Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, 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 beam'd.-When these the Eternal Sire, -Righteous and wise, and good are all his ways- 24th Oct. 1806. SONNET OCCASIONED BY THE SECOND OF HENRY 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, 2 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 Dec. 1806. WRITTEN IN THE HOMER OF MR. H. K. WHITE, PRESENTED TO ME BY HIS BROTHER, J. NEVILLE WHITE. BY CAPEL LOFFT. BARD of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame! I pause; and gaze regretful on thy name. No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace * 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 All the wild notes that pity loved The chords that in the human heart Bore in thy symphonies a part- 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, Cold is that heart in which were met O partial grief! to mourn the day Oft genius early quits this sod, Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod, But more than genius urged thy flight, On wings of immortality! |