy White! (a) while life was in its spring,
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing,
The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroy'd her favorite son!
Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sow'd the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit.
"T was 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 impelled the steel;
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

(a) Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume. 439

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

Poems,

WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBLICATION OF CLIFTON GROVE.

CHILDHOOD.

This is one of the author's earliest productions, and appears, by the handwriting, to have been written when he was between fourteen and fifteen. The picture of the school-mistress is from nature.

PART I.

Blest Memory! guide, with finger nicely true,
Back to my youth my retrospective view;
Recall with faithful vigor to my mind,
Each 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 walls,
PICTURED in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls,

Our infant days, our infant joys, to greet!
To roarn in fancy in each cherish'd scene,
The village church-yard and the village-green,
The woodland walk remote, the green-wood glade,
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade,
The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine grew,
And all the favorite haunts our childhood knew!
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze,
To view th' 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 day-spring true,
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.
Blest 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 sight
Recalls some fond idea of delight.

This shrubby knoll was once my favorite 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;

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 pendant 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 morn,
While I was first to school reluctant borne:
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried
To 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!

Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, First at the form, my task for ever true,

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 resort
To 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;

A little favorite 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 honors of my future days.

Oh! had the venerable matron thought
Of all the ills by talent often brought;

Could she have seen me when revolving years
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears,
Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate
Had been a lowlier, and unletter'd 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 unblest,
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 tempest 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 lave
The 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 where no crime defiles,
But each new object brings attendant smiles;
When future evils never haunt the sight,
But all is pregnant with unmixt 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 labor o'er,
What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were

seen,

In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green!
Some shoot the marble, others join the chase
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 sash we did bind
Our 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 pig-sty for a town.

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont
To 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 of 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 pride
To 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 play,
To chat at home the vacant hour away.
Many's the time I've scamper'd down 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;

Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we
Such hearts of stone there in the world could be.
Poor simple wights! ah, little did we ween
The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene!
Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know
This world's a world of weeping and of woe!

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'er-arching 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 share
With 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 foredoom'd the thorns of grief to find;
At every step has further cause to know
The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe.

Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caught
With 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 con
trol

Sink every pang still deeper in the soul;
Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart
Becomes a painful resident in the heart;
And Care, whom not the gayest can out-brave,
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 compell'd to go,

While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. What novel scenes did on my senses flow!

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