The slow team creeks upon the road,

The noisy whip resounds,
The driver's voice, his carol blithe,
The mower's stroke, his whetting sithe,
Mix with the morning's sounds.

Who would not rather take his seat
Beneath these clumps of trees,
The early dawn of day to greet,
And catch the healthy breeze,
Than on the silken couch of Sloth

Luxurious to lie ?

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.

Yet, Morning! unrepining still

He'll greet thy beams awhile;

And surely thou, when o'er his grave
Solemn the whispering willows wave,
Wilt sweetly on him smile;

And the pale glow-worm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.

MY OWN CHARACTER.

Addressed (during Illness) to a Lady.

DEAR Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf,
To give you a sketch-ay, a sketch of myself.
Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess,
And one it would puzzle a painter to dress;
But however, here goes, and as sure as a gun,
I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun;

For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her,
She wont be a cynical father confessor.

Come, come, 'twill not do! put that purling brow

down;

You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown.
Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction,
That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction;"
Religious Deistic-now loyal and warm;
Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform:
This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus ;
Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus;

Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle;
Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle;
Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay,
To all points of the compass I veer in a day.

I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child,
But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild:
As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute;
Then as for politeness-oh! dear-I'm a brute!
I show no respect where I never can feel it;
And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it,
And so in the suite, by these laudable ends,
I've a great many foes, and a very few friends.

And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd like steel.

It can love (can it not?)-it can hate, I am sure;
And it's friendly enough, tho' in friends it be poor.
For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds
If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds
And though far from faultless, or even so-so,
I think it may pass as our worldly things go.

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,

Here stay his steps, and call his children round,
And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes,
And, in his rustic manner, moralize.
I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,
With head uncover'd, his respectful manner.
And all the honours which he paid the grave,
And thought on cities, where even cemeteries,
Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality,
Are not protected from the drunken insolence
Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.
Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close
Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones
May lie or in the city's crowded bounds,
Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters
Or left a prey on some deserted shore
To the rapacious cormorant,-yet still,
(For why should sober reason cast away
A thought which soothes the soul?)-yet still m
spirit

Shall wing its way to these my native regions,
And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think
Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew
In solemn rumination; and will smile
With joy that I have got my long'd release.

LINES

WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-YARD

On Recovery from Sickness.

HERE would I wish to sleep.-This is the spot
Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in;
Tired out and wearied with the riotous world,
Beneath this Yew I would be sepulchred.
It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,
From his meridian height, endeavours vainly
To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook
Most pleasant. Such a one perchance, did Gray
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd."

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

worm

Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie
Beneath a little hillock, grass-o'ergrown,
Swathed down with oziers, just as sleep the cottiers
Yet may not undistinguished be my grave;
But there at eve may some congenial soul
Duly resort, and shed a pious tear,
The good man's benison-no more I ask.
And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down
From where, with cherubin, inspired they sit,
Upon this little dim-discover'd spot,

The earth,) then will I cast a glance below,
On him who thus my ashes shall embalm;
And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer,
Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine
In this low-thoughted world of darkling wo,
But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.

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,

THE CHRISTIAD,

A DIVINE POEM.

BOOK I.

I.

ISING the Cross-Ye white-robed angel choirs, Who know the chords of harmony to sweep, Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep, [deep, Oh, now descend! and with your harpings Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep, Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme.

II.

Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled state, ground! Thy glittering fanes are levell'd with the Fallen is thy pride!-Thine halls are desolate! Where erst was heard the timbrel's sprightly

sound,

And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, There breeds the wild fox lonely,-and aghast

Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. III.

It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers

Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn, That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born; And, with most bitter persecuting ire,

Pursued his footsteps till the last day-dawn Rose on his fortunes-and thou saw'st the fire That came to light the world, in one great flash expire.

IV.

Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light,
To paint the agonies that Jesus bore!
Oh! for the long-lost harp of Jesse's might,
To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to
shore;

While seraph hosts the lofty pran pour,
And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim!
May a frail mortal dare the theme explore?
May he to buman ears his weak song frame?
Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious
name?

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,

aye

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 IX.

In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair,

No sweet remain of life encheers the sight; The dancing heart's blood in an instant there Would freeze to marble.-Mingling day and night [light,)

(Sweet interchange, which makes our labours Are there unknown; while in the summer skies The sun lls ceaseless round his heavenly hght,

Nor ever sets from the scene he flies, And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise.

X.

Twas there, yet shuddering from the burning lake,

Satan had fix'd their next consistory, When parting last he fondly hoped to shake Messiah's constancy, and thus to free The powers of darkness from the dread decree Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent

The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent, Discern the colours clear of every dark event.

XI.

Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight, And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall, Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light, Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call. He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fall, Dropp'd on the echoing ice. Instant the sound Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the hall,

Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound, Till wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround

XII

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 disXIII.

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 lifted high the avenging rod! [gaze! For, spirits, this is He,-this is the Son of God!

To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write His own self-condemnation; in the plight Of aged man in the lone wilderness,

guess

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 way [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! methought

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. XVIL

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!
Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays;
And these, O rapture! these shall all be thine,
If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise.
Hath he not given to indigence thy days?
Is not thy portion peril here and pain?

Oh! leave his temples, shun his wounding
ways!

Seize the tiara! these mean weeds disdain, Kneel, kneel, thou man of wo, and peace and splendour gain.' XXI.

"Is it not written, sternly he replied,
Tempt not the Lord thy God! Frowning he
spake,

And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide,
Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake,
And caught me up aloft, till in one flake,
The sidelong volley met my swift career,

And smote me earthward.-Jove himself
might quake

At such a fall; my sinews crack'd, and near, Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in mine

"This comes," at length burst from the rurious chief,

"This comes of distant counsels! Here behold The fruits of wily cunning! the relief

Which coward policy would fain unfold, To soothe the powers that warr'd with Heaven O wise! O potent! O sagacious snare! [of old! And lo! our prince-the mighty and the bold, There stands he, speli-struck, gaping at the air, While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her standard there." XXIX.

Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye

Full on the speaker; dark it was and stern; He wrapp'd his black vest round him gloomily, And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts

"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.

Be now our standard!-Be our torch the glare Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air!"

Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old, Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves, Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms untold And mystery. His wandering spirit roves. Now vainly searching for the flame it loves, And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire, Where stood his temple, and where fragrant And cinnamon upheap'de sacred pyre, [cloves And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire.

He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast, And sighing-his papyrus scarf survey'd, Woven with dark characters; then thus address'd The troubled council.

I.

THUS far have I pursued my solemn theme With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung

LINES AND NOTE

BY LORD BYRON.

UNHAPPY White! 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 favourite son!
Yes! she too much indulg'd thy fond pursuit,
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit.
'Twas 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 impell'd the steel;
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

WRITTEN IN

THE HOMER OF MR. H. K. WHITE, Presented to me by his Brother, J. Neville White.

I.

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,

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.

IF worth, if genius, to the world are dear,
To Henry's shade devote no common tear.
His worth on no precarious tenure hung,
If pure benevolence, if steady sense,
From genuine piety his virtues sprung:
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 th' 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.

Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a glory.