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sufficient sum from the pronts to emcı vas appeared accordingly; but this unfortunate work the Monthly Review attacked with such unmeasured censure, that the young author was almost reduced to despair. He had looked forward to the college as his home of happiness, and one blast seemed to have shipwrecked his hopes for ever. He had not written, however, in vain--for effective patrons, who were able to judge of his merits, came forward, at a time when his despondency was at its height, and through their aid he was enabled to repair to the University of Cambridge, and devote himself to his beloved pursuits. In the case of young White, a double obligation now existed for extraordinary exertion, It was necessary to justify the kindness of his patrons, as well as to further his own success in life, by distinguishing himself as a student, and this could only be done by obtaining those academic honours which would attest his diligence and proficiency. Be. sides, he had already acquired a considerable literary reputation, which he naturally wished to increase. He read and studied accordingly, and when his health sank under the effort, he supported and forced his delicate constitution with powerful medicines. Nature could not long endure such violence with impunity, and a fever was the consequence, under which he expired on the 19th of October, 1806.

The admiration excited by the poems of Henry Kirke White, which were published after his death under the able editorship of Southey, was almost unbounded. This was occasioned, in a great measure, by admiration of his virtues, and sympathy for his untimely end, as well as by fond calculations of the high eminence he might have attained, if his life had been spared. But this enthusiasm has now subsided, and a more correct estimate is formed of his talents. While his poetry is acknowledged to possess high merit, it is as the poetry of a mere youth only, which it would be ridiculous to compare with that of the great masters of modern song, Kirke White may perhaps be placed in the third class_and this is high praise for a poet who died at the age of twenty-one.

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Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee,

Cold the rain beats on thy breast; Why should Horror's voice astound thee? Death can bid the wretched rest!

All under the tree

Thy bed may be,
And thou mayst slumber peacefully.
Maiden! once gay Pleasure knew thee;

Now thy cheeks are pale and deep:
Love has been a felon to thee,
Yet, poor maiden, do not weep:

There's rest for thee

All under the tree,
Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.


Oh! yonder is the well-known spot,

My dear, my long-lost native home! Oh! welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest no more to roam! Oh! I have travelld far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province, I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband.

But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

Of distant climes the false report

Allured me from my native land; It bade me rove-my sole support,

My cymbals and my saraband. The woody dell, the hanging rock,

The chamois skipping o'er the heights; The plain adorn’d with many a flock, And, oh! a thousand more delights

That grace yon dear beloved retreat,

Have backward won my weary feet. Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,

No more my little home I'll leave; And many a tale of what I've seen

Shall while away the winter's eve. Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province, I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband.

But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.


When pride and envy, and the scorn

Of wealth, my heart with gall imbued, I thought how pleasant were the morn

Of silence, in the solitude;
To hear the forest bee on wing,
Or by the stream or woodland spring,

To lie and muse alone-alone,
While the tinkling waters moan,
Or such wild sounds arise, as say,
Man and noise are far away.
Now, surely, thought I, there's enow,

To fill life's dusty way;
And who will miss a poet's feet,

Or wonder where he stray?
So to the woods and wastes I'll go,

And I will build an osier bower;
And sweetly there to me shall flow

The meditative hour. And when the Autumn's withering hand Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, I'll to the forest caverns hie: And in the dark and stormy nights I'll listen to the shrieking sprites, Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, Keep jubilee, and shred the woods; Or, as it drifted soft and slow, Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.


It is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.
In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger bies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.
Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallow'd airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.
The autumn leaf is sear and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!

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.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.

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Beams of the day-break faint! I hail

Your dubious hues, as on the robe
Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe,

I mark your traces pale.
Tired with the taper's sickly light,
And with the wearying, number'd night,

I hail the streaks of morn divine:
And lo! they break between the dewy wreathes

That round my rural casement twine:
The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes :
It fans my feverish brow,-it calms the mental strife,
And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.

The lark has her gay song begun,

She leaves her grassy nest,
And soars till the unrisen sun

Gleams on her speckled breast.
Now let me leave my restless bed,
And o er the spangled uplands tread;

Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend;
By many a green lane lies my way,

Where high o'er head the wild briars bend,

Till on the mountain's summit grey,
I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.

Oh, Heaven! the soft refreshing gale
It breathes into


breast !
My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale,

Is with new colours dress'd.
Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease!
Come thou too, on the balmy breeze,

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