Religion heard no 'plainings loud, The sigh in secret stole from thee; And pity, from the "dropping cloud,” Shed tears of holy sympathy. Cold is that heart in which were met O partial grief! to mourn the day Oft genius early quits this sod, Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod, But more than genius urged thy flight, And mark'd the way, dear youth! for thee: Henry sprang up to worlds of light On wings of immortality! Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808. SONNET TO HENRY KIRKE WHITE, ON HIS POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED. BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. HAIL! gifted youth, whose passion-breathing lay To nature's veriest bounds its daring way To win with fairy thrill the melting soul! For though along impassion'd grandeur roll, Yet in full power simplicity is thine. Proceed, sweet bard! and the heaven-granted fire Of pity, glowing in thy feeling breast, May nought destroy, may nought thy soul divest Of joy of rapture in the living lyre, Thou tunest so magically: but may fame Each passing year add honours to thy name. Richmond, Sept. 1803. SONNET, ON SEEING ANOTHER WRITTEN TO H. K. WHITE, IN BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. AH! once again the long left wires among, To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view And courtship of the world: hail'd was the hour That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew, Poor Henry's budding beauties—to a clime Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray Forced their young vigour into transient day, And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them! and shall time Trample these orphan blossoms?—No! they breathe Still lovelier charms-for Southey culls the wreath! Oxford, Dec. 17, 1807. REFLECTIONS ON READING THE LIFE OF THE LATE HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, AUTHOR OF "THE PEASANT'S FATE." DARLING of science and the muse, To shed a tear for thee? To us, so soon, for ever lost, What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd How could a parent, love-beguiled, Yet, Fancy, hovering round the tomb, Dear poet, saint, and sage! Who into one short span, at best, To him a genius sanctified, A sacred boon was given: Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre And lift the soul to Heaven. 'Twas not the laurel earth bestows, He sought the crown that martyrs wear, Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, Who idly range in Folly's way, And learn the worth of time: Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, How to redeem this pearl at last, Atoning for your crime. This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime, Transplanted from the soil of time To immortality, In full perfection there shall bloom; And those who now lament his doom Must bow to God's decree. London, 27th Feb. 1808. |