And though on earth no more he'll weave
The lay that's fraught with magic fire,
Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve
His now exalted heavenly lyre
In sounds Eolian grieve.
SONNET IN MEMORY OF H. KIRKE WHITE.
""Tis now the dead of night," and I will go
To where the brook soft murmuring glides along
In the still wood; yet does the plaintive song
Of Philomela through the welkin flow;
And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw
Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree strong, And intermingle with the streams my woe! Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze;
No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom; Cold, chilling dewdrops trickle down the trees, And every flower withholds its rich perfume: 'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound!
ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE, LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
SORROWS are mine-then let me joys evade,
And seek for sympathies in this lone shade.
The glooms of death fall heavy on my heart,
And, between life and me, a truce impart.
Genius has vanish'd in its opening bloom,
And youth and beauty wither in the tomb!
Thought, ever prompt to lend the inquiring eye,
Pursues thy spirit through futurity.
Does thy aspiring mind new powers essay,
Or in suspended being wait the day,
When earth shall fall before the awful train
Of Heaven and Virtue's everlasting reign?
May goodness, which thy heart did once enthrone,
Emit one ray to meliorate my own!
And for thy sake, when time affliction calm,
Science shall please, and poesie shall charm.
I turn my steps whence issued all my woes,
Where the dull courts monastic glooms impose;
Thence fled a spirit whose unbounded scope
Surpass'd the fond creations e'en of hope.
Along this path thy living step has fled,
Along this path they bore thee to the dead.
All that this languid eye can now survey
Witness'd the vigour of thy fleeting day:
And witness'd all, as speaks this anguish'd tear, The solemn progress of thy early bier.
Sacred the walls that took thy parting breath, Own'd thee in life, encompass'd thee in death! Oh! I can feel as felt the sorrowing friend Who o'er thy corse in agony did bend; Dead as thyself to all the world inspires, Paid the last rites mortality requires;
Closed the dim eye that beam'd with mind before; Composed the icy limbs to move no more!
Some power the picture from my memory tear, Or feeling will rush onward to despair.
Immortal hopes! come, lend your blest relief, And raise the soul bow'd down with mortal grief; Teach it to look for comfort in the skies:
Earth cannot give what Heaven's high will denies.
SONNET ADDRESSED TO H. K. WHITE, ON HIS POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED.
HENRY! I greet thine entrance into life!
Sure presage that the myrmidons of fate,
The fool's unmeaning laugh, the critic's hate,
Will dire assail thee; and the envious strife
Of bookish schoolmen, beings over rife,
Whose pia-mater studious is fill'd
With unconnected matter, half distill'd
From letter'd page, shall bare for thee the knife,
Beneath whose edge the poet ofttimes sinks :
But fear not! for thy modest work contains
The germ of worth; thy wild poetic strains,
How sweet to him, untutor'd bard, who thinks
Thy verse" has power to please, as soft it flows
Through the smooth murmurs of the frequent close."
TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
IF worth, if genius, to the world are dear,
To Henry's shade devote no common tear;
His worth on no precarious tenure hung,
From genuine piety his virtues sprung;
If pure benevolence, if steady sense,
Can to the feeling heart delight dispense;
If all the highest efforts of the mind,
Exalted, noble, elegant, refined,
Call for fond sympathy's heart-felt regret,
Ye sons of genius, pay the mournful debt:
His friends can truly speak how large his claim,
And "Life was only wanting to his fame."
Art thou, indeed, dear youth, for ever fled?
So quickly number'd with the silent dead.
Too sure I read it in the downcast eye,
Hear it in mourning friendship's stifled sigh.
Ah! could esteem or admiration save
So dear an object from the untimely grave,
This transcript faint had not essay'd to tell
The loss of one beloved, revered so well;
Vainly I try, even eloquence were weak,
The silent sorrow that I feel to speak.
No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer,
And bind my spirit to this lower sphere;
Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh,
And bid new fire relume my languid eye:
No more the pencil's mimic art command,
And with kind pity guide my trembling hand;
Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard,
To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard.
Vain all the pleasures thou canst not inspire,
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire."
I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine,
And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine:
In fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre
With virtue's energies each bosom fire;
I saw admiring nations press around,
Eager to catch the animating sound:
And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night,
To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight,
Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade,
And each graced honour to thy memory paid.
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