SONNET TO HENRY KIRKE WHITE, ON HIS POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED. BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. HAIL! gifted youth, whose passion-breathing lay To nature's veriest bounds its daring way 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 divest Of 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 lay Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to stray O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower; To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view And 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 time Trample these orphan blossoms?—No! they breathe Still lovelier charms for Southey culls the wreath! Oxford, Dec. 17, 1807. 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, To shed a tear for thee? To us, so soon, for ever lost, What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd How could a parent, love-beguiled, Yet, Fancy, hovering round the tomb, Dear poet, saint, and sage! Who into one short span, at best, To him a genius sanctified, A sacred boon was given: Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre And lift the soul to Heaven. 'Twas not the laurel earth bestows, He sought the crown that martyrs wear, 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 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, Impassion❜d minstrel! when its pitying wail Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell Untimely, wither'd 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, See Clifton Grove. |