A REFLECTION On the Early Death of HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BY A LADY. THE pensive snow-drop lifts her modest head, Sweet flower! not long thy spotless heart will fear The cruel blast that bows thy slender form: Thou wert not made for winter's frown severe; Soon wilt thou droop, unconscious of the storm. Thus genius springs, and thus the storms of earth Awhile it charms, then withers, - dies away.. Thus Henry graced the world - Too soon the power Of stern Affliction seized his youthful breast; He saw the clouds arise, the tempest low'r He bowed his head, and meekly sunk to rest. EXTRACT FROM A POEM RECENTLY PUBLISHED. BY GEORGE, LORD BYRON. UNHAPPY White *! while life was in its spring, When Science' self destroyed her favourite son! And wing'd the shaft that quivered in his heart: * 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. MONODY ΤΟ THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BY JOSEPH BLACKETT. * "No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, LORD BYRON. To yon streamlet's rippling flow, And those "living statues" join, Mine is Sympathy's true tear, Love and Pity's sigh sincere, And to " Affliction's self" I give the mournful hour! What means yon new-rais'd mould beneath the yew? * Vide his Poems recently published. And, hark! oh, hark! the deep-toned funeral knell Alas, poor youth! for THEE this robe of death! Alas! alas! immortal youth! Thine the richly varied song, Simple, clear, sublime, and strong; Thy sunny eye beam'd on the page of Truth, Thy God ador'd, and, fraught with cherub fire, 'Twas thine to strike, on earth, a heavenly lyre! Ah! lost too soon! through tangled groves, 'Midst the fresh dews no more He pensive roves The varied Passions to explore. Silent, silent, is his tongue, Whose notes so powerful through the woodlands rung, When on the wing of hoary Time, * With energy sublime, He soar'd, and left this lessening world below: Hark! hark! methinks, e'en now, I hear his numbers flow ! * One of Kirke White's most animated and beautiful Poems, entitled "Time." Oh! thou greedy cormorant fell, Why so soon was sped the dart Which pierced, alas! his youthful heart! When thy arm, that dealt the blow, By a stronger arm controul'd, Then shall this youth the song of triumph raise, Bard of nature, heaven-graced child! Circled now the Aonian mount, Now the Heliconian fount, Teach me to string thy harp, and wake its strain To mourn thy early fate, till every chord complain! No! let thy harp remain By death unstrung; To touch it were profane ! But now, oh! now, at this deep hour, While I feel thy thrilling power; O'er thy urn to bend and weep; |