friends, in all probability, until I take my degree. The friends to whom I allude are my mother and brother." Poetry was now abandoned for severer studies. He competed for one of the university scholarships, and at the end of the term was pronounced the first man of his year. Twice he distinguished himself in the following year, was again pronounced first at the great college examination, and also one of the three best theme-writers, between whom the examiners could not decide. But this distinction was purchased at the sacrifice of health, and ultimately of life. Of this, he himself was sensible. "Were I," he writes to a friend, "to paint a picture of Fame crowning a distinguished undergraduate, after the senate-house examination, I would represent her as concealing a death's head under a mask of beauty." He went to London to recruit his shattered nerves and spirits; but it was too late. He returned to his college, renewed his studies with unabated ardor, and sank under the effort. Nature was at length overcome; he grew delirious,, and died on the 19th of October, 1806, in his twenty-first year. Thus fell, a victim to his own genius, one whose abilities and acquirements were not more conspicuous than his moral and social excellence. "It is not possible," says Southey, "to conceive a human being more amiable in all the relations of life." And again: "He possessed as pure a heart as ever it pleased the Almighty to warm with life." Of his fervent piety, his letters, his prayers, and his hymns will afford ample and interesting proof. It was in him a living and quickening principle of goodness, which sanctified all his hopes and all his affections; which made him keep watch over his own heart, and enabled him to correct the few symptoms, which it ever displayed, of human imperfection. With regard to his poems, the same good judge observes,-" Chatterton is the only youthful poet whom he does not leave far behind him;" and, in alluding to some of his papers, handed to him for perusal after the death of this gifted youth, he observes,-"I have inspected all the existing manuscripts of Chatterton, and they excited less wonder than these." SONNET IN HIS SICKNESS. Yes, 'twill be over soon.-This sickly dream Yon landscape smile-yon golden harvest grow— The "Remains of Henry Kirke White, with an Account of his Life," by Robert Southey, 2 vols. "What an amazing reach of genius appears in the 'Remains of Henry Kirke White! How unfortunate that he should have been lost to the world almost as soon as known. I greatly lament the circumstances that forced him to studies so contrary to his natural talent."-SIR E. BRYDGES, Censura Literaria, ix. 393. Again, this same discriminating critic says-There are, I think, among these Remains,' a few of the most exquisite pieces in the whole body of English poetry. Conjoined with an easy and flowing fancy, they possess the charm of a peculiar moral delicacy, often conveyed in a happy and inimitable simplicity of language." Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, SONNET TO CONSUMPTION. Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head, Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear, SOLITUDE. It is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow; In woods and glens I love to roam, Yet, when the silent evening sighs The autumn leaf is sere and dead, It floats upon the water's bed: The woods and winds, with sullen wail, Tell all the same unvaried tale; I've none to smile when I am free, And when I sigh to sigh with me. "I know but one way of fortifying my soul against all gloomy presages and terrors of mind, and that is, by securing to myself the friendship and protection of that Being who disposes of events, and governs futurity. He sees at one view the whole thread of my exist ence: when I lay me down to sleep, I recommend myself to His care; when I awake, I give myself up to His direction. Amidst all the evils that threaten me, I will look up to Him for help, and question not but that He will either avert them, or turn them to my advantage. Though I know neither the time nor the manner of the death I am to die, I am not at all solicitous about it, because I am sure that He knows them both, and that He will not fail to support and comfort me under them."-ADDISON; Spectator, No. 7. Yet, in my dreams, a form I view ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. Come, Disappointment, come! Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; But I recline And, round my brow resign'd, thy peaceless cypress twine. Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears, with faint ear, the lingering knell That tells her hopes are dead; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet can she smile, and say, "My all was not laid here.” Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun-a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. Oh, what is beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, Mute, mute is all O'er Beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. The most beloved on carth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; I bend my knee to thee: My race will run; I only bow, and say, "My God, thy will be done!" TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! And cradled in the winds; Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway, Thee on this bank he threw, To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. When marshall'd on the nightly plain, One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye: Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks Once on the raging seas I rode ; The storm was loud-the night was dark; The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze- It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all, Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er- For ever and forevermore, The Star-the Star of Bethlehem! THE CHRISTIAD. [Concluding stanzas, written shortly before his death.] The lyre which I in early days have strung; On the dark cypress; and the strings which rung Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard no more. And must the harp of Judah sleep again? Oh! Thou who visitest the sons of men, Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, One little lapse suspend thy last decree! And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.' 1 "The torch of his inspiration was certainly kindled at the inner shrine; but it was darkly destined that his fair dawn was to have no meridian, and with a heart full of youthful promise and of lofty aspirations-devoted to the noblest and purest objects of humanity-he died while his feet were yet on the threshold of manhood. Three, at least, of the great magnates of literature lamented his fate, and were loud in his praises. On examining his posthumous papers, Coleridge and Southey alike expressed their astonishment at so much genius united to so much industry; and Byron, in a truculent satire, wherein almost nobody was spared, truth-stricken, suspended the lash, to scatter flowers liberally on his early grave."-MOIR, |