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his own complaints were abating: his letters to cumstance of his early death gives a new interest her are always of hopes, of consolation, and of to his memory, and thereby new force to his love. To Neville he writes with the most bro- example. Just at that age when the painter therly intimacy, still, however, in that occasional would have wished to fix his likeness, and the tone of advice which it was his nature to assume, lover of poetry would delight to contemplate not from any arrogance of superiority, but from him,-in the fair morning of his virtues, the full earnestness of pure affection. To his younger spring-blossom of his hopes,-just at that age brother he addresses himself like the tenderest and hath death set the seal of eternity upon him, and wisest parent; and to two sisters, then too young the beautiful hath been made permanent. To for any other communication, he writes to direct the young poets who come after him, Henry will their studies, to inquire into their progress, to en- be what Chatterton was to him; and they will courage and to improve them. Such letters as find in him an example of hopes with regard to these are not for the public; but they to whom worldly fortune, as humble, and as exalted in all they are addressed will lay them to their hearts better things, as are enjoined equally by wisdom like relics, and will find in them a saving virtue, and religion, by the experience of man, and the more than ever relics possessed. word of God: and this example will be as enWith regard to his poems, the criterion for couraging as it is excellent. It has been too much selection was not so plain; undoubtedly many the custom to complain that genius is neglected, have been chosen which he himself would not and to blame the public when the public is not have published; and some few which, had he in fault. They who are thus lamented as the lived to have taken that rank among English victims of genius, have been, in almost every inpoets which would assuredly have been within stance, the victims of their own vices; while his reach, I also should then have rejected among genius has been made, like charity, to cover a his posthumous papers. I have, however, to the multitude of sins, and to excuse that which in best of my judgment, selected none which does reality it aggravates. In this age, and in this not either mark the state of his mind, or its pro- country, whoever deserves encouragement is, gress, or discover evident proofs of what he would sooner or later, sure to receive it. Of this Henry's have been, if it had not been the will of Heaven history is an honorable proof. The particular to remove him so soon. The reader, who feels patronage which he accepted was given as much any admiration for Henry, will take some interest to his piety and religious opinions as to his gein all these Remains, because they are his: he nius: but assistance was offered him from other who shall feel none must have a blind heart, and quarters. Mr. P. Thomson (of Boston, Lincolntherefore a blind understanding. Such poems shire), merely upon perusing his little volume, are to be considered as making up his history. wrote to know how he could serve him; and But the greater number are of such beauty, that there were many friends of literature who were Chatterton is the only youthful poet whom he ready to have afforded him any support which does not leave far behind him. he needed, if he had not been thus provided. In the University he received every encouragement which he merited; and from Mr. Simeon, and his tutor, Mr. Catton, the most fatherly kindness.

While he was under Mr. Grainger he wrote very little; and when he went to Cambridge he was advised to stifle his poetical fire, for severer and more important studies; to lay a billet on the "I can venture," says a lady of Cambridge, in embers until he had taken his degree, and then a letter to his brother,—“I can venture to say, he might fan it into a flame again. This advice with certainty, there was no member of the Unihe followed so scrupulously, that a few fragments, versity, however high his rank or talents, who written chiefly upon the back of his mathemati- would not have been happy to have availed themcal papers, are all which he produced at the selves of the opportunity of being acquainted University. The greater part, therefore, of these with Mr. Henry Kirke White. I mention this to poems, indeed nearly the whole of them, were introduce a wish which has been expressed to me written before he was nineteen. Wise as the so often by the senior members of the University, advice may have been which had been given him, that I dare not decline the task they have imit is now to be regretted that he adhered to it, posed upon me; it is their hope that Mr. Southey his latter fragments bearing all those marks of will do as much justice to Mr. Henry White's limimprovement which were to be expected from ited wishes, to his unassuming pretensions, and a mind so rapidly and continually progressive. to his rational and fervent piety, as to his various Frequently he expresses a fear that early death acquirements, his polished taste, his poetical fanwould rob him of his fame; yet, short as his life cy, his undeviating principles, and the excellence was, it has been long enough for him to leave of his moral character: and that he will suffer it works worthy of remembrance. The very cir- to be understood, that these inestimable qualities

had not been unobserved, nor would they have sense, his prudence, and his piety. And in this I remained unacknowledged. It was the general was not deceived: youth and age, the learned observation, that he possessed genius without its and the unlearned, the proud intellect and the eccentricities." Of fervent piety, indeed, his let- humble heart, have derived from these melan. ters, his prayers, and his hymns, will afford am- choly relics a pleasure, equal perhaps in degree ple and interesting proofs. It was in him a living though different in kind. and quickening principle of goodness, which sanctified all his hopes and all his affections; which made him keep watch over his own heart, and enabled him to correct the few symptoms, which it ever displayed, of human imperfection.

In consequence of this general acceptation, the relatives of the Author were often advised and solicited to publish a farther selection, and ap plications to the same effect were sometimes addressed to me. The wishes, thus privately ex

His temper had been irritable in his younger pressed, for a farther selection, having been days; but this he had long since effectually over-seconded by the publishers, the present volume come the marks of youthful confidence, which has been formed.

1 At page 12 will be found the two first stanzas of the following piece, which, having been discovered in MS since the appearance of the earlier editions of these Poems is here given as completed by the author:

appear in his earliest letters, had also disappeared; With regard to the poetry, having in the first and it was impossible for any man to be more instance exercised my own judgment, I did not tenderly patient of the faults of others, more uni- now think myself justified in rejecting what others formly meek, or more unaffectedly humble. He recommended for insertion.'. The poems had been seldom discovered any sportiveness of imagination, though he would very ably and pleasantly rally any one of his friends for any little peculiarity; his conversation was always sober and to the purpose. That which is most remarkable in him, is his uniform good sense, a faculty perhaps less common than genius. There never existed a more dutiful son, a more affectionate brother, a warmer friend, nor a devouter Christian. Of his powers of mind it is superfluous to speak; they were acknowledged wherever they were known. It would be idle, too, to say what hopes were entertained of him, and what he might have accomplished in literature. This volume contains what he has left, immature buds and blossoms shaken from the tree, and green fruit; yet will they evince what the harvest would have been, and secure for him that remembrance upon earth for which he toiled.

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To a supplementary Volume, the contents of which are included in the present edition.

FEW books have issued from the press, during the last fifteen years, which have excited such general and unabating interest as the Remains of Henry Kirke White. I hoped, and indeed expected, this with some confidence; in reliance upon something better than the taste or judgment of that many-headed idol, the Public. I trusted, that the genius of the writer, and the purity and beauty of his character, would call forth admiration in young and generous hearts; while a large portion of the community would duly appreciate his good

TO THE WIND AT MIDNIGHT.
Nor unfamiliar to mine ear,
Blasts of the night! ye howl, as now
My shudd'ring casement round
With fitful force ye beat.

Mine ear hath caught in silent awe
The howling sweep, the sudden rush;
And when the pausing gale
Pour'd deep the hollow dirge.

Once more I listen; sadly communing
Within me,-once more mark, storm-clothed,
The moon as the dark cloud
Glides rapidly away.

I, deeming that the voice of spirits dwells
In these mysterious moans, in solemn thought
Muse in the choral dance,

The dead man's Jubilee.

Hark! how the spirit knocks,-how loud-
Even at my window knocks,-again :—
I cannot dare not sleep,-

It is a boisterous night.

I would not, at this moment, be
In the drear forest-groves, to hear
This uproar and rude song
Ring o'er the arched aisles.

The ear doth shudder at such sounds
As the embodied winds, in their disport,
Wake in the hollow woods,
When man is gone to sleep.

There have been heard unchristian shrieks
And rude distemper'd merriment,

As though the autumnal woods
Were all in morrice-dance.

There's mystery in these sounds, and I
Love not to have the grave disturb'd;

seen by many friends of the family, and as in this A tablet to Henry's memory, with a medallion case no possible injury could be done to the repu- by Chantrey, has been placed in All-Saints Church, tation of the dead, I willingly deferred to their Cambridge, at the expense of a young American wishes and feelings. That which has pleased one gentleman, Mr. Francis Boott, of Boston. During person may be expected to please others, and the his travels in this country, he visited the grave of productions of an immature mind will be read by one whom he had learnt to love and regret in other minds in the same stage, with which they America; and finding no other memorial of him will be in unison. The lover of poetry, as well than the initials of his name upon the plain stone as the artist and the antiquary, may be allowed which covers his perishable remains, ordered this to have his relics. Even in the relic-worship of monument to be erected. It bears an inscription1 the Romish superstition, what we condemn, is not by Professor Smyth, who, while Henry was living, the natural and becoming sentiment, but the treated him with characteristic kindness, and has abuse which has been made of it, and the follies consigned to posterity this durable expression of and villanies which have been committed in con- his friendship.

sequence.

It is a mournful thing to consider how much the world has lost in a mind so highly gifted, and regulated by such principles. The country is overflowing with talents: and mere talents, directed as they are more frequently to evil than to good, are to be regretted when they are cut off, | only in compassion for those who must answer for their misapplication: but one who had chosen his part well, and would have stood forward, armed at all points, among the conservative spirits of the age, can ill be spared. Yet he has not lived in vain, either for himself or others. Perhaps no after-works which he might have left on earth, however elaborate, could have been so influential as his youthful example. For many are the young and ardent minds who have received, and many, many more are they who will receive from him a right bias in the beginning of their course. Many are the youthful poets who will recognise their own feelings concerning Henry Kirke White, in this sweet Sonnet :

Though as the dew of morning, short thy date,
Though Sorrow look'd on thee, and said-"Be mine!"
Yet with a holy ardor, bard divine,

I burn-I burn to share thy glorious fate,
Above whate'er of honors or estate,
This transient world can give! I would resign,
With rapture, Fortune's choicest gifts for thine,-
More truly noble, more sublimely great!
For thou hast gain'd the prize of well-tried worth,
That prize which from thee never can be riven;
Thine, Henry, is a deathless name on earth,
Thine amaranthine wreaths, new-pluck'd in heaven!
By what aspiring child of mortal birth
Could more be ask'd, to whom might more be given?
CHAUNCY HARE TOWNSEND.

And dismal trains arise
From the unpeopled tombs.

Spirits, I pray ye, let them sleep
Peaceful in their cold graves, nor waft

The sear and whispering leaf
From the inhumed breast.

Keswick, 1822.

1 Lines by Professor Smyth of Cambridge, on a monument,
erected by Francis Boott, Esq. an American Gentleman,
in All-Saints Church, Cambridge, to the Memory of HENRY
KIRKE WHITE.

Warm with fond hope, and learning's sacred flame,
To Granta's bowers, the youthful poet came;
Unconquer'd powers th' immortal mind display'd:
But worn with anxious thought, the frame decay'd:
Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retired,
The martyr student faded and expired.
Oh! genius, taste, and piety sincere,
Too early lost, 'midst studies too severe!
Foremost to mourn, was gen'rous Southey seen,
He told the tale, and show'd what White had been,
Nor told in vain-Far o'er th' Atlantic wave
A wanderer came, and sought the poet's grave;
On yon low stone, he saw his lonely name,
And raised this fond memorial to his fame.

Lines and Note by Lord Byron.

Unhappy White! (a) while life was in its spring,
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing,
The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroy'd her favorite son!
Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sow'd the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit.'
"T was thine own genius gave the final blow,
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low.
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart. ·
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel;
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

(a) Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.

439

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

Poems,

WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBLICATION OF CLIFTON GROVE.

CHILDHOOD.

This is one of the author's earliest productions, and appears, by the handwriting, to have been written when he was between fourteen and fifteen. The picture of the school-mistress is from nature.

PART I.

Blest Memory! guide, with finger nicely true,
Back to my youth my retrospective view;
Recall with faithful vigor to my mind,
Each face familiar, each relation kind;
And all the finer traits of them afford,
Whose general outline in my heart is stored.

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls,

PICTURED in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls,

Our infant days, our infant joys, to greet!
To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene,
The village church-yard and the village-green,
The woodland walk remote, the green-wood glade,
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade,
The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine grew,
And all the favorite haunts our childhood knew!
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze,
To view th' unclouded skies of former days!

Beloved age of innocence and smiles,
When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles;
When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true,
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.
Blest Childhood, hail!-Thee simply will I sing,
And from myself the artless picture bring;
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore,
Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more,
And every stump familiar to my sight
Recalls some fond idea of delight.

This shrubby knoll was once my favorite seat;
Here did I love at evening to retreat,
And muse alone, till in the vault of night,
Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light.
Here once again, remote from human noise,

I sit me down to think of former joys;

The village matron kept her little school,
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule;
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien;
Her garb was course, yet whole, and nicely clean
Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair,
Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care;
And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn,
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn.
Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes
A pair of spectacles their want supplies:
These does she guard secure in leathern case,
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.

Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain,
The low vestibule of learning's fane;
Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way,
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display
Much did I grieve on that ill-fated morn,
While I was first to school reluctant borne:
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd;
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept,
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept,

And thought of tender home where anger never kept.

But soon inured to alphabetic toils,

Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles!

Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, First at the form, my task for ever true,

And once again each infant walk explore:

While as each grove and lawn I recognize,
My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.

And oh thou Power, whose myriad trains resort
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought;
Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye,
Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy;

A little favorite rapidly I grew :

And oft she stroked my head with fond delight,
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight;
And as she gave my diligence its praise,
Talk'd of the honors of my future days.
Oh! had the venerable matron thought
Of all the ills by talent often brought;

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