REFLECTIONS ON READING THE LIFE OF THE 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 crossed
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 strain
Must 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 compressed,

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 lyre
Celestial 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 drooped in one cold clime Transplanted 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,
Impassioned minstrel ! when its pitying wail
Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell

Untimely, withered by the northern gale.*
Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime !
Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse

blast,

[clime,

Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desert
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!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. HENRY
KIRKE 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.

See Clifton Grove.

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 tone

From 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 strain To 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 arched with gold?

VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY JOSIAH CONDER.

WHAT is this world at best,
Though deck'd in vernal bloom,
By hope and youthful fancy dressed,
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 armed

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: