TRIBUTARY VERSES.

EULOGY ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE, BY LORD BYRON.

FROM THE ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

Unhappy White!1 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 indulged 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.

SONNET ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY CAPEL LOFFT.

Master so early of the various lyre Energic, pure, sublime!—Thus art thou gone? In its bright dawn of fame that spirit flown, Which breathed such sweetness, tenderness, and fire! Wert thou but shown to win us to admire, And veil in death thy splendour?—But unknown Their destination who least time have shone, And brightest beamed.—When these the Eternal Sire, —Righteous, and wise, and good are all his ways— Eclipses as their sun begins to rise, Can mortal judge, for their diminish'd days, What blest equivalent in changeless skies, What sacred glory waits them?—His the praise; Gracious, whate'er he gives, whate'er denies.

24th Oct. 1806.

SONNET OCCASIONED BY THE SECOND OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY CAPEL LOFFT.

Yes, fled already is thy vital fire, And the fair promise of thy early bloom Lost, in youth's morn extinct; sunk in the tomb; Mute in the grave sleeps thy enchanted lyre! And is it vainly that our souls aspire? Falsely does the presaging heart presume That we shall live beyond life's cares and gloom; Grasps it eternity with high desire, But to imagine bliss, feel woe, and die; Leaving survivors to worse pangs than death? Not such the sanction of the Eternal Mind. The harmonious order of the starry sky, And awful revelation's angel breath, Assure these hopes their full effect shall find.

25th December, 1806.

WRITTEN IN THE HOMER OF MR. H. K. WHITE.

PRESENTED TO ME BY HIS BROTHER, J. NEVILLE WHITE.

BY CAPEL LOFFT.

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 press'd, I pause; and gaze regretful on thy name. By neither chance nor envy, time nor flame, Be it from this its mansion dispossessed! But thee, Eternity, clasps to her breast, And in celestial splendour thrones thy claim.

No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace An imitative radiance:1 thy pure lyre, Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace, And beams and breathes in empyreal fire: The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own.

Bury, 11th Jan. 1807.

TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE.

BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M.

O Lost too soon! accept the tear A stranger to thy memory pays! Dear to the muse, to science dear, In the young morning of thy days!

All the wild notes that pity loved Awoke, responsive still to thee, While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved In softest, sweetest harmony.

The chords that in the human heart Compassion touches as her own, Bore in thy symphonies a part— With them in perfect unison.

Amidst accumulated woes That premature afflictions bring, Submission's sacred hymn arose, Warbled from every mournful string.

When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread, And deeper every moment grew; When rudely round thy youthful head The chilling blasts of sickness blew;

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 More virtues than could ever die; The morning star of hope is set— The sun adorns another sky.

O partial grief! to mourn the day So suddenly o'erclouded here, To rise with unextinguish'd ray— To shine in a superior sphere!

Oft Genius early quits this sod, Impatient of a robe of clay, Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod, And smiles, and soars, and steals away!

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 Portrays a mind attuned to noblest themes, A mind, which, wrapt in Fancy's high-wrought dreams, To nature's veriest bounds its daring way Can wing: what charms throughout thy pages shine, 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 SEPTEMBER, 1803, INSERTED IN HIS "REMAINS."

BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ.

Ah! once again the long left wires among, Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song; With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to stray O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower; 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, How shall a son of song refuse To shed a tear for thee? To us, so soon, for ever lost, What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd By Heaven's supreme decree?

How could a parent, love-beguiled, In life's fair prime resign a child So duteous, good, and kind? The warblers of the soothing strain Must string the elegiac lyre in vain To soothe the wounded mind!

Yet, Fancy, hovering round the tomb, Half envies, while she mourns thy doom, Dear poet, saint, and sage! Who into one short span, at best, The wisdom of an age compress'd, A patriarch's lengthen'd age!

To him a genius sanctified, And purged from literary pride, A sacred boon was given: Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre Celestial raptures could inspire, And lift the soul to Heaven.

'Twas not the laurel earth bestows, 'Twas not the praise from man that flows, With classic toil he sought: He sought the crown that martyrs wear, When rescued from a world of care; Their spirit too he caught.

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.

ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY T. PARK.

Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell, Impassion'd minstrel! when its pitying wail Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell Untimely, wither'd by the northern gale.1 Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime! Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse blast, Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desert clime, But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast, To see thee languish into quick decay. Yet was not thy departing immature; For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away, And pure in spirit, as the bless'd are pure; Pure as the dewdrop, freed from earthly leaven, That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY THE REV. J. PLUMPTRE.

Such talents and such piety combined, With such unfeign'd humility of mind, Bespoke him fair to tread the way to fame, And live an honour to the Christian name. But Heaven was pleased to stop his fleeting hour, And blight the fragrance of the opening flower. We mourn—but not for him, removed from pain; Our loss, we trust, is his eternal gain: With him we'll strive to win the Saviour's love, And hope to join him with the blest above.

October 24th, 1806.

TO MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY H. WELKER.

Hark! 'tis some sprite who sweeps a funeral knell, For Dermody no more.—That fitful tone From Eolus' wild harp alone can swell, Or Chatterton assumes the lyre unknown.

No; list again! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh Swells with the breeze, and dies upon the stream: 'Tis Margaret mourns, as swift she rushes by, Roused by the demons from adulterous dream.

O! say, sweet youth! what genius fires thy soul? The same which tuned the frantic nervous strain To the wild harp of Collins?—By the pole, Or 'mid the seraphim and heavenly train, Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold, To sing Hell's flaming gulf, or Heaven high arch'd with gold?

VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY JOSIAH CONDER.

What is this world at best, Though deck'd in vernal bloom, By hope and youthful fancy dress'd, What, but a ceaseless toil for rest, A passage to the tomb? If flowrets strew The avenue, Though fair, alas! how fading, and how few!

And every hour comes arm'd By sorrow, or by woe: Conceal'd beneath its little wings, A scythe the soft-shod pilferer brings, To lay some comfort low: Some tie to unbind, By love entwined, Some silken bond that holds the captive mind.

And every month displays The ravages of time: Faded the flowers!—The spring is past! The scattered leaves, the wintry blast, Warn to a milder clime: The songsters flee The leafless tree, And bear to happier realms their melody.

Henry! the world no more Can claim thee for her own! In purer skies thy radiance beams! Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes Before the eternal throne: Yet, spirit dear, Forgive the tear Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger here.

Although a stranger, I In friendship's train would weep: Lost to the world, alas! so young, And must thy lyre, in silence hung, On the dark cypress sleep? The poet, all Their friend may call; And Nature's self attends his funeral.

Although with feeble wing Thy flight I would pursue, With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride, Alike our object, hopes, and guide, One heaven alike in view; True, it was thine To tower, to shine; But I may make thy milder virtues mine.

If Jesus own my name (Though, fame pronounced it never), Sweet spirit, not with thee alone, But all whose absence here I moan, Circling with harps the golden throne, I shall unite for ever. At death then why Tremble or sigh? Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die?

Dec. 5, 1807.

ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S POEM ON SOLITUDE.

BY JOSIAH CONDER.

But art thou thus indeed "alone?" Quite unbefriended—all unknown? And hast thou then his name forgot Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot?

Is not his voice in evening's gale? Beams not with him the "star" so pale? Is there a leaf can fade and die Unnoticed by his watchful eye?

Each fluttering hope—each anxious fear— Each lonely sigh—each silent tear— To thine Almighty Friend are known; And say'st thou, thou art "all alone?"

ODE ON THE LATE H. KIRKE WHITE.

BY JUVENIS.

And is the minstrel's voyage o'er? And is the star of genius fled? And will his magic harp no more, Mute in the mansions of the dead, Its strains seraphic pour?

A pilgrim in this world of woe, Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray, Where bristly thorns, where briers grow, He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, Its heavenly music flow.

And oft he bade, by fame inspired, Its wild notes seek the ethereal plain, Till angels, by its music fired, Have, listening, caught the ecstatic strain, Have wonder'd, and admired.

But now secure on happier shores, With choirs of sainted souls he sings; His harp the Omnipotent adores, And from its sweet, its silver strings Celestial music pours.

And though on earth, no more he'll weave The lay that's fraught with magic fire, Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve His now exalted heavenly lyre In sounds Æolian grieve.

B. Stoke.

SONNET IN MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY J. G.

"'Tis now the dead of night," and I will go To where the brook soft murmuring glides along In the still wood; yet does the plaintive song Of Philomela through the welkin flow; And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree strong, And intermingle with the streams my woe! Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze; No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom; Cold, chilling dewdrops trickle down the trees, And every flower withholds its rich perfume: 'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

Sorrows are mine—then let me joys evade. And seek for sympathies in this lone shade. The glooms of death fall heavy on my heart, And, between life and me, a truce impart. Genius has vanish'd in its opening bloom, And youth and beauty wither in the tomb! Thought, ever prompt to lend the inquiring eye, Pursues thy spirit through futurity. Does thy aspiring mind new powers essay, Or in suspended being wait the day, When earth shall fall before the awful train Of Heaven and Virtue's everlasting reign? May goodness, which thy heart did once enthrone, Emit one ray to meliorate my own! And for thy sake, when time affliction calm, Science shall please, and poesie shall charm. I turn my steps whence issued all my woes, Where the dull courts monastic glooms impose; Thence fled a spirit whose unbounded scope Surpass'd the fond creations e'en of hope. Along this path thy living step has fled, Along this path they bore thee to the dead. All that this languid eye can now survey Witnessed the vigour of thy fleeting day: And witness'd all, as speaks this anguish'd tear, The solemn progress of thy early bier. Sacred the walls that took thy parting breath, Own'd thee in life, encompass'd thee in death! Oh! I can feel as felt the sorrowing friend Who o'er thy corse in agony did bend; Dead as thyself to all the world inspires, Paid the last rites mortality requires; Closed the dim eye that beam'd with mind before, Composed the icy limbs to move no more! Some power the picture from my memory tear, Or feeling will rush onward to despair. Immortal hopes! come, lend your blest relief, And raise the soul bow'd down with mortal grief; Teach it to look for comfort in the skies: Earth cannot give what Heaven's high will denies.

Cambridge, Nov. 1806.

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO H. K. WHITE, ON HIS POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED.

BY G. L. C.

Henry! I greet thine entrance into life! Sure presage that the myrmidons of fate, The fool's unmeaning laugh, the critic's hate, Will dire assail thee; and the envious strife Of bookish schoolmen, beings over rife, Whose pia-mater studious is fill'd With unconnected matter, half distill'd From letter'd page, shall bare for thee the knife, Beneath whose edge the poet ofttimes sinks: But fear not! for thy modest work contains The germ of worth; thy wild poetic strains, How sweet to him, untutor'd bard, who thinks Thy verse "has power to please, as soft it flows Through the smooth murmurs of the frequent close."

1803.

TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY A LADY.

If worth, if genius, to the world are dear, To Henry's shade devote no common tear; His worth on no precarious tenure hung. From genuine piety his virtues sprung; If pure benevolence, if steady sense, 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 the 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. No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer, And bind my spirit to this lower sphere; Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh, And bid new fire relume my languid eye: No more the pencil's mimic art command, And with kind pity guide my trembling hand; Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard, To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard. Vain all the pleasures thou canst not inspire, And "in my breast the imperfect joys expire." I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine, And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine: In fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre With virtue's energies each bosom fire; I saw admiring nations press around, Eager to catch the animating sound: And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night, To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight, Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade, And each graced honour to thy memory paid. Such was the fate hope pictured to my view— But who, alas! e'er found hope's visions true? And, ah! a dark presage, when last we met, Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret; When thou thy portrait from the minstrel drew, The living Edwin starting on my view— Silent, I ask'd of Heaven a lengthen'd date; His genius thine, but not like thine his fate. Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure revealed, The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd. Too strong the portion of celestial flame For its weak tenement the fragile frame; Too soon for us it sought its native sky, And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye, Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight, Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light: So shall thy bright example fire each youth With love of virtue, piety, and truth. Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn, And bid her sons revere thy favour'd urn. When thy loved flower "spring's victory makes known," The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone: Around thy urn the rosemary well spread, Whose "tender fragrance,"—emblem of the dead— Shall "teach the maid, whose bloom no longer lives," That "virtue every perish'd grace survives." Farewell! sweet Moralist; heart-sickening grief Tells me in duty's path to seek relief, With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise, And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies. Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance dwell, And to the world thy worth delight to tell; Though well I feel unworthy thee the lays That to thy memory weeping friendship pays.

STANZAS,

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY A LADY.

Ye gentlest gales! oh, hither waft, On airy undulating sweeps, Your frequent sighs so passing soft, Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps! He breathed the purest tenderest sigh, The sigh of sensibility.

And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower, Pale primrose, on his grave reclined; Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour, And of his pure, his spotless mind! Like thee he sprung in lowly vale; And felt, like thee, the trying gale.

Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude, O thou, the fragrant rosemary, Where he, "in marble solitude, So peaceful and so deep" doth lie! His harp prophetic sung to thee In notes of sweetest minstrelsy.

Ye falling dews, Oh! ever leave Your crystal drops these flowers to steep: At earliest morn, at latest eve, Oh let them for their poet weep! For tears bedew'd his gentle eye, The tears of heavenly sympathy.

Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams; for he was wont to pace the glade, To watch in pale uncertain gleams, The crimson-zoned horizon fade— Thy last, they setting radiance pour, Where he is set to rise no more.

THE END