A subscription, with a statement of the particulars of the author's case, might have been calculated to have answered his purpose ; but, as a book which is to "win its way" on the sole ground of its own merit, this poem cannot be contemplated with any sanguine expectation. The author is very anxious, however, that critics should find in it something to commend, and he shall not be disappointed; we commend his exertions, and his laudable endeavours to excel; but we cannot compliment him with having learned the difficult art of writing good poetry. Such lines as these will sufficiently prove our assertion: "Here would I run, a visionary Boy, When the hoarse thunder shook the vaulted Sky, Sternly careering in the eddying storm." If Mr. White should be instructed by Alma mater, he will, doubtless, produce better sense, and better rhymes." I know not who was the writer of this precious article. It is certain that Henry could have no personal enemy; his volume fell into the hands of some dull man, who took it up in an hour of ill humour, turned over the leaves to look for faults, and finding that Boy and Sky were not orthodox rhymes, according to his wise creed of criticism, sate down to blast the hopes of a boy, who had confessed to him all his hopes and all his difficulties, and thrown himself upon his mercy. With such a letter before him, (by mere accident I saw that which had been sent to the Critical Review), even though the poems had been bad, a good man would not have said so; he would have avoided censure if he had found it impossible to bestow praise. But that the reader may perceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of this reviewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus contemptuously condemned because Boy and Sky are used as rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place. TO THE HERB ROSEMARY*. 1. SWEET scented flower! who art went to bloom On January's front severe: And o'er the wintery desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song, And sweet the strain shall be, and long, The melody of death. 2. Come funeral flow'r! who lov'st to dwell * The Rosemary buds in Jannary-It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead. Come press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, So peaceful, and so deep. 3. And hark! the wind-god as he flies, Sweet flower, that requiem wild is mine, The cold turf altar of the dead; A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. TO THE MORNING: Written during Illness. BEAMS of the day-break faint! I hail Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, Tired with the taper's sickly light, I hail the streaks of morn divine: And lo! they break between the dewy wreathes That round my rural casement twine; The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, It fans my feverish brow,-it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life. The Lark has her gay song begun, She leaves her grassy nest, And soars 'till the unrisen sun Gleams on her speckled breast. Now, let me leave my restless bed, Now thro' the custom'd wood-walk wend; By many a green lane lies my way, Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale My sunk eye gleams, my cheek so pale Is with new colours drest. Blythe Health! thou soul of life and ease! I'll join, with thee, the buskin'd chace, Above, below, what charms unfold Behind the twilight's hue. The mists which on old Night await, Far to the West, they hold their state, They shun the clear, blue face of Morn; Along the fine cerulean sky The fleecy clouds successive fly, While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn, And hark! the Thatcher has begun His whistle on the eaves, And oft the Hedger's Bill is heard Among the rustling leaves. The slow team creaks upon the road, The noisy whip resounds, The driver's voice, his carol blythe, The Mower's stroke, his whetting scythe, Mix with the morning's sounds. Who would not rather take his seat, Beneath these clumps of trees, And catch the healthy breeze, |