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The slow team creeks upon the road,
Who would not rather take his seat
And catch the healthy breeze,
Who would not from life's dreary waste, Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, An interval of joy?
To him who simply thus recounts
The morning's pleasures o'er,
Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close
To ope on him no more.
He'll greet thy beams awhile;
MY OWN CHARACTER.
Addressed (during Illness) to a Lady.
DEAR Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf,
Come, come, 'twill not do! put that purling brow down;
You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown.
Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform:
Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss; Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss! I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say, But in process of time I may get the wrong way. I'm a general lover, if that's commendation, And yet can't withstand, you know whose fascination. But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices, In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices; So as for the good, why, if I possess it,
1 am not yet learned enough to express it.
You yourself must examine the lovelier side, And after your every art you have tried,
Will the cold earth its silence break,
To tell how soft how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies?
Mute, mute is all
O'er Beauty's fall;
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her
The most beloved on earth
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
But now 'tis gone away.
When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid.
Why fly from ill
With anxious skill,
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still ?
Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; Sad Monitress! I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day,
I bend my knee to thee.
From sun to sun
I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done!
On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his disappointment.
I DREAM no more-the vision flies away,
Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below;
His health soon sunk under these habits; he became pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit sickness. On his recovery he wrote the following lines in the church-yard of his favourite village.
WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-YARD
On Recovery from Sickness.
HERE would I wish to sleep.-This is the spot
From his meridian height, endeavours vainly
Come, I will sit me down and meditate, For I am wearied with my suminer's walk; And here I may repose in silent ease; And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find The haven of its rest-beneath this sod Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.
I would not have my corpse cemented down With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earth
Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie
Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body, Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze! Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond His narrow verge of being, and provide A decent residence for its clayey shell, Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay His body in the city burial-place, To be thrown up again by some rude Sexton, And yield its narrow house another tenant, Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness? No, I will lay me in the village ground; There are the dead respected. The poor hind, Unlettered as he is, would scorn to invade The silent resting-place of death. I've seen The labourer, returning from his toil,
Here stay his steps, and call his children round,
Shall wing its way to these my native regions,
Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late The rude Massagetæ adored, he bent His northering course, while round, in dusky state, [augment; The assembling fiends their summon'd troops Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went, While, as they pass'd to regions more severe,
The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament The solitary gale, and, fill'd with fear, The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near.
Where the North Pole, in moody solitude Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around,
There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude,
Form a gigantic hall, where never sound Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for [mound,
Thrones him, and, fix'd on his primæval Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern Dismay way. Stalks like some wo-struck man along the desert
High on a solium of the solid wave,
Prank'd with rude shapes by the fantastic frost, He stood in silence ;-now keen thoughts engrave Dark figures on his front; and, tempest-toss'd He fears to say that every hope is lost. Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute: So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast, Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute, [pute. Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dis
At length collected, o'er the dark Divan
The arch-fiend glanced, as by the Boreal blaze Their downcast brows were seen, and thus began His fierce harangue:-"Spirits! our better days Are now elapsed; Moloch and Belial's praise Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod.
Lo! the light breaks !-The astonish'd nations For us is lifted high the avenging rod! For, spirits, this is He,-this is the Son of God! XIV.
"What then!-shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear? Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear? Madness! The very thought would make me fain
To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain, And hurl them at their Maker!-Fix'd as fate
I am his Foe!-Yea, though his pride should deign
To soothe mine ire with half his regal state, Still would I burn with fix'd, unalterable hate.
"Now hear the issue of my cursed emprize,
When from our last sad synod I took flight, Buoy'd with false hopes, in some deep-laid dis guise,
To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write His own self-condemnation; in the plight Of aged man in the lone wilderness,
Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight, And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to [cess. What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn reXVI. "Then thus in homely guise I featly framed My lowly speech:-Good Sir, what leads this [blamed Your wandering steps? must hapless chance be That you so far from haunt of mortals stray? Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day, Nor trace of man have seen; but how! me
Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy ray I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.
""I am that man,' said Jesus, "I am He,
But truce to questions-Canst thou point my To some low hut, if haply such there be In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet With homely greeting, and may sit and eat; For forty days I have tarried fasting here,
Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, And now I hunger; and my fainting ear Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing
"Then thus I answer'd wily:-'If, indeed,
Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek For food from men ?-Lo! on these flint stones feed,
Bid them be bread! Open thy lips and speak, And living rills from yon parch'd rock will Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye [break. Fix'd on my face;-the blood forsook my cheek, I could not bear his gaze;-my mask slipp'd by; I would have shunn'd his look, but had not power
"Then he rebuked me with the holy word
Accursed sounds! but now my native pride Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd, I bore him from the mountain's woody side,
Up to the summit, where extending wide Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes, Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried,
And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains, Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated swains. XX.
""Behold,' I cried, these glories! scenes divine!
Oh! leave his temples, shun his wounding
Seize the tiara! these mean weeds disdain, Kneel, kneel, thou man of wo, and peace and splendour gain.' XXI.
High on the shrouds the spirit that comThe ocean-farer's life; so stiff-so sear [mands Stood each dark power ;-while through their numerous bands
Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge ap pear.
XXVI. Bilence crept stilly through the ranks.-The breeze
Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands, When all the midnight gasping from the seas Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands
"Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved this of oid: who led your forces against the armies of Jehovah? Who coped with Ithuriel and the thunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunned and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first awoke, and collected your scattered powers? Lastly, who led you across the unfathomable abyss to this delightful world, and established that reign here which now totters to its base? How, therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan's bravery? he who preys only on the defencelesswho sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in acts of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention. Away with the boaster who never joins in action, but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed upon the wounded, and overwhelm the dying. True bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation; let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our counselled purposes determinately. In power we have learned, by that experiment which lost us Heaven, that we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer:-In subtlety-in subtlety alone we are his equals. Open war is impossible.
"Thus we shall pierce our Conqueror, through
Which as himself he loves; tnus ir' we rall, We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace
Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call Of vengeance wrings within me! Warriors all, The word is vengeance, and the spur despair. Away with coward wiles!-Death's coal-black Pull
LINES AND NOTE
BY LORD BYRON.
UNHAPPY White! while life was in its spring,
THE HOMER OF MR. H. K, WHITE, Presented to me by his Brother, J. Neville White.
BARD of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame!
While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest, On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late I pause; and gaze regretful on thy name. [press'd,
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem
On the dark cypress! and the strings which
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.
And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Shall I no more re-animate the lay? Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,
Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, One little space prolong my mournful day! One little lapse suspend thy last decree !
I am youthful traveller in the way, And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death_shake hands, and smile that I am free.
By neither chance nor envy, time nor flame, Be it from this its mansion dispossess'd! But thee, Eternity, clasps to her breast, And celestial splendour thrones thy claim.
No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace
Bury, 11th Jan. 1807.
MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE.
BY A LADY.
IF worth, if genius, to the world are dear,
Call for fond sympathy's heart-felt regret,
Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a glory.