.0 
 
 I. 
 
 %■ ,^^^' 
 
 ,0 c 
 
 ^'^i.^^''^^:' : ^^V' 
 
 ^ £> -i 
 
 '?,. -^ » V ■* .0 
 
 ,-> 
 
 
 
 vV -^cJ- 
 
 
 
 '^z 
 
 5^.^ a^^ '% '^ 
 
 
 
 /. » -7: 
 
 0^ c - '<• 
 
 ^OO^ 
 
 3 N 0, x"^ 
 
 
 V, 
 
 •P'^ > 
 
 V' 9. ^ "O ^ ■"> 
 
 
 A <^n 
 
 '" '('■' 
 
 
 .<"^ ^'../^^ 
 
 V 
 
 s^ -^ 
 
 - V" 
 
 
 ■ „f^<^<^/,JO^ ,^ ^^-^ ^""..J^l^k, 
 
 .s^^^ 
 

 
 
 
 
 .'-^^^ .V 
 
 %.^^^ 
 
 
 ^\i^.^- ^\^ 
 
 ,^v-,^ oV/^ 
 
 
 o^ '^> 
 
 
 >'^. . arr-l 
 
 %%' 
 
 0^ 
 
 xOo. 
 
 
 .^'^' 
 
 
 :1: 
 
 •->, 
 
 
 : ^^,^' ^fc 
 
 ..\^- 
 
 >^ ? 
 
 
 ■^ 4 ft S "• .'\ 
 
 ."^^ V' 
 
 '^^ .-J^ 
 
 ^■^ •}■ 
 
 
 
 q5 "-^ci- 
 
 A''^i^\~^ -N^ "'^. =^ ^^ 
 
 KS^ 
 
 $: -^% 
 
 
 "^ -0- 
 is- 
 
 
'^-n account o^ 
 
 V^ 
 
 /y 
 
 yAAv/^^^^O^^^'^.^'.^y. 
 
 Ji OS T-0\ 
 
THK 
 
 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 OF NOTTINGHAM, 
 
 LATE OF ST, JOHN's COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 WITH 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 BY ROBERT POUTHEY, LL. D. 
 
 No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
 But living Statues there are seen to weep, 
 Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
 Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 FEOM THE LAST LONDON EDITION 
 
 1829. 
 
 Lyman Thwrston ^ Co. Steriotypert. 
 
S7l 
 
 ./i^ 
 
 Printed by J H. A. Frost, Boston 
 
 Uxiiv. of ;&*ntucky 
 JAN 2 9 1941 
 
Of 
 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 It fell to my lot to publish, with the assistance of my 
 friend Mr. Cottle, the first collected edition of the works 
 of Chatterton, in whose history I felt a more than ordi- 
 nary interest, as being a native of the same city, familiar 
 from my childhood with those great objects of art and 
 nature by which he had been so deeply impressed, and 
 devoted from my childhood with the same ardor to the 
 same pursuits. It is now my fortune to lay before the 
 world some account of one whose early death is not 
 less to be lamented as a loss to English literature, and 
 whose virtues were as admirable as his genius. In 
 the present instance there is nothing to be recorded 
 but what is honorable to himself, and to the age in 
 which he lived ; little to be regretted, but that one so 
 ripe for heaven should so soon have been removed from 
 the world. 
 
 Henry Kirke White, the second son of John and 
 Mary White, was born in Nottingham, March 21st, 1785. 
 His father is a butcher ; his mother, whose maiden name 
 was Neville, is of a respectable Staffordshire family. 
 
 From the years of three till five, Henry learned to 
 read at the school of Mrs. Garrington ; whose name, un- 
 important as it may appear, is mentioned, because she 
 had the good sense to perceive his extraordinary ca- 
 
4 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 pacity, and spoke of what it promised with confidence. 
 She was an excellent woman, and he describes her with 
 affection in his poem upon Childhood. At a very early 
 age his love of reading was decidedly manifested ; it 
 was a passion to which everything else gave way. ' I 
 could fancy,' said his eldest sister, ' I see him in his 
 little chair, with a large book upon his knee, and my 
 mother calling, " Henry, my love, come to dinner," which 
 was repeated so often without being regarded, that she 
 was obliged to change the tone of her voice before she 
 could rouse him.' When he was about seven, he would 
 creep unperceived into the kitchen, to teach the servant 
 to read and write ; and he continued this for sometime 
 before it was discovered that he had been thus laudably 
 employed. He wrote a tale of a Swiss emigrant, which 
 was probably his first composition, and gave it to this 
 servant, being ashamed to show it to his mother. The 
 consciousness of genius is always at first accompanied 
 with this diffidence ; it is a sacred solitary feeling. No 
 forward child, however extraordinary the promise of his 
 childhood, ever produced anything truly great. 
 
 When Henry was about six, he was placed under the 
 Rev. John Blanchard, who kept, at that tim.e, the best 
 school in Nottingham. Here he learned writing, arith- 
 metic, and French. When he was about eleven, he 
 one day wrote a separate theme for every boy in his 
 class, which consisted of about twelve or fourteen. 
 The master said he had never known them write so 
 well upon any subject before, and could not refrain from 
 expressing his astonishment at the excellence of Henry's. 
 It was considered a great thing for him to be at so 
 good a school, yet there was some circumstances which 
 rendered it less advantageous to him than it might 
 have been. Mrs. White had not yet overcome her hus- 
 band's intention of breeding him up to his own business, 
 and by an arrangement which took up too much of his 
 time, and would have crushed his spirit, if that ' mount- 
 ing spirit ' could have been crushed, one whole day in 
 the week, and his leisure hours on the others, were em- 
 ployed in carrying the butcher's basket. Some dif- 
 ferences at length arose between" his father and Mr. 
 Blanchard, in consequence of which Henry was re- 
 moved. 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. B 
 
 One of the ushers, when he came to receive the 
 money due for tuition, took the opportunity of informing- 
 Mrs. White what an incorrig-ible son she had, and that 
 it was impossible to make the lad do anything. This 
 information made his friends very uneasy ; they were 
 dispirited about him ; and had they relied wholly upon 
 this report, the stupidity or malice of this man would 
 have blasted Henry's progress forever. He was, how- 
 ever, placed under the care of Mr. Shipley, who soon 
 discovered that he was a boy of quick perception, and 
 very admirable talents ; and came with joy, like a good 
 man, to relieve the anxiety and painful suspicions of hia 
 family. 
 
 While his school-masters were complaining that they 
 could make nothing of him, he discovered what Nature 
 had made him, and wrote satires upon them. These 
 pieces were never shown to any, except his most par- 
 ticular friends, who say that they were pointed and 
 severe. They are enumerated in the table of contents 
 to one of his manuscript volumes, under the title of 
 School-Lampoons ; but, as was to be expected, he had 
 cut the leaves out and destroyed them. 
 
 One of his poems, written at this time, and under 
 these feelings, is preserved. 
 
 ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL 
 
 ONE PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING. 
 
 Written at the age of thirteen. 
 
 The morning sun's enchanting rays 
 Now call forth every songster's praise ; 
 Now the lark, with upward flight, 
 Gaily ushers in the light ; 
 While wildly warbling from each tree, 
 The birds sing songs to Liberty. 
 
 But for me no songster sings, 
 For me no joyous lark upsprings ; 
 For I, confined in gloomy school, 
 Must own the pedant's iron rule, 
 
 1* 
 
 A 
 
b HENRY EIRKE WHITE. 
 
 And, far from sylvan shades and bowers, 
 In durance vile must pass the hours ; 
 There con the scholiast's dreary lines, 
 Where no bright ray of genius shines, 
 And close to rugged learning cling. 
 While laughs around the jocund Spring. 
 
 How gladly would my soul forego 
 All that arithmeticians know. 
 Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach, 
 Or all that industry can reach, 
 To taste each morn of all the joys 
 That with the laughing sun arise ; 
 And unconstrained to rove along 
 The bushy brakes and glens among ; 
 And woo the Muse's gentle power. 
 In unfrequented rural bower ! 
 But, ah ! such heaven-approaching joys 
 Will never greet my longing eyes ; 
 Still will they cheat in vision fine, 
 Yet never but in fancy shine. 
 
 Oh, that I were the little wren 
 That shrilly chirps from yonder glen ! 
 Oh, far away I then would rove. 
 To some secluded bushy grove ; 
 There hop and sing with careless glee, 
 Hop and sing at liberty ; 
 And till death should stop my lays. 
 Far from men would spend my days. 
 
 About this time his mother was induced, by the advice 
 of several friends, to open a Ladies' Boarding and Day 
 School in Nottingham, her eldest daughter having pre- 
 viously been a teacher in one for some time. In this 
 she succeeded beyond her most sanguine expectations ; 
 and Henry's home comforts were thus materially in- 
 creased, though it was still out of the power of his fami- 
 ly to give him that education, and direction in life, 
 v/hich his talents deserved and required. 
 
 It was now determined to breed him up to the hosiery 
 trade, the- staple manufacture of his native place ; and at 
 the age of fourteen he was placed in a stocking-loom. 
 
 j^ "" 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 7 
 
 with the view, at some future period, of getting a situ- 
 ation in a hosier's warehouse. During the time that he 
 was thus employed, he might be said to be truly unhappy ; 
 he went to his work with evident reluctance, and could 
 not refrain from sometimes hinting his extreme aversion 
 to it : but the circumstances of his family obliged them 
 to turn a deaf ear.* His mother, however, secretly felt 
 that he was worthy of better things : to her he spoke 
 more openly : he could not bear, he said, the thought of 
 spending seven years of his life in shining and folding 
 up stockings : he wanted something to occupy his brain, and 
 he should be wretched if he continued longer at this 
 trade, or indeed in anything except one of the learned 
 
 *His temper and tone of mind at this period, when he was in his fourteenth year, 
 are displayed in this extract from an Address to Contemplation. 
 
 Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys, 
 
 The soother of my cares, inspiring peace ; 
 
 And I will ne'er forsake thee. — Men may rave, 
 
 And blame and censure me, that I don't tie 
 
 My ev'ry thought down to the desk, and spend 
 
 The morning of my life in adding figures 
 
 With accurate monotony ; that so 
 
 The good things of the world may be my lot, 
 
 And I might taste the blessedness of wealth : 
 
 But, oh ! 1 was not made for money-getting , 
 
 For me no much-respected plum awaits. 
 
 Nor civic honor, envied — For as still 
 
 I tried to cast with school dexterity 
 
 The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts 
 
 Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt, 
 
 Which fond remembrance cherish'd, and the pen 
 
 Dropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured, 
 
 In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent 
 
 I erewhile wander'd with my early friends 
 
 In social intercourse. And then I'd think 
 
 How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, 
 
 One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe , 
 
 They were set down with sober steadiness. 
 
 Each to his occupation. 1 alone, 
 
 A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, 
 
 Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering 
 
 With every wind to ev'ry point o' th' compass. 
 
 Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge 
 
 In fits of close abstraction ; yea, amid 
 
 The busy bustling crowds could meditate, 
 
 And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away 
 
b HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 professions. These frequent complaints, after a year's 
 application, or rather misapplication, (as his brother 
 says,) at the loom, convinced her that he had a mind 
 destined for nobler pursuits. To one so situated, and 
 with nothing but his own talents and exertions to 
 depend upon, the law seemed to be the only practica- 
 ble line. His affectionate and excellent mother made 
 every possible effort to effect his wishes, his father 
 being very averse to the plan, and at length, after 
 overcoming . variety of obstacles, he was fixed in the 
 office of Messrs. Coldham and Enfield, attorneys and 
 town-clerks of Nottingham. As no premium could be 
 given with him, he was engaged to serve two years 
 before he was articled, so that though he entered this 
 office when he was fifteen, he was not articled till the 
 commencement of the year 1802. 
 
 Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. 
 Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth 
 I woo'd thy heavenly influence ! I would walk 
 A weary way when all my toils were done. 
 To lay myself at niglit in some lone wood, 
 And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. 
 Oh, those were times of happiness, and still 
 To memory doubly dear ; for growing years 
 Had not then taught me man was made to mourn ; 
 And a short hour of solitary pleasure, 
 Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense 
 For all the hateful bustles of the day. 
 My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic. 
 And soon the marks of care were worn away, 
 While I was swayed by every novel impulse^ 
 Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. 
 But it has nSw assumed its character ; 
 Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone, 
 Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend 
 Yet still, oh, Contemplation ! I do love 
 To indulge thy solenm musings ; still the same 
 With thee alone I know to melt and weep. 
 In thee alone delighting. Why along 
 The dusky tract of commerce should I toil, 
 When, with an easy competence content, 
 I can alone be happy ; where with thee 
 I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, 
 And loose the wings of Fancy ? — Thus 'alone 
 'Can I partake of happiness on earth ; 
 And to be happy here is man's chief end, 
 For to be happy he must needs be good. 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. B 
 
 On his thus entering the law, it was recommended 
 to him by his employers, that he should endeavour to 
 obtain some knowledge of Latin. He had now only the 
 little time which an attorney's office, in very extensive 
 practice, afforded ; but great things may be done in 
 ' those hours of leisure which even the busiest may 
 create,'* and to his ardent mind no obstacles were too 
 discouraging. He received some instruction in the first 
 rudiments of this language, from a person who then 
 resided at Nottingham under a feigned nijOne, but was 
 soon obliged to leave it, to elude the search of govern- 
 ment, who were then seeking to secure him. Henry 
 discovered him to be Mr. Cormick, from a print affixed 
 to a continuation of Hume and SmoUet, and published, 
 with their histories, by Cooke. He is, I believe, the 
 same person who wrote a life of Burke. If he received 
 any other assistance, it was very triffing ; yet, in the 
 course of ten months, he enabled himself to read Horace 
 with tolerable facility, and had made some progress in 
 Greek, which indeed he began first. He used to exer- 
 cise himself in declining the Greek nouns and verbs as 
 he was going to and from the office, so valuable was 
 time become to him. From this time he contracted a 
 habit of employing his mind in study during his walks, 
 which he continued to the end of his life. 
 
 He now became almost estranged from his family ; 
 even at his meals he would be reading, and his eve- 
 nings were entirely devoted to intellectual improvement. 
 He had a little room given him, which was called his 
 study, and here his milk supper was taken up to him ; 
 for, to avoid any loss of time, he refused to sup with 
 his family, though earnestly entreated so to do, as his 
 mother already began to dread the effects of this severe 
 and unremitting application. The law was his first 
 pursuit, to which his papers show he had applied him- 
 self with such industry as to make it wonderful that he 
 could have found time, busied as his days were, for any- 
 thing else. Greek and Latin were the next objects : at 
 the same time he made himself a tolerable Italian scholar, 
 and acquired some knowledge both of the Spanish and 
 Portuguese. His medical friends say that the knowledge 
 
 * Turner's Preface to the History of the Anglo-Saxoiis 
 
10 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 he had obtained of chymistry was very respectable. 
 Astronomy and electricity were among his studies : 
 some attention he paid to drawing, in which it is prob- 
 able he would have excelled. He was passionately 
 fond of music, and could play very pleasingly by ear on 
 the piano-forte, composing the bass to the air he was 
 playing ; but this propensity he checked, lest it might 
 interfere with more important objects, tie had a turn 
 for mechanics, and all the fittings up of his study were 
 the work of his own hands. 
 
 At a very early age, indeed soon after he was taken 
 from school, Henry was ambitious of being admitted a 
 member of a Literary Society then existing in Notting- 
 ham, but was objected to on account of his youth: after 
 repeated attempts, and repeated failures, he succeeded 
 in his wish, through the exertions of some of his friends, 
 and was elected. In a very short time, to the great 
 surprise of the society, he proposed to give them a 
 lecture, and they, probably from curiosity, acceded to 
 the proposal. The next evening they assembled : he 
 lectured upon Genius, and spoke extempore for above 
 two hours, in such a manner, that he received the unani- 
 mous thanks of the society, and they elected this young 
 Roscius of oratory their Professor of Literature. There 
 are certain courts at Nottingham, in which it is neces- 
 sary for an attorney to plead ; and he wished to qualify 
 himself for an eloquent speaker, as well as a sound 
 lawyer. 
 
 With the profession in which he was placed, he was 
 well pleased, and suffered no pursuit, numerous as his 
 pursuits were, to interfere in the slightest degree with 
 its duties. Yet he soon began to have higher aspirations, 
 and to cast a wistful eye toward the universities, with 
 I little hope of ever attaining their important advantages, 
 "' yet probably not without some hope, however faint. 
 There was at this time a magazine in publication, called 
 thq Monthly Preceptor, which proposed prize themes 
 for boys and girls to write upon ; and which was en- 
 couraged by many school-masters, some of whom, for 
 their own credit, and that of the important institutions 
 in which they were placed, should have known better 
 than to encourage it. But in schools, and in all practi- 
 cal systems of education, emulation is made the main 
 
HENRY KIREE WHITE. 11 
 
 spring', as if there were not enough of the leaven of 
 disquietude in our natures, without inoculating it with 
 this dilutement — 'this vaccine virus of envy. True it is 
 that we need encouragement in youth ; that though our 
 vices spring up and thrive in shade and darkness, like 
 poisonous fungi, our better powers require light and air ; 
 and that praise is the sunshine, without which genius 
 will wither, fade, and die ; or rather in search of which, 
 like a plant that is debarred from it, will push forth 
 in contortions and deformity. But such pratices as 
 that of writing for public prizes, of publicly declaiming, 
 and of enacting plays before the neighbouring gentry, 
 teach boys to look for applause instead of being satisfied 
 with approbation, and foster in them that vanity which 
 needs no such cherishing. This is administering stimu- 
 lants to the heart, instead of 'feeding it with food 
 convenient for it ;' and the effect of such stimulants is to 
 dwarf the human mind, as lapdogs are said to be stopped 
 in their growth, by being dosed with gin. Thus forced, 
 it becomes like the sapling which shoots up when it 
 should be striking its roots far and deep, and which 
 therefore never attains to more than a sapling's size. 
 
 To Henry, however, the opportunity of distinguishing 
 himself, even in the Juvenile Library, was useful ; if he 
 had acted with a man's foresight, he could not have 
 done more wisely than by aiming at every distinction 
 within his little sphere. At the age of fifteen, he gained 
 a silver medal for a translation from Horace ; and the 
 following year a pair of twelve inch globes, for an im- 
 aginary Tour from London to Edinburgh. — He deter- 
 mined upon trying for this prize one evening when at 
 tea with his family, and at supper he read to them his 
 performance, to which seven pages were granted in the 
 magazine, though they had limited the allowance of 
 room to three. Shortly afterwards he won several books 
 for exercises on different subjects. Such honors were of 
 great importance to him ; they were testimonies of his 
 ability, which could not be suspected of partiality, and 
 they prepared his father to regard with less reluctance 
 that change in his views and wishes which afterwards 
 took place. 
 
 He now became a correspondent in the Monthly 
 Mirror : a magazine which first set the example of typo- 
 
12 HENRY KIRKK WHITE. 
 
 graphical neatness in periodical publications, which 
 has given the world a good series of portraits, and 
 which deserves praise also on other accounts, having 
 among its contributors, some persons of extensive eru- 
 dition, and acknowledged talents. Magazines are of 
 great service to those who are learning to write ; they 
 are fishing boats, which the Bucaniers of Literature do 
 not condescend to sink, burn, and destroy : young poets 
 may safely try their strength in them ; and that they 
 should try their strength before the public, without dan- 
 ger of any shame from failure, is highly desirable. 
 Henry's rapid improvement was now as remarkable as 
 his unwearied industry. The pieces which had been 
 rewarded in the Juvenile Preceptor, might have been 
 rivalled by many boys ; but what he produced a year 
 afterwards, few men could equal. Those which appear- 
 ed in the Monthly Mirror attracted some notice, and 
 introduced him to the acquaintance of Mr. Capel Lofft, 
 and of Mr. Hill, the proprietor of the work, a gentleman 
 who is himself a lover of English literature, and who 
 has probably the most copious collection of English 
 poetry in existence. Their encouragement induced 
 him, about the close of the year 1802, to prepare a 
 little volume of poems for the press. It was his hope 
 that this publication might, either by the success of its 
 sale, or the notice which it might excite, enable him to 
 prosecute his studies at college, and fit himself for the 
 Church. For though so far was he from feeling any 
 dislike to his own profession, that he was even attach- 
 ed to it, and had indulged a hope that one day or other 
 he should make his way to the Bar, a deafness to which 
 he had always been subject, and which appeared to 
 grow progressively worse, threatened to preclude all 
 possibility of advancement ; and his opinions, which had 
 at one time inclined to deism, had now taken a strong 
 devotional bias. 
 
 Henry was earnestly advised to obtain, if possible, 
 some patroness for his book, whose rank in life, and no- 
 toriety in the literary world, might afford it some pro- 
 tection. The days of dedications are happily well nigh 
 at an end ; but this was of importance to him, as giving 
 his little volume consequence in the eyes of his friends 
 and townsmen. The countess of Derby was first ap- 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 13 
 
 plied to, and the manuscript submitted to her perusal. 
 She returned it with a refusal, upon the ground that it 
 was an invariable rule with her never to accept a com- 
 pliment of the kind ; but this refusal was couched in 
 language as kind as it was complimentary, and he felt 
 more pleasure at the kindness which it expressed, than 
 disappointment at the failure of his application : a 21. 
 note was enclosed as her subscription to the work. The 
 margravine of Anspeach was also thought of. There is 
 among his papers the draught of a letter addressed to 
 her upon the subject, but I believe it was never sent. 
 He was then recommended to apply to the dutchess of 
 Devonshire. — Poor Henry felt a fit repugnance at court- 
 ing patronage in this way, but he felt that it was of con- 
 sequence in his little world, and submitted ; and the 
 manuscript was left, with a letter, at Devonshire House, 
 as it had been with the countess of Derby. Some time 
 elapsed, and no answer arrived from her Grace ; and as 
 she was known to be pestered with such applications, 
 apprehensions began to be entertained for the safety of 
 the papers. His brother Neville (who was now settled 
 in London) called several times ; of course he never ob- 
 tained an interview : the case at last became desperate, 
 and he went with a determination not to quit the house 
 till he had obtained them. After waiting four hours in 
 the servants' hall, his perseverance conquered their idle 
 insolence, and he got possession of the manuscript. And 
 here he, as well as his brother, sick of ' dancing atten- 
 dance ' upon the great, would have relinquished all 
 thoughts of the dedication ; but they were urged to 
 make one more trial : — a letter to her Grace was pro- 
 cured, with which Neville obtained audience, wisely 
 leaving the manuscript at home ; and the dutchess, with 
 her usual good nature, gave permission that the volume 
 should be dedicated to her. Accordingly her name ap- 
 peared in the title page, and a copy was transmitted to 
 her in due form, and in its due morocco livery, of which 
 no notice was ever taken. Involved as she was in an 
 endless round of miserable follies, it is probable that she 
 never opened the book ; otherwise, her heart was good 
 enough to have felt a pleasure in encouraging the author. 
 Oh, what a lesson would the history of that heart hold 
 out. 
 
 2 
 
14 ' HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 Henry sent his little volume to each of the then ex- 
 isting Reviews, and accompanied it with a letter, where- 
 in he stated what his advantages had been, and what 
 were the hopes which he proposed to himself from the 
 publication : requesting from them that indulgence of 
 which his productions did not stand in need, and w^hich 
 it might have been thought, under such circumstances, 
 would not have been withheld from works of less pro- 
 mise. It may be well conceived with what anxiety he 
 lookedfor their opinions, and with what feelings he read 
 the following article in the Monthly Review for Februa- 
 ry, 1804. 
 
 Monthly Revievvj February, 1804. 
 
 ' The circumstances under which this little volume is 
 offered to the public, must, in some measure, disarm 
 criticism. We have been informed, that Mr. White has 
 scarcely attained his eighteenth year, has hitherto ex- 
 erted himself in the pursuit of knowledge under the dis- 
 couragements of penury and misfortune, and now hopes, 
 by this early authorship, to obtain some assistance in 
 the prosecution of his studies at Cambridge. He ap- 
 pears, indeed, to be one of those young men of talents 
 and application who merit encouragement : and it would 
 be gratifying to us, to hear that this publication had ob- 
 tained for him a respectable patron, for we fear that the 
 mere profit arising from the sale cannot be, in any meas- 
 ure, adequate to his exigencies as a student to the uni- 
 versity. A subscription, with a statement of the par- 
 ticulars of the author's case, might have been calculated 
 to have answered his purpose ; but, as a book which is 
 to "win its way" on the sole ground of its own merit, 
 this poem cannot be contemplated with any sanguine 
 expectation. The author is very anxious, however, 
 that critics should find in it something to coiximend, and 
 he shall not be disappointed : we commend his exertions, 
 and his laudable endeavours to excel ; but we cannot 
 compliment him with having learned the difficult art 
 of writing good poetry. 
 
 ' Such lines as these will sufficiently prove our asser- 
 tions : 
 
HENRY KIRKE ViUlTE. 15 
 
 " Here would I run a visionary boy, 
 When the hoarse thunder shook the vaulted s%, 
 And, fancy led, beheld the Almighty's form 
 Sternly careering in the eddying storm." 
 
 ' If Mr. White should be instructed by Alma Mater, he 
 will, doubtless, produce better sense, and better rhymes.' 
 
 I know not who was the writer of this precious arti- 
 cle. It is certain that Henry could have no personal 
 enemy. His volume fell into the hands of some dull man, 
 who took it up in an hour of ill humor, turned over the 
 leaves to look for faults, and finding that Boy and Sky 
 were not orthodox rhymes, according to his wise creed 
 of criticism, sat down to blast the hopes of a boy, who 
 had confessed to him all his hopes and all his difficulties, 
 and thrown himself upon his mercy. With such a let- 
 ter before him, (by mere accident I saw that which had 
 been sent to the Critical Review,) even though the po- 
 ems had been bad, a good man would not have said so ; 
 he would have avoided censure, if he had found it im- 
 possible to bestow praise. But that the reader may 
 perceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of 
 this reviewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus con- 
 temptuously condemned because Boy and Sky are used 
 as rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place. 
 
 TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.* 
 
 1. 
 
 Sweet scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 
 
 On January's front severe. 
 
 And o'er the wintry desert drear 
 To waft thy waste perfume ! 
 Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, 
 And I will bind thee round my brow ; 
 
 And as I tv/ine the mournful wreath, 
 I'll weave a melancholy song : 
 And sweet the strain shall be and long. 
 
 The melody of death. 
 
 *The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins 
 of the dead. 
 
16 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 Come, funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell 
 With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 
 And throw across the desert gloom 
 A sweet decaying smell. 
 
 Come, press my lips, and lie with me 
 
 Beneath the lowly alder tree. 
 
 And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 
 
 And not a care shall dare intrude, 
 
 To break the marble solitude, 
 So peaceful and so deep. 
 
 3. 
 
 And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies. 
 
 Moans hollow in the forest trees, 
 
 And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
 Mysterious music dies. 
 Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 
 It warns me to the lonely shrine, 
 The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
 
 My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
 
 Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
 A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. 
 
 TO THE MORNING. 
 
 Written during illness. 
 
 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 wreaths 
 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. 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 17 
 
 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 briers bend, 
 Till on the mountain's summit gray, 
 I sit me down and mark the glorious dawn of day. 
 
 Oh, Heaven ! the soft refreshing gale 
 
 It breathes into my breast ! 
 My sunk eye gleams ; my cheek, so pale, 
 
 Is with new colors dress'd. 
 
 Blithe Health ! thou soul of life and ease ! 
 Come thou too, on the balmy breeze, 
 
 Invigorate my frame : 
 I'll join with thee the buskin'd chascj 
 With thee the distant clime will trace, 
 
 Beyond those clouds of flame. 
 
 Above, below, what charms unfold 
 
 In all the varied view ! 
 Before me all is burnish'd gold, 
 
 Behind the twilight's hue. 
 The mists which on old Night await, 
 Far to the west they hold their state, 
 
 They shun the clear blue face of Morn ; 
 
 Along the fine cerulean sky, 
 
 The fleecy clouds successive fly, 
 While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn. 
 
 And hark ! the Thatcher has begun 
 
 His whistle on the eaves, 
 And oft the Hedger's bill is heard 
 
 Among the rustling leaves. 
 The slow team creaks upon the road. 
 
 The noisy whip resounds, 
 The driver's voice, his carol blithe, , 
 
 2*= 
 
18 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 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 whisp'ring 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. 
 
 An author is proof against reviewing, wiien, like my- 
 self, he has been reviewed above seventy times ; but 
 the opinion of a reviewer upon his first publication, has 
 more effect, both upon his feelings and his success, than 
 it ought to have, or would have, if the mystery of the 
 ungentle craft were more generally understood. Henry 
 wrote to the Editor, to complain of the cruelty with 
 which he had been treated. This remonstrance pro- 
 duced the following answer in the next month. 
 
 Moiitlily Review, March, 1804. 
 ADDRESS TO CORRESPONDENTS. 
 
 ' In the course of our long critical labors, we have 
 necessarily been forced to encounter the resentment, 
 or withstand the lamentations of many disappointed 
 authors ; but we have seldom, if ever, been more affect- 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 19 
 
 ed, than by a letter from Mr. White, of Nottingham, 
 complaining of the tendency of our strictures on his 
 poem of Clifton Grove, in our last number. His expos- 
 tulation is written with a warmth of feeling in which 
 we truly sympathize, and which shall readily excuse, 
 with us, some expressions of irritation : but Mr. White 
 must receive our most serious declaration, that we did 
 *' judge of the book by the book itself;" excepting only, 
 that, from his former letter, we were desirous of miti- 
 gating the pain of that decision which our public duty 
 required us to pronounce. We spoke with the utmost 
 sincerity when we stated our wishes for patronage 
 to an unfriended man of talents, for talents Mr. White 
 certainly possesses, and we repeat those wishes with 
 equal cordiality. Let him still trust that, like Gilford, 
 (see preface to his translation of Juvenal,) some Mr. 
 Cookesley may yet appear to foster a capacity which 
 endeavours to escape from its present confined sphere 
 of action ; and let the opulent inhabitants of Notting- 
 ham reflect, that some portion of that wealth which they 
 have worthily acquired by the habits of industry, will be 
 laudably applied in assisting the efforts of the mind.' 
 
 Henry was not aware that reviewers are infallible. 
 His letter seems to have been answered by a different 
 writer : the answer has none of the common-place and 
 vulgar insolence of the criticism ; but to have made any 
 concession, would have been admitting that a review 
 can do wrong, and thus violating the fundamental prin- 
 ciple of its constitution. 
 
 The poems which had been thus comdemned, ap- 
 peared to me to discover strong marks of genius. I 
 had shown them to two of my friends, than whom no 
 persons living better understand what poetry is, nor 
 have given better proofs of it ; and their opinion coincid- 
 ed with my own. I was fully convinced of the injustice 
 of this criticism, and having accidentally seen the letter 
 which he had written to the reviewers, understood the 
 whole cruelty of their injustice. In consequence of 
 this, I wrote to Henry to encourage him : told him, that 
 though I was well aware how imprudent it was in young 
 poets to publish !heir productions, his circumstances 
 seemed to render that expedient, from which it would 
 
20 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 otherwise be right to dissuade him ; advised him there- 
 fore, if he had no better prospects, to print a larger 
 volume, by subscription, and offered to do what little was 
 in my power to serve him in the business. To this he 
 replied in the following letter. 
 
 ' I dare not say all I feel respecting your opinion of 
 my little volume. The extreme acrimony with which 
 the Monthly Review ( of all others the most important ) 
 treated me, threw me into a state of stupefaction : I 
 regarded all that had passed as a dream, and thought 
 I had been deluding myself into an idea of possessing 
 })oetic genius, when in fact I had only the longing with- 
 out the afflatus. I mustered resolution enough, however, 
 to write spiritedly to them : their answer, in the ensu- 
 ing number, was a tacit acknowledgement that they had 
 been somewhat too unsparing in their correction. It 
 was a poor attempt to salve over a wound wantonly 
 and most ungenerously inflicted. Still I was damped, 
 because I knew the work was very respectable, and 
 therefore could not, I concluded, give a criticism grossly 
 deficient in equity — the more especially, as I knew of no 
 sort of inducement to extraordinary severity. Your 
 letter, however, has revived me, and I do again venture 
 to hope that I may still produce something which will 
 survive me. 
 
 ' With regard to your advice and offers of assistance, 
 I will not attempt, because I am unable to thank you for 
 them. To-morrow morning I depart for Cambridge, 
 and I have considerable hopes that, as I do not enter 
 into the university with any sinister or interested views, 
 but sincerely desire to perform the duties of an affection- 
 ate and vigilant pastor, and become more useful to man- 
 kind, I therefore have hopes, I say, that I shall find 
 means of support in the University. If I do not, I shall 
 certainly act in pursuance of your recommendations ; 
 and shall, without hesitation, avail myself of your offers 
 of service, and of your directions. 
 
 ' In a short time this will be determined : and when it 
 is, I shall take the liberty of writing to you at Keswick, 
 to make you acquainted with the result. 
 
 ' I have only one objection to publishing by sub- 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 21 
 
 scription, and confess it has weight with me. It is, 
 that in this step, I shall seem to be acting- upon the 
 advice so unfeelingly and contumeliously given by the 
 Monthly Reviewers, who say what is equal to this 
 — that had I gotten a subscription for my poems before 
 their merit was known, I might have succeeded ; 
 provided, it seems, I had made a particular statement of 
 my case ; like a beggar, who stands with his hat in one 
 hand, and a full account of his cruel treatment on the 
 coast of Barbary in the other, and so gives you his 
 penny sheet for your sixpence, by way of half purchase, 
 half charity. 
 
 ' I have materials for another volume, but they 
 were written principally while Clifton Grove was in 
 press, or soon after, and do not now at all satisfy me. 
 Indeed, of late, I have been obliged to desist, almost 
 entirely, from converse with the dames of Helicon. 
 The drudgery of an attorney's office, and the necessity 
 of preparing myself, in case I should succeed in getting 
 to college, in what little leisure I could boast, left no 
 room for the flights of the imagination.' 
 
 In another letter he speaks in still stronger terms, of 
 what he had suffered from the unfeeling and iniquitous 
 criticism. 
 
 *The unfavorable review (.in the "Monthly") of my 
 unhappy work, has cut deeper than you could have 
 thought ; not in a literary point of view, but as it affects 
 my respectability. It represents me actually as a 
 beggar, going about gathering money to put myself at 
 college, when my book is worthless ; and this with 
 every appearance of candor. They have been sadly 
 misinformed respecting me ; this review goes before me 
 wherever I turn my steps ; it haunts me incessantly, and 
 I am persuaded it is an instrument in the hands of Satan 
 to drive me to distraction. I must leave Nottingham.' 
 
 It is not unworthy of remark, that this very reviewal, 
 which was designed to crush the hopes of Henry, and 
 suppress his struggling genius, has been, in its conse- 
 quences, the main occasion of bringing his ' Remains ' to 
 light, and obtaining for him that fame which assuredly 
 
22 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 will be his portion. Had it not been for the indignation 
 which I felt at perusing a criticism at once so cruel and 
 so stupid, the little intercourse between Henry and my- 
 self would not have taken place ; his papers would prob- 
 ably have remained in oblivion, and his name in a few 
 years have been forgotten. 
 
 I have stated that his opinions were at one time inclin- 
 ing towards deism : it need not be said on what slight 
 grounds the opinions of a youth must needs be founded : 
 while they are confined to matters of speculation, they 
 indicate, whatever their eccentricities, only an active 
 mind : and it is only when a propensity is manifested to 
 such principles as give a sanction to immorality, that 
 they show something wrong at heart. One little poem 
 of Henry's, remains, which was written in this unsettled 
 state of mind. It exhibits much of his character, and can 
 excite no feelings towards him, but such as are favorable. 
 
 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 curling 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 arid 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. 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 23 
 
 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, though 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, 
 
 I am not yet learned enough to express it. 
 
 You yourself must examine the lovelier side. 
 And after your every art you have tried. 
 Whatever my faults, I may venture to say, 
 Hypocrisy never will come in your way. 
 I am upright, I hope ; I am downright, I'm clear ! 
 And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere ; 
 And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast, 
 'Tis now when I swear * * 
 
 About this time, Mr. Pigott, the Curate of St. Marys, 
 Nottingham, hearing what was the bent of his religious 
 opinions, sent him, by a friend, Scott's Force of Truth, 
 and requested him to peruse it attentively, which he 
 promised to do. Having looked at the book, he told the 
 
24^ HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 person who brought it to him, that he could soon write 
 an answer to it ; but about a fortnight afterwards, when 
 this friend inquired how far he had proceeded in his an- 
 swer to Mr. Scott, Henry's reply was in a very different 
 tone and temper. He said, that to answer that book 
 was out of his power, and out of any man's, for it was 
 founded upon eternal truth ; that it had convinced him 
 of his error ; and that so thoroughly was he impressed 
 with a sense of the importance of his Maker's favor, 
 that he would willingly give up all acquisitions of know- 
 ledge, and all hopes of -fame, and live in a wilderness, 
 unknown, till death, so he could insure an inheritance 
 in heaven. 
 
 A new pursuit was thus opened to him, and he en- 
 gaged in it with his wonted ardor. ' It was a constant 
 feature in his mind,' says Mr. Pigott, ' to persevere in 
 the pursuit of what he deemed noble and important. 
 Religion, in which he now appeared to himself not yet 
 to have taken a step, engaged all his anxiety, as of all 
 concerns the most important. He could not rest satis- 
 fied till he had formed his principles upon the basis of 
 Christianity, and till he had begun in earnest to think 
 and act agreeably. to its pure and heavenly precepts. 
 His mind loved to make distant excursions into the fu- 
 ture and remote consequences of things. He no longer 
 limited his views to the narrow confines of earthly exis- 
 tence ; he was not happy till he had learned to rest and 
 expatiate in a world to come. What he said to me 
 when we became intimate is worthy of observation : 
 that, he said, which first made him dissatisfied with the 
 creed he had adopted, and the standard of practice 
 which he had set up for himself, was the purity of mind 
 which he perceived was everywhere inculcated in the 
 Holy Scriptures, and required of every one who would 
 become a successful candidate for future blessedness. 
 He had supposed that morality of conduct was all the 
 purity required ; but when he observed that purity of 
 the very thoughts and intentions of the soul also was re- 
 quisite, he was convinced of his deficiencies, and could 
 find no comfort to his penitence, but in the atonement 
 made for human frailty by the Redeemer of mankind ; 
 and no strength adequate to his weakness, and sufficient 
 for resisting evil, but the aid of God's Spirit, promised 
 
HENRY KIKKE WHITE. 25 
 
 to those wtio seek them from above in the sincerity of 
 earnest prayer.' 
 
 From the moment when he had fully contracted these 
 opinions, he was resolved upon devoting his life to the 
 promulg-ation of them ; and therefore to leave the law, 
 and, if possible, to place himself at one of the Universi- 
 ties. Every argument was used by his friends to dis- 
 suade him from his purpose, but to no effect : his mind 
 was unalterably fixed ; and great and numerous as the 
 obstacles were, he was determined to surmount them 
 all. He had now served the better half of the term for 
 which he was articled ; his entrance and continuance in 
 the profession, had been a great expense to his family ; 
 and to give up this lucrative profession, in the study of 
 which he had advanced so far, and situated as he was, 
 for one wherein there was so little prospect of his ob- 
 taining even a decent competency, appeared to them 
 the height of folly or of madness. This determination 
 cost his poor mother many tears ; but determined he 
 was, and that by the best and purest motives. Without 
 ambition he could not have existed, but his ambition 
 now was to be eminently useful in the ministry. 
 
 It was Henry's fortune, through his short life, as he 
 was worthy of the kindest treatment, always to find it. 
 His employers, Mr. Coldham and Mr. Enfield, listened 
 with a friendly ear to his plans, and agreed to give up 
 the remainder of his time, though it was now become 
 very valuable to them, as soon as they should think his 
 prospects of getting through the University were such 
 as he might reasonably trust to ; but till then, they felt 
 themselves bound, for his own sake, to detain him. 
 Mr. Pigott, and Mr. Dashwood, another clergyman, who 
 at that time resided in Nottingham, exerted themselves 
 in his favor : he had a friend at Queens College, Cam- 
 . bridge, who mentioned him to one of the Fellows of St. 
 Johns, and that gentleman on the representations made 
 to him of Henry's talents and piety, spared no effort to 
 obtain for him an adequate support. 
 
 As soon as these hopes were laid out to him, his em- 
 ployers gave him a month's leave of absence, for the 
 benefit of uninterrupted study, and of change of air, 
 which his health now began to require. Instead of go- 
 ing to the sea coast, as was expected, he chose for his> 
 3 
 
26 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 retreat the villag-e of Wilford, which is situated on the 
 banks of the Trent, and at the foot of Chfton Woods. 
 These woods had ever been his favorite place of resort, 
 and were the subject of the longest poem in his little 
 volume, from which, indeed, the volume was named. 
 He delighted to point out to his more intimate friends 
 the scenery of this poem ; the islet to which he had of- 
 ten forded, when the river was not knee deep ; and the 
 little hut wherein he had sat for hours, and sometimes 
 all day long, reading or writing, or dreaming with his 
 eyes open. He had sometimes wandered in these woods 
 till night far advanced, and used to speak with pleasure 
 of having once been overtaken there by a thunder-storm 
 at midnight, and watching the lightning over the river 
 and the vale towards the town. 
 
 In this village his mother procured lodgings for him, 
 and his place of retreat was kept secret, except f»om his 
 nearest friends. Soon after the expiration of the month, 
 intelligence arrived that the plans which had been form- 
 ed in his behalf had entirely failed. He went immedi- 
 ately to his mother : ' All my hopes,' said he, ' of getting 
 to the University are now blasted ; in preparing myself 
 for it, I have lost time in my profession ; I have much 
 ground to get up, and as I am determined not to be a 
 mediocre attorney, I must endeavour to recover what I 
 have lost.' -The consequence was, that he" applied him- 
 self more severely than ever to his studies. He now 
 allowed himself no time for relaxation, little for his meals, 
 and scarcely any for sleep. He would read till one, two, 
 or three o'clock in the morning ; then throw himself on 
 the bed, and rise again to his work at five, at the call of 
 a larum, which he had fixed to a Dutch clock in his 
 chamber. Many nights he never laid down at" all. It 
 was in vain that his mother used every possible means 
 to dissuade him from this destructive application. In 
 this respect, and in this only one, 'was Henry undutiful, 
 and neither commands, nor tears, nor entreaties, could 
 check his dipsperate and deadly ardor. At one time she 
 went every night into his room, to put out his candle : as 
 soon as he heard her coming up stairs, he used to hide 
 it in a cupboard, throw himself into bed, and affect sleep, 
 while she was in the room ; then, when all was quiet, 
 rise again, and pursue his baneful studies. 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 27 
 
 'The night,' says Henry, in one of his letters, 'has 
 been everything to me ; and did the world know how I 
 have been indebted to the hours of repose, they would 
 not wonder that night images are, as they judge,, so 
 ridiculously predominant, in my verses.' During some 
 of these midnight hours he indulged himself in complain- 
 ing, but in such complaints that it is to be wished more 
 of them had been found among his papers. 
 
 ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 1. 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 Not in thy terrors clad ; 
 • Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; 
 Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
 The restless and the bad. 
 But I recline 
 Beneath thy shrine, 
 And round my brow resigned, thy peaceful cypress twine. 
 
 2. 
 
 Though Fancy flies away 
 
 Before thy hollow tread, 
 Yet meditation, in her cell. 
 Hears with faint eye, the lingering knell, 
 That tells her hopes are dead ; 
 And though the tear 
 By chance appear. 
 Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. 
 
 3. 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 
 Though from Hope's summit hurl'd. 
 Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven. 
 For thou severe were Stent from heaven 
 To wean me from the world ; 
 To turn my eye 
 From vanity, 
 And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 
 
 
28 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 4. 
 
 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. 
 
 5. 
 
 Oh,' what is Beauty's power r 
 
 It flourishes and dies ; 
 Will the cold earth its silence break. 
 To tell how soft how smooth a cheek 
 Beneath its surface lies ? 
 Mute, mute is all 
 O'er Beauty's fall ; 
 Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 
 
 6. 
 
 The most beloved on earth 
 Not long survives to-day ; 
 So music past is obsolete, 
 And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, 
 But now 'tis gone away. 
 Thus does the shade 
 In memory fade. 
 When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. 
 
 Then since this world is vain. 
 
 And volatile, and fleet, 
 Why should I lay up earthly joys. 
 Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
 And cares an^ sorrows eat ? 
 Why fly frorn ill 
 With anxious skill. 
 When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart 
 be still ? 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 29 
 
 8. 
 
 Come, Disappointment, cornel 
 
 Thou art not stern to me ; 
 Sad Monitress ! I own thy sway, 
 A votary sad in early day, 
 I bend my knee to thee. 
 From sun to sun 
 My race will run, 
 I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done ! 
 
 On another paper are a few lines, written probably in 
 the freshness of his disappointment. 
 
 I DREAM no more — the vision flies away. 
 
 And Disappointment * * * * 
 
 There fell my hopes — I lost my all in this, 
 
 My cherish'd all of visionary bliss. 
 
 Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below ; 
 
 Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome wo. 
 
 Plunge me in glooms * * * * 
 
 His health soon sunk under these habits ; he became 
 pele and thin, and at length had a sharp fit of sickness. 
 On his recovery he wrote the following lines in the 
 church-yard of his favorite village. 
 
 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 the vagrant muse he wanton'd. 
 3* 
 
30 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 Come, I will sit me down and meditate, 
 
 For I am wearied with my summer'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. 
 
 1 would not have my corpse cemented down 
 
 With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm 
 
 Of its predestined dues ; no, I would lie 
 
 Beneath a little hillock, grass-o'ergrown, 
 
 Swathed down with osiers, 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 cherubim, 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 ! 
 Ye( 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 ; 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 31 
 
 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 laborer, returning from his toil, 
 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 honors 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 my 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. 
 
 His friends are of opinion that he never thoroughly 
 recovered from the shock which his constitution had 
 sustained. Many of his poems indicate that he thought 
 himself in danger of consumption ; he Vv^as not aware 
 that he was generating or fostering in himself another 
 disease, little less dreadful, and which threatens intel- 
 lect as well as life. At this time youth was in his favor, 
 and his hopes, which were now again renewed, produc- 
 ed perhaps a better effect than medicine. Mr. Dash- 
 wood obtained for him an introduction to Mr. Simeon, 
 of Kings College, and with this he was induced to go 
 to Cambridge. Mr. Simeon, from the recommendation 
 which he received, and from the conversation he had 
 with him, promised to procure for him a Sizership at, St. 
 Johns, and, with the additional aid of a friend to supply 
 
32 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 him with 301. annually. His brother Neville promised 
 twenty ; and his mother, it was hoped, would be able to 
 allow fifteen or twenty more. With this, it was thought, 
 he could go through college. If this prosp*8ct had not 
 been opened to him, he would probably have turned his 
 thoughts towards the orthodox dissenters. 
 
 On his return to Nottingham, the Rev. Robinson, 
 
 of Leicester, and some other friends advised him to ap- 
 ply to the Elland Society for assistance, conceiving it 
 would, be less oppressive to his feelings to be dependant ■ 
 on a Society instituted for the express purpose of train- 
 ing up such young men as himself (that is, such in cir- 
 cumstances and opinions) for the ministry, than on the 
 bounty of an individual. In consequence of this advice, 
 he went to Elland at the next meeting of the Society, a 
 stranger there, and without one friend among the mem- 
 bers. He was examined, for several hours, by about 
 five-and-twenty clergymen, as to his religious views and 
 sentiments, his theological knowledge, and his classical 
 attainments. In the course of the inquiry, it appeared 
 that he had published a volume of poems : their ques- 
 tions now began to be unpleasantly inquisitive concern- 
 ing the nature of these poems, and he was assailed by 
 queries from all quarters. It was well for Henry that 
 they did not think of referring to the Monthly Review 
 for authority. My letter to him happened to be in his 
 pocket ; he luckily recollected this, and produced it as a 
 testimony in his favor. They did me the honor to say 
 that it was quite sufficient, and pursued this part of the 
 inquiry no further. Before he left Elland, he was given 
 to understand, that they were well satisfied with his 
 theological knowledge ; that they thought his classical 
 proficiency prodigious for his age, and that they had 
 placed him on their books. He returned little pleased 
 with his journey. His friends had been mistaken ; the 
 bounty of an individual calls forth a sense of kindness, 
 as well as of dependance : that of a Society has the vir- 
 tue of charity perhaps, but it wants the grace. He now 
 wrote to Mr. Simeon, stating what he had done, and 
 that the beneficence of his unknown friends was no long- 
 er necessary : but that gentleman obliged him to decline 
 the assistance of the Society, which he very willingly 
 did. 
 
HENRy KIRKE WHITE. 33 
 
 This being finally arranged, he quitted his employers 
 in October, 1804. ' How much he had conducted himself 
 to their satisfaction, will appear by this testimony of 
 Mr. Enfield, to his diligence and uniform worth. ' I have 
 great pleasure,' says this gentleman, ' in paying the tri- 
 bute to his memory, of expressing the knowledge which 
 was afforded me during the period of his connexion with 
 Mr. Coldham and myself, of his diligent application, his 
 ardor for study, and his virtuous and amiable disposition. 
 He very soon discovered an unusual aptness in compre- 
 hending the routine of business, and great ability and 
 rapidity in the execution of everything which was in- 
 trusted to him. His diligence and punctual attention 
 were unremitted, and his services became extremely 
 valuable a considerable time before he left us. He seem- 
 ed to me to have no relish for the ordinary pleasures and 
 dissipations of young men ; his mind was perpetually 
 employed, either in the business of his profession, or in 
 private study. With his fondness for literature, we were 
 well acquainted, but had no reason to offer any check to 
 it, for he never permitted the indulgence of his literary 
 pursuits to interfere with the engagements of business. 
 The difficulty of hearing, under which he labored, was 
 distressing to him in the practice of his profession, and 
 was, I think, an inducement, in co-operation with his 
 other inclinations, for his resolving to relinquish the law. 
 I can, with truth, assert, that his determination was 
 matter of serious regret to my partner and myself.' 
 
 Mr. Simeon had advised him to degrade for a year, and 
 place himself, during that time, inider some scholar. 
 
 He went accordingly to the Rev. Grainger, of 
 
 Winteringham, in Lincolnshire, and there, notwithstand- 
 ing all the entreaties of his friends, pursuing tha same 
 unrelenting course of study, a second illness was the 
 consequence. When he was recovering, he was pre- 
 vailed upon to relax, to ride on horseback, and to drink 
 wine ; these latter remedies he could not long afford, 
 and he would not allow himself time for relaxation when 
 he did not feel its immediate necessity. He frequently, 
 at this time, studied fourteen hours a day : the progress 
 which he made in twelve months was indeed astonish- 
 ing : when he went to Cambridge, he was immediately 
 as #nuch distinguished for his classical knowledge as his 
 
34 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 genius : but the seeds of death were in him, and the 
 place to which he had so long- looked on with hope, 
 served unhappily as a hothouse to ripen them.* 
 
 During- his first term, one of the University Scholar- 
 ships, became vacant, and Henry, young as he was in 
 college, and almost self-taught, was advised, by those 
 who were best able to estimate his chance of success, to 
 offer himself as a competitor for it. He passed the whole 
 term in preparing himself for this, reading for college 
 subjects in bed, in his walks, or, as he says, where, when, 
 and how he could, never having a moment to spare, and 
 often going to his tutor without having read at all. His 
 strength sunk under this, and though he had declared 
 himself a candidate, he was compelled to decline ; but 
 this was not the only misfortune. The general college 
 examination came on ; he was utterly unprepared to 
 meet it, and believed that a failure here would have 
 ruined his prospects forever. He had only about a fort- 
 night to read what other men had been the whole term 
 reading. Once more he exerted himself beyond what 
 his shattered health could bear ; the disorder return- 
 ed, and he went to his tutor, Mr. Catton, with tears 
 in his eyes, and told him that he could not go into the 
 hall to be examined. Mr. Catton, however, thought 
 his success here of so much importance, that he ex- 
 horted him, with all possible earnestness, to hold out 
 the six days of the examination. Strong medicines were 
 given him to enable him to support it, and he was pro- 
 nounced the first man of his year. But life was the 
 price which he was to pay for such honors as these, and 
 Henry is not the first young man to whom such honors 
 have proved fatal. He said to his most intimate friend, 
 almost the last time he saw him, that were he to paint 
 a picture of Fame, crowning a distinguished under-gradu- 
 
 ' * During his residence in my family, says Mr. Grainger, liis conduct was highly 
 becoming, and suitable to a christian profession. He was mild and inoffensive, 
 modest, unassuming, and affectionate. He attended, with great cheerfulness, a 
 Sunday School which I was endeavouring to establish in the village, and was at 
 considerable pains in the instruction of the children ; and I have repeatedly observ- 
 ed, tliat he was most pleased and most edified, with such of my sermons and ad- 
 dresses to my people as were most close, plain, and familiar. When we parted, we 
 parted with' mutual regret ; and by us bis name will long be remembered with affec- 
 tion and delight. v 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 36 
 
 ate, after the senate-house examination, he would rep- 
 resent her as conceaHng- a Death's head under a mask 
 of beauty. 
 
 When this was over he went to London. London 
 was a new scene of excitement, and what his mind re- 
 quired was tranquilhty and rest. Before he left college, 
 he had become anxious concerning his expenses, fearing 
 that they exceeded his means. "Mr. Catton perceived 
 this, and twice called him to his rooms, to assure him 
 of every necessary support, and every encouragement, 
 and to give him every hope. This kindness relieved 
 his spirits of a heavy weight, and on his return he re- 
 laxed a little from his studies, but it was only a little. 
 I found among his papers the day thus planned out : — 
 ' Rise at half past five. Devotions and walk till seven. 
 Chapel and breakfast till eight. Study and lectures till 
 one. Four and a half clear reading. Walk, &c. and 
 dinner, and Woolaston, and chapel to six. Six to nine, 
 reading — three hours. Nine to ten, devotions. Bed at 
 ten.' 
 
 Among his latest writings are these resolutions : — 
 
 ' I Vill never be in bed after six. 
 
 I will not drink tea out above once a week, excepting 
 on Sundays, unless there appear some good reason 
 for so doing. 
 
 I will never pass a day without reading some portion of 
 the Scriptures. 
 
 I will labor diligently in my mathematical studies, be- 
 cause I half suspect myself of a dislike to them. 
 
 I will walk two hours a day, upon the average of every 
 week. 
 
 Sit mihi gratia addita ad hodc facienda.^ 
 
 About this time, judging by the hand-writing, he wrote 
 down the following admonitory sentences, which, as the 
 paper on which they are written is folded into the shape 
 of a very small book, it is probable he carried about with 
 him as a manual. 
 
 ' 1. Death and judgment are near at hand. 
 
36 HEJ^Ry KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 2. Though thy bodily part be now in health and ease, 
 the dews of death will soon sit upon thy forehead. 
 
 3. That which seems so sweet and desirable to thee 
 now, will, if yielded to, become bitterness of soul to thee 
 all thy life after. 
 
 4. When the waters are come over thy soul, and when 
 in the midst of much bodily anguish, thou distinguishest 
 the dim shores of eternity before thee, what wouldst 
 thou not give to be lighter by this one sin ! 
 
 5. God has long withheld his arm ; what if his for- 
 bearance be now at an end ? Canst thou not contem- 
 plate these things with the eyes of death ? Art thou 
 not a dying man, dying every day, every hour .'* 
 
 6. Is it not a fearful thing to shrink from the summons 
 when it comes ? to turn with horror and despair from 
 tlie future being ? Think what strains of joy and tran- 
 quillity fall on the ear of the saint who is just swooning 
 into the arms of his Redeemer ; what fearful shapes and 
 dreadful images of a disturbed conscience surround the 
 sinner's bed, when the last twig which, he grasped fails 
 him, and the gulf yawns to receive him. 
 
 7. Oh, my soul, if thou art yet ignorant of the enormi- 
 ty of sin, turn thine eyes to the man who is bleeding to 
 death on the cross ! See how the blood, from his pierc- 
 ed hands, trickles down his arms, and the more copious 
 streams from his feet run on the accursed tree, and stain 
 the grass with purple ! Behold his features, though 
 scarcely animated with a few remaining sparks of life, 
 yet how full of love, pity, and tranquillity ! a tear is 
 trickling down his cheek, and his lip quivers. — He is 
 praying for his murderers ! Oh, my soul ! it is thy Re- 
 deemer — it is thy God ! And this too for Sin — for Sin ! 
 and wilt thou ever again submit to its yoke ? 
 
 8. Remember that the grace of the holy Spirit of God 
 is ready to save thee from transgression. It is always' 
 at hand : thou canst not sin without wilfully rejecting 
 its aid. 
 
 9. And is there real pleasure in sin .^ Thou knowest 
 there is not. But there is pleasure, pure and exquisite 
 pleasure, in holiness. The holy Ghost can make the 
 paths of religion and virtue, hard as they seem, and 
 thorny,. ways of pleasantness and peace, where, though 
 there be thorns, yet arc there also roses ; and where all 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 37 
 
 the wounds which we suffer in the flesh, from the hard- 
 ness of the journey, are so healed by the balm of the 
 Spirit, that they rather give joy than pain.' 
 
 The exercise which Henry took was no relaxation ; 
 he still continued the habit of studying while he walked ; 
 and in this manner, while he was at Cambridge, com- 
 mitted to memory a whole tragedy of Euripides. Twice 
 he distinguished himself in the following year, being 
 again pronounced first at the great college examination, 
 and also one of the three best theme writers, between 
 whom the examiners could not decide. The college 
 offered him, at their expense, a private tutor in mathe- 
 matics daring the long vacation ; and Mr. Catton, by 
 procuring for him exhibitions to the amount of 66Z. per 
 ann. enabled him to give up the pecuniary assistance 
 which he had received from Mr. Simeon and other 
 friends. This intention he had expressed in a letter, 
 written twelve months before his death. ' With regard 
 to my college expenses, (he says,) I have the pleasure 
 to inform you that I shall be obliged, in strict rectitude, 
 to wave the offers of many of my friends. ■ I shall not 
 even need the sum Mr. Simeon mentioned, after the first 
 year ; and it is not impossible that I may be able to live 
 without any assistance at all. I confess I feel pleasure 
 at the thought of this, not through any vain pride of in- 
 dependence, but because, I shall then give a more unbi- 
 assed testimony to the truth, than if I were supposed to 
 be bound to it by any ties of obligation or gratitude. 
 I shall always feel as much indebted for intended as for 
 actually afforded assistance ; and though I should never 
 think a sense of thankfulness an oppressive burden, yet 
 I shall be happy to evince it, when in the eyes of the world 
 the obligation to it has been discharged.' Never, per- 
 haps, had any young man, in so short a time excited 
 such expectations ; every University honor was thought 
 to be within his reach ; he was set down as a medallist, 
 and expected to take a senior wrangler's degree ; but 
 these expectations were poison to him, they goaded him 
 to fresh exertions when his strength was spent. His 
 situation became truly miserable ! to his brother, and to 
 4 
 
38 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 his mother, he wrote always that he had relaxed in his 
 studies, and that he was better ; always holding out to 
 them his hopes and his good fortune : but to the most 
 intimate of his friends (Mr. Maddock) his letters told a 
 different tale : to him he complained of dreadful palpita- 
 tions — of nights of sleeplessness and horror, and of spir- 
 its depressed to the very depth of wretchedness, so that 
 he went from one acquaintance to another, imploring 
 society, even as a starving beggar intreats for food. 
 During the course of this summer, it was expected that 
 the Mastership of the Free-School at Nottingham would 
 shortly become vacant. A relation of his family was at 
 that time Mayor of the town ; he suggested to them 
 what an advantageous situation it would be for Henry, 
 and offered to secure for him the necessary interest. 
 But, though the salary and emoluments are estimated 
 at from 4 to 600^. per annum, Henry declined the offer ; 
 because, had he accepted it, it would have frustrated 
 his intentions with respect to the ministry. This was 
 certain] y no common act of forbearance in one so situ- 
 ated as to fortune, especially as the hope which he had 
 most at heart, was that of being enabled to assist his 
 family, and in some degree requite the care and anxiety 
 of his father and mother, by making them comfortable 
 in their declining years, 
 
 The indulgence shown him by his college, in provi- 
 ding him a tutor during the long vacation, was peculiarly 
 unfortunate. His only chance of life was from relaxa- 
 tion, and home vvas the only place where he would have 
 relaxed to any purpose. Before this time he had seem- 
 ed to be gaining strength ; it failed as the year advanc- 
 ed ; he went once more to London to recruit himself — 
 the worst, place to which he could have gone ; the vari- 
 ety of stimulating objects there hurried and agitated him, 
 and when he returned to college, he was so completely 
 ill, that no power of medicine could save him. His mind 
 was worn out, and it was the opinion of his medical at- 
 tendants, that if he had recovered, his intellect would 
 have been affected. His brother Neville was just at this 
 time to have visited him. On his first seizure, Henry 
 found himself too ill to receive him, and wrote to say 
 so ; he- added, with that anxious tenderness towards the 
 feelings of a most affectionate family which always ap- 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 39 
 
 peared in his letters, that he thought himself recover- 
 ing ; but his disorder increased so rapidly, that this let- 
 ter was never sent ; it was found in his pocket after his 
 decease. One of his friends wrote to acquaint Neville 
 with his danger : he hastened down ; but Henry was 
 delirious when he arrived. — He knev/ him only for a few 
 moments ; the next day sunk into a state of stupor ; and 
 on Sunday, October 19th, 1806, it pleased God to remove 
 him to a better world, and a higher state of existence. 
 
 The will which I had manifested to serve Henry, he 
 had accepted as the deed, and had expressed himself up- 
 on the subject in terms which it would have humbled me 
 to read at any other time than when I was performing 
 the last service to his memory. On his decease, Mr. 
 B. Maddock addressed a letter to me, informing me of 
 the event, as one who had professed an interest in his 
 friend's fortunes. I inquired, in my reply, if there was 
 any intention of publishing what he might have left, and 
 if I could be of any assistance in the publication ; this 
 led to a correspondence with his excellent brother, and 
 the whole of his papers were consigned into my hands, 
 with as many of his letters as could be collected. 
 
 These papers (exclusive of the correspondence) filled 
 a box of considerable size. Mr. Coleridge was present 
 when I opened them, and was, as well as myself, equal- 
 ly affected and astonished at the proofs of industry which 
 they displayed. Some of them had been written before 
 his hand was formed, probably before he v/as thirteen. 
 There were papers upon law, upon electricity, upon 
 chymistry, upon the Latin and Greek languages, from 
 their rudiments to the higher branches of critical study, 
 upon history, chronology, divinity, the fathers, &c. 
 Nothing seemed to have escaped him. His poems were 
 numerous : among the earliest, was a sonnet addressed 
 to myself, long before the little intercourse which had 
 subsisted between us had taken place. Little did he 
 think, when it was written, on what occasion it would 
 fall into my hands. He had begun three tragedies when 
 very young : one was upon Boadicea, another upon Inez 
 de Castro ; the third was a fictitious subject — He had 
 
40 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 planned also a History of Notting-ham. There was a 
 letter also upon the famous Nottingham election, which 
 seemed to have been intended either for the newspapers, 
 or for a separate pamphlet. It was written to confute 
 the absurd stories of the Tree of Liberty, and the God- 
 dess of Reason, with the most minute knowledge of the 
 circumstances, and a not improper feeling of indignation 
 against so infamous a calumny; and this came with more 
 weight from him, as his party inclinations seem to have 
 leaned towards the side which he was opposing. This 
 was his only finished composition in prose. Much of his 
 time, latterly, had been devoted to the study of Greek 
 prosody : he had begun several poems in Greek, and a 
 translation of the Samson Agonistes. I have inspected 
 all the existing manuscripts of Chatterton, and they ex- 
 cited less wonder than these. 
 
 Had my knowledge of Henry terminated here, I should 
 have hardly believed that my admiration and regret for 
 him could have been increased ; but I had yet to learn 
 that his moral qualities, his good sense, and his whole 
 feelings, were as admirable as his industry and genius. 
 All his letters to his family have been communicated to 
 me without reserve, and most of those to his friends. A 
 selection from these are arranged in chronological order, 
 in these volumes, which will make him his own biogra- 
 pher, and lay open to the world as pure, and as excel-^ 
 lent a heart, as it ever pleased the Almighty to warm 
 with life. Much has been suppressed, which, if Henry 
 had been, like Chatterton, of another generation, I should 
 willingly have published, and the world would willingly 
 have received ; but in doing honor to the dead, I have 
 been scrupulously careful never to forget the living. 
 
 It is not possible to conceive a human being more 
 amiable in all the relations of life. He was the confiden- 
 tial friend and adviser of every member of his family ; 
 this he instinctively became ; and the thorough good 
 sense of his advice is not less remarkable, than the af- 
 fection with which it is always communicated. To his 
 mother, he is as earnest in beseeching her to be careful 
 of her health, as he is in laboring to convince her that 
 his own complaints were abating ; his letters to her are 
 always of hopes, of consolation, and of love. To Neville 
 he writes with the most brotherly intimacy, still, how- 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 41 
 
 ever, in that occasional tone of advice which it was his 
 nature to assume, not from any arrogance of superiority, 
 but from earnestness of pure affection. To his younger 
 brother he addresses liimself like the tenderest and wis- 
 est parent ; and to two sisters, then too young for any 
 other communication, he writes to direct their studies, 
 to inquire into their progress, to encourage and to im- 
 prove them. Such letters as these are not for the pub- 
 lic ; but they to whom they are addressed will lay them 
 to their hearts, like relics, and will find in them a saving 
 virtue, more than ever relics possessed. 
 
 With regard to his poems, the criterion for selection 
 was not so plain : undoubtedly many have been chosen 
 which he himself would not have published, and some 
 few which, had he lived to have taken that rank among 
 English poets which would assuredly have been within 
 his reach, I also should then have rejected among his 
 posthumous papers. I have, however, to the best of 
 my judgment, selected none which does not either mark 
 the state of his mind, or its progress, or discover evident 
 proofs of what he would have been, if it had not been 
 the will of Heaven to remove him so soon. The reader, 
 who feels any admiration for Henry, will take some in- 
 terest in all these Remains, because they are his ; he 
 who shall feel none, must have a blind heart, and there- 
 fore a blind undervStanding. Such poems are to be con- 
 sidered as making up his history. But the greater 
 number are of such beauty, that Chatterton is the only 
 youthful poet whom he does not leave far behind him. 
 
 While he was under Mr. Grainger, he wrote very lit- 
 tle ; and when he went to Cambridge, he was advised 
 to stifle his poetical fire, for severer and more important 
 studies ; to lay a billet on the embers until he had taken 
 his degree, and then he might fan it into a flame again. 
 This advice he followed so scrupulously, that a few 
 fragments, written chiefly upon the back of his mathe- 
 matical papers, are all which he produced at the Uni- 
 versity. The greater part, therefore, of these poems, 
 indeed nearly the whole of them, were written before 
 he was nineteen. Wise as the advice may have been 
 which had been given him, it is now to be regretted 
 that he adhered to it, his latter fragments bearing all 
 
 those marks of improvement which were to be expected 
 
 4* 
 
42 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 from a mind so rapidly and continually progressive. 
 Frequently he expresses a fear that early death would 
 rob him of his fame ; yet, short as his life was, it has 
 been long enough for him to leave works worthy of re- 
 membrance. The very circumstance of his early death 
 gives a new interest to his memory, and thereby new 
 force to his example. Just at that age when the paint- 
 er would have wished to fix his likeness, and the lover 
 of poetry would delight to contemplate him, in the fair 
 morning of his virtues, the full spring blossom of his 
 hopes, — just at that age hath death set the seal of eter- 
 nity upon him, and the beautiful hath been made per- 
 manent. To the young poets who come after him, 
 Henry will be what Chatterton was to him : and they 
 will find in him an example of hopes, with regard to 
 worldly fortune, as humble ; and as exalted in all better 
 things, as are enjoined equally by wisdom and religion, 
 by the experience of man, and the word of God. And 
 this example will be as encouraging as it is excellent. 
 It had been too much the custom to complain that ge- 
 nius is neglected, and to blame the public when the 
 public is not in fault. They who are thus lamented as 
 the victims of genius, have been, in almost every in- 
 stance, the victims of their own vices ; while genius has 
 been made, like charity, to cover a multitude of sins, 
 and to excuse that which in reality it aggravates. In 
 this age, and in this country, whoever deserves encour- 
 agement, is sooner or later, sure to receive it. Of this 
 Henry's history is an honorable proof. The particular 
 patronage which he accepted, was given as much to his 
 piety and religious opinions, as to his genius ; but assist- 
 ance was offered him from other quarters. Mr. P. 
 Thomson, of Boston (Lincolnshire), merely upon peru- 
 sing his little volume, wrote to know how he could serve 
 him ; and there were many friends of literature who 
 were ready to have afforded him any support which he 
 needed, if he had not been thus provided. In the Uni- 
 versity, he received every encouragement which he 
 merited, and from M'. Simeon, and his tutor, Mr. Cat- 
 ton, the most fatherly kindness. 
 
 ' I can venture,' says a lady of Cambridge, in a letter 
 to his brother, ' I can venture to say, with certainty, 
 there was no member of the University, however high 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 43 
 
 his rank or talents, who would not have been happy to 
 have availed themselves of the opportunity of being ac- 
 quainted with Mr. Henry Kirke White. I mention this 
 to introduce a wish, which has been expressed to me so 
 often by the senior members of the University, that I 
 dare not decline the task they have imposed upon me ; 
 it is their hope that Mr. Southey will do as much justice 
 to Mr. Henry White's limited v/ishes, to his unassuming 
 pretensions, and to his rational and fervent piety, as to 
 his various acquirements, his polished taste, his poetical 
 fancy, his undeviating principles, and the excellence of 
 his moral character ; and that he will suffer it to be un- 
 derstood, that these inestimable qualities had not been 
 unobserved, nor would they have remained unacknow- 
 ledged. It was the general observation, that he possess- 
 ed genius without its eccentricities.' 
 
 Of his fervent piety, his letters, his prayers, and his 
 hymns, will afford ample and interesting proofs. I must 
 be permitted to say, that my own views of the religion 
 of Jesus Christ differ essentially from the system of be- 
 lief which he had adopted ; but, having said this, it is 
 indeed my anxious wish to do full justice to piety so fer- 
 vent. 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. 
 
 His temper had been irritable in his younger days, 
 but this he had long since effectually overcome : the 
 marks of youthful confidence, which appear in his earli- 
 est letters, had also disappeared ; and it was impossible 
 for man to be more tenderly patient of the faults of oth- 
 ers, more uniformly meek, or more unaffectedly humble. 
 He seldom discovered any sportiveness of imagination, 
 though he would very ably, and pleasantly, rally any 
 one of his friends for any little peculiarity : his conver- 
 sation was always sober, and to the purpose. That 
 which is most remarkable in him, is his uniform good 
 sense, a faculty perhaps less common than genius. There 
 never existed a more dutiful son, a more affectionate 
 brother, a warmer friend, nor a devouter Christian. Of 
 his powers of mind it is superfluous to speak ; they were 
 acknowledged wherever they were known. It would 
 
44 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 be idle too, to say, what hopes were entertained of him, 
 and what he might have accomplished in literature. 
 These volumes contain what he has left, immature buds, 
 and blossoms shaken from the tree, and green fruit ; yet 
 will they evince what the harvest would have been, and 
 secure for him that remembrance upon earth for which 
 he toiled. 
 
 ' Thou soul of God's best earthly mould, 
 
 Thou happy soul ! and can it be 
 
 That these . * . 
 
 Are all that must remain of thee ! '—iVoodsworth. 
 
COJVTEFTS. 
 
 Original Preface to Clifton Grove 47 
 Lines, by Professor Smjth, of Cam- 
 bridge, on a Monument erected by 
 Francis Boot, Esq. in All-Saints' 
 Church, Cambridge, to the Mem- 
 ory of Henry Kirke White - 49 
 Lines, by Lord Byron - - 49 
 To my Lyre ; an Ode - - - 51 
 Clifton Grove - - - - 53 
 Gondoline ; a Ballad - - - 55 
 Written on a Survey of the Heavens, 
 
 in the Morning before Day-break 74 
 Lines supposed to be spoken by a 
 
 Lover at the Grave of his Mistress 76 
 My Study .... 77 
 
 To an early Primrose - - - 80 
 Sonnet 1. To the Trent - - 81 
 
 2. " Give me a cottage on 
 
 some Cambrian wild" - .81 
 
 — — — 3. Supposed to have been ad. 
 di-essed by a Female Lunatic to a 
 
 Lady 82 
 
 4. In the Character of Der- 
 
 niody 82 
 
 5. The Winter Traveller 83 
 
 6. By Capel Lofft, Esq. - 83 
 
 7. Recantatory in Reply 84 
 
 8. On hearing an jEolian 
 
 Harp 84 
 
 9. "What art thou, Migh- 
 ty One" - ... 85 
 A Ballad. " Be hush'd, be hush'd, 
 
 ye bitter vt^inds" - - - 85 
 
 The Lullaby of a Female Convict to 
 
 her child ... - 86 
 
 Ode to H. Fuseli, Esq. R. A. - 87 
 
 to the Earl of Carlisle - 90 
 
 Description of a Summer's Eve - 92 
 To Contemplation - - - 93 
 To the Genius of Romance. Frag'- 
 
 ment 97 
 
 The Savoyard's Return - - 98 
 Lines. " Go to the raging sea, and 
 
 say, 'Be still!'" ... 99 
 Written in the Prospect of Death 100 
 Pastoral Song. " Come, Anna, 
 
 come" ..... 101 
 Vei-sea 102 
 
 Epigram on Robert Bloomfieid 
 Ode to Midnight 
 
 — — to Thought. Written at Mid. 
 night . . . . . 
 Genius ; an Ode ... 
 Fragment of an Ode to the Moon 
 "iioud rage the winds 
 
 without' 
 
 ' Oh, thou most fatal of 
 
 103 
 103 
 
 104 
 106 
 108 
 
 109 
 
 110 
 
 Pandora's train' 
 Sonnet. To Capel Loift, Esq. - 111 
 
 To the Moon . .112 
 
 Written at the Grave of a 
 
 - 112 
 - 113 
 
 Friend 
 
 To Misfortune 
 
 " As thus oppress'd with 
 
 many a heavy care" - . - 
 
 To April 
 
 " Ye unseen spirits" - 
 
 To a Taper - 
 
 To my Mother - 
 
 " Yes, 'twill be over 
 
 113 
 113 
 114 
 114 
 115 
 
 115 
 116 
 
 116 
 
 117 
 118 
 120 
 
 To Consumption 
 
 " Thy judgments, Lord, are 
 
 just" - - 
 
 To a Friend in Distress, who, when 
 Henry reasoned with him calm- 
 ly, asked. If he did not feel for 
 himl . . ... 
 
 Christmas day .... 
 
 Nelsoni Mors .... 
 
 Hymn. " Awake, sweet harp of 
 Judah, wake" ... 121 
 
 Hymn for Family Worship . . 122 
 
 The Star of Bethlehem - - 123 
 
 Hymn. " O Lord, my God, in mer- 
 cy turn" . - - . - 124 
 
 Melody. " Yes, once more that 
 dying strain" ... 125 
 
 Song, by Waller, with an additional 
 Stanza - - - - - 12o 
 
 " I am pleased, and yet I'm sad" 126 
 
 Solitude 128 
 
 " If far from me the Fates re- 
 move" 128 
 
 " Fanny, upon thy breast I may not 
 lie" - - r r - - 129 
 
46 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 I. " Saw'st thou that light 1 " 130 
 II. "The pious man in thia bad 
 
 world" - - - 130 
 
 III. " Lo ! on the eastern sum- 
 
 mit" - - - ISl 
 
 IV. "There was a little Vjird 
 
 upon that pile" - - 131 
 V. " O pale art thou, my lamp" 131 
 VI. " O give me music" - - 132 
 VII. " Ah ! who can say, however 
 
 fair his view" - - 132 
 VIII. " And must thou go 1 " - 183 
 IX. " When I sit musing on the 
 
 checker'd past" - 133 
 X. " When high romance, o'er 
 
 every wood and stream" 134 
 XI. " Hush'd is die lyre" - 134 
 XII. " Once more, and yet once 
 
 more" - • - 134 
 
 Time ..... 135 
 Childhood, Part I. - - - 151 
 
 II. . - - 155 
 
 Fragment of an Eccentric Drama 162 
 To a Friend - - - - 167 
 On reading the Poems of Warton 168 
 To the Muse - - - - 169 
 To Love - - - - - 170 
 The Wandering Boy - - 171 
 Fragment. " The western gale" 171 
 Ode, written on Whit-Monday - 173 
 Canzonet - - - - - 175 
 Commencement of a Poem on Des- 
 pair 175 
 
 To the Wind ; a Fragment • - 177 
 The Eve of Death - - - 177 
 
 Thanatos 178 
 
 Athanatos - . . '. 179 
 On Music ISO 
 
 Ode to the Harvest Moon . - 182 
 Song. " Softly, softly blow, ye 
 breezes" ..... 184 
 
 The Shipwreck'd Solitary's Song 185 
 Sonnet ------ 187 
 
 The Christiad - - - 187 
 
 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 
 
 Lines and Note, by Lord Byron 197 
 
 written in the Homer of Mr. 
 
 H. K. White - - - 19S 
 
 To the Memory of H. K. White, by 
 a Lady - - - - - 199 
 
 Stanzas, supposed to have been writ- 
 ten at the grave of H. K. White, 
 by a Lady - - - - 201 
 
 Ode on the late H. K. White - 202 
 
 Verses occasioned by the Death of 
 H. K. White, by Josiah Conder 20.^ 
 
 Sonnet by Arthur Owen - - 204 
 
 in Memory of Mr. H. K 
 
 White - - - - - 205 
 
 Reflections on reading the Life of the 
 late H. K. White, by William 
 Halloway . . - . 205 
 
 Lines, on reading the Poem on Soli- 
 tude, by Josiah Conder - - 207 
 
 To the Memory of H. K. White by 
 the Rev. W. B. Coliyer, A. M. 207 
 
 On the Death of H. K. White, by 
 T. Park 
 
 Prose Remains 
 
 208 
 211—420 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The following attempts in Verse are laid before the 
 public with extreme diffidence. The Author is very con- 
 scious that the juvenile efforts of a youth, who has not 
 received the polish of Academical discipline, and who 
 has been but sparingly blessed with opportunities for the 
 prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must necessarily be 
 defective in the accuracy and finished elegance v/hich 
 mark the works of the man who has passed his life in 
 the retirement of his study, furnishing his mind with 
 images, and at the same time attaining the power of dis- 
 posing those images to the best advantage. 
 
 The unprem^editated effusions of a boy, from his thir- 
 teenth year, employed, not in the acquisition of literary 
 information, but in the more active business of life, must 
 not be expected to exhibit any considerable portion of 
 the correctness of a Virgil, or the vigorous compression 
 of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, frequently known 
 to bestow much labor on their amusements : and these 
 Poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile a 
 leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals of studies 
 of a severer nature. 
 
 n«j T« otKiioi c^yov csyuTraa, ' Every one loves his own work,' 
 says the Stagyrite ; but it was no overweening affec- 
 tion of this kind which induced this publication. Had 
 the author relied on his own judgment only, these Poems 
 would not, in all probability, ever have seen the light. 
 
 Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives 
 for this publication .'' He answers — simply these : The 
 facilitation, through its means, of those studies which, 
 from his earliest infancy, have been the principal objects 
 
48 PREFACE. 
 
 of his ambition ; and the increase of the capacity to pur- 
 sue those inclinations which may one day place him in 
 an honorable station in the scale of society. 
 
 The principal Poem in this little collection (Clifton 
 Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers and harmoni- 
 ous coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be 
 regarded as a description of a nocturnal ramble in that 
 charming retreat, accompanied with such reflections as 
 the scene naturally suggested. It was written twelve 
 months ago, when the author was in his sixteenth year. 
 — The Miscellanies are some of them the productions of 
 a very early age. — Of the Odes, that ' To an early Prim- 
 rose ' was written at thirteen — the others are of a later 
 date. — The Sonnets are chiefly irregular ; they have, 
 perhaps, no other claim to that specific denomination, 
 than that they consist only of fourteen lines. 
 
 Such are the Poems towards which I entreat the len- 
 ity of the public. The critic will doubtless find in them 
 much to condemn ; he may likewise possibly discover 
 something to commend. Let him scan my faults with 
 an indulgent eye, and in the work of that correction 
 which I invite, let him remember he is holding the iron 
 Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a 
 youth of seventeen, and, remembering that, may he for- 
 bear from crushing, by too much rigor, the painted but- 
 terfly whose transient colors may otherwise be capable 
 of affording a moment's innocent amusement. 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 Nottingham. 
 
INSCRIPTION 
 
 BY WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ. PROFESSOR OF MODERN HISTORY, 
 CAMBRIDGE ; 
 
 ON A MONUMENTAL TABLET, 
 
 WITH A MEDALLION BY CHANTREY, 
 
 ERECTED IN ALL-SAINTS' CHURCH, CAMBRlIKiE, 
 
 AT THE EXPENSE OF FRANCIS BOOTT, ESQ. 
 
 OF BOSTON, UNITED STATES. 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 
 
 BORN MARCH 21st, 1785; DIED OCTOBER 10th, 1806. 
 
 Warm with fond hope, and learning's sacred flame, 
 To Granta's bowers the youthful Poet came ; 
 Unconquer'd powers, th' immortal mind display'd, 
 But worn with anxious thought the frame decay'd : 
 Pale o'er his lamp and in his cell retired, 
 The Martyr Student faded and expired. 
 Genius, Taste, and Piety sincere, 
 Too early lost, midst duties too severe ! 
 Foremost to mourn was generous Southey seen, 
 He told the tale and show'd what White had been. 
 Nor told in vain — far o'er th' Atlantic wave, 
 A Wanderer came and sought the Poet's grave ; 
 On yon low stone he saw his lonely name. 
 And raised this fond memorial to his fame. 
 
 W. S. 
 
 LINES 
 
 BY LORD BYRON. 
 
 No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
 But living Statues there are seen to weep ,: 
 Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
 Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
 5 
 
TO MY LYRE. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thou simple Lyre ! — Thy music wild 
 
 Has served to charm the weary hour, 
 And many a lonely night has 'guiled, 
 When even pain has own'd and smiled, 
 Its fascinating power. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet, oh my Lyre ! the busy crowd 
 
 Will little heed thy simple tones : 
 Them mightier minstrels harping loud 
 Engross, — and thou and I must shroud 
 Where dark oblivion 'thrones. 
 
 III. 
 
 No hand, thy diapason o'er, 
 
 Well skill'd, I throw with sweep sublime ; 
 For me, no academic lore 
 Has taught the solemn strain to pour. 
 
 Or build the polish'd rhyme. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet thou to Sylvan themes canst soar ; 
 
 Thou know'st to charm the woodland train 
 The rustic swains believe thy power 
 Can hush the wild winds when they roar, 
 
 And stOl the billowy main. 
 
52 TO MY LYRE. AN ODE. 
 
 These honors, Lyre, we yet may keep, 
 I, still unknown, may live with thee, 
 And g-entle zephyr's wing will sweep 
 Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, 
 Beneath the alder tree. 
 
 VI. 
 
 This little dirge will please me more 
 
 Than the fall requiem's swelling peal ; 
 Fd rather than that crowds should sigh 
 For me, that from some kindred eye 
 The trickling tear should steal. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, 
 
 Perhaps from me debarr'd : 
 And dear to me the classic zone, 
 Which, snatch'd from learning's labor'd throne, 
 
 Adorns the accepted bard. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And ! if yet 'twere mine to dwell 
 
 Where Cam or Isis winds along. 
 Perchance, inspired with ardor chaste, 
 I yet might call the ear of taste 
 
 To listen to my song. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oh ! then, my little friend, thy style 
 
 Fd change to happier lays, 
 Oh ! then, the cloister'd glooms should smile, 
 And through the long, the fretted aisle 
 
 Should swell the note of praise. 
 
CLIFTOJf GROVE. 
 
 A SKETCH IN VERSE. 
 
 Lo ! in the west, fast fades the lingering- light, 
 And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. 
 No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke, 
 Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke ; 
 No more hoarse clamoring o'er the uplifted head, 
 The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock'd bed ; 
 Still'd is the village hum — the woodland sounds 
 Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, 
 And general silence reigns, save when below. 
 The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow ; 
 And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, 
 Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate ; 
 Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, 
 Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. 
 
 Now, when the rustic wears the social smile. 
 Released from day and its attendant toil, 
 And draws his household round their evening fire. 
 And tells the oft-told tales that never tire ; 
 Or where the town's blue turrets dimly rise. 
 And manufacture taints the ambient skies. 
 The pale mechanic leaves the laboring loom. 
 The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, 
 And rushes out, impatient to begin 
 The stated course of customary sin ; 
 Now, now my solitary way I bend 
 Where solemn groves in awfnl state impend. 
 And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain. 
 Bespeak, bless'd Clifton ! thy sublime domain. 
 5* 
 
54 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Here, lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, 
 
 I come to pass the meditative hour ; 
 
 To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, 
 
 And woo the calms of solitude and peace. 
 
 And oh ! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on high 
 
 Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh ! 
 
 Genius of woodland shades ! whose mild control 
 
 Steals with resistless witchery to the soul. 
 
 Come with thy wonted ardor, and inspire 
 
 My glowing bosom with thy hallowed fire. 
 
 And thou too, Fancy, from thy starry sphere. 
 
 Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, 
 
 Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, 
 
 Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. 
 
 At thy command the gale that passes by 
 
 Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. 
 
 Thou wav'st thy wand, and lo ! what forms appear f 
 
 On the dark cloud what giant shapes career ! 
 
 The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale. 
 
 And hosts of Sylphids on the moon-beams sail. 
 
 This gloomy alcove, darkling to the sight, 
 Where meeting trees create eternal night ; 
 Save, when from yonder stream, the sunny ray, 
 Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day ; 
 Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind, 
 Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclinea, 
 I watch 'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood ; 
 Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food ; 
 Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, 
 And at each gay response delighted smiled. 
 How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray 
 Of gay romance o'er every happy day, 
 Here would I run, a visionary boy. 
 When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, 
 And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form 
 Sternly careering on the eddying storm ; 
 And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul, 
 His voice terrific in the thunders roll. 
 With secret joy, I view'd with vivid glare 
 The volley'd lightnings cleave the sullen air ; 
 And, as the warring winds around reviled. 
 With awful pleasure big, — I heard and smiled. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 55 
 
 Beloved remembrance ! — Memory which endears 
 
 This silent spot to my advancing years. 
 
 Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest, 
 
 In shades like these to live is to be bless'd. 
 
 While happiness evades the busy crowd, 
 
 In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. 
 
 And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flame 
 
 Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame, 
 
 Thou here dost love to sit with up-turn'd eye, 
 
 And listen to the stream that murmurs by. 
 
 The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight, 
 
 The mellow music of the listening night. 
 
 Congenial calms more welcome to my breast 
 
 Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd, 
 
 To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers, I raise, 
 
 That ye may bless my unambitious days, 
 
 Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife, 
 
 May trace with me the lowly vale of life. 
 
 And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave, 
 
 May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. 
 
 Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, 
 
 A livelier light upon my vision flows. 
 
 No more above th' embracing branches meet, 
 
 No more the river gurgles at my feet. 
 
 But seen deep, down the cliff''s impending side, 
 
 Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide. 
 
 Dim is my upland path, — across the green 
 
 Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between 
 
 The chequer'd glooms, the moon her chaste ray sheds, 
 
 Where knots of blue-bells droop their graceful heads, 
 
 And beds of violets blooming 'mid the trees, 
 
 Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze. 
 
 Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight 
 Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, 
 And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, 
 And gives to him alone his bliss to know. 
 Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms ? 
 Why clasp the siren Pleasure to his arms ? 
 And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, 
 Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death ? 
 Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings, 
 
56 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Know what calm joy from purer sources springs ; 
 Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, 
 The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, 
 No more his soul would pant for joys impure. 
 The deadly chalice would no more allure, 
 But the sweet potion he was wont to sip, 
 Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. 
 
 Fair Nature ! thee, in all thy varied charms, 
 Fain would I clasp forever in my arms ! 
 Thine are the sweets which never, never sate, 
 Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. 
 Though not for me, 'twas Heaven's divine command 
 To roll in acres of paternal land, 
 Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy 
 Thine opening beauties with a lover's'eye. 
 
 Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss 
 
 Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss, 
 
 Who, still in abject poverty or pain. 
 
 Can count with pleasure what small joys remain : 
 
 Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone, 
 
 He would not find one spot of ground his own. 
 
 Yet, as he looks around, he cries with glee, 
 
 These bounding prospects all were made for me : 
 
 For me yon waving fields their burden bear, 
 
 For me yon laborer guides the shining share. 
 
 While happy I in idle ease rechne, 
 
 And mark the glorious visions as they shine. 
 
 This is the charm, by sages often told. 
 
 Converting all it touches into gold. 
 
 Content can soothe, where'er by fortune placed. 
 
 Can rear a garden in the desert waste. 
 
 How lovely, from this hill's superior height, 
 Spreads the wide view before my straining sight ! 
 ■O'er many a Varied mile of lengthening ground, 
 E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound, 
 My ken is borne ; while o'er my head serene, 
 The silver moon illumes the misty scene ; 
 Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade, 
 In all the soft varieties of shade. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 57 
 
 Behind me, lo ! the peaceful hamlet lies, 
 The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. 
 No more, where late the social fagot blazed, 
 The vacant peal resounds, by little raised ; 
 But lock'd in silence, o'er Arion's* star 
 The slumbering Night rolls- on her velvet car : 
 The church-bell tolls, deep-sounding down the glade, 
 The solemn hour for walking spectres made ; 
 The simple plough-boy, wakening with the sound, 
 Listens aghast, and turns him startled round, 
 Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes, 
 . Lest at the- sound some grisly ghost should rise. 
 Now ceased the long, and monitory toll, 
 Returning silence stagnates in the soul ; 
 Save when, disturb'd by dreams, with wild affright, 
 The deep mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night : 
 Or where the village ale-house crowns the vale. 
 The creeking sign-post whistles to the gale. 
 A little onward let me bend my way. 
 Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay. 
 "That spot, oh ! yet it is the very same ; 
 That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name : 
 There yet the primrose opes its earliest' bloom. 
 There yet the violet sheds its first perfume, 
 And in the branch that rears above the rest 
 The robin unmolested builds its nest. 
 'Twas here, when Hope, presiding' o'er my breast, 
 In vivid colors every prospect dress'd : 
 'Twas here, reclining, I indulged her dreams, ' 
 And lost the hour in visionary schemes. 
 Here, as I press once more the ancient seat, 
 Why, bland deceiver ! not renew the cheat ! 
 Say, can a few short years this change achieve, 
 That thy illusions can no more deceive ! 
 Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread, 
 And thou too, gay seducer ! art thou fled ? 
 Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, 
 Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear, 
 And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way, , 
 
 iDould throw a gleam of transitory day. 
 
 * The Constellatiou Delphinus, For authority for this appellation, vide Ovid'« 
 Fasti, B. xi. 113. ^ 
 
58 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems ; 
 
 How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams ; 
 
 The dire mistake too soon is brought to light, 
 
 And all is buried in redoubled night. 
 
 Yet some can rise superior to their pain, 
 
 And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain : ^ 
 
 While others, dead to feeling, can survey. 
 
 Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away •. 
 
 But yet a few there be, — too soon o'ercast ! 
 
 Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast. 
 
 And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom, 
 
 To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. 
 
 So in these shades the early primrose blows, 
 
 Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows, 
 
 So falls untimely on the desert waste ; 
 
 Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. 
 
 Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display, 
 
 Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way ; 
 
 Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, 
 
 The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. 
 
 And oh ! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood, 
 
 That winds the margin of the solemn flood ! 
 
 What rural objects steal upon the sight ! 
 
 What rising views prolong the calm delight ; 
 
 The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, 
 
 The whispering birch by every zephyr bent. 
 
 The woody island, and the naked mead. 
 
 The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, 
 
 The rural wicket, and the rural stile, 
 
 And, frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. 
 
 Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes. 
 
 Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. 
 
 High up the cliff the varied groves ascend. 
 
 And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. 
 
 Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise, 
 
 What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes : 
 
 Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed. 
 
 The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head, 
 
 And, SM^elling slow, comes wafted on the wind, ,b 
 
 Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. 
 
 Still, every rising sound of calm delight 
 
 Stamps but the fearful silence of the night, 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 69 
 
 Save when is heard, between each dreary rest, 
 Discordant from her soHtary nest, 
 The owl, dull-screaming to the wandering moon ; 
 Now riding, cloud-wrapp'd, near her highest noon : 
 Or when the wild-duck, southing, hither rides, 
 And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. 
 
 How oft, in this sequestered spot, when youth 
 
 Gave to each tale the holy force of truth, 
 
 Have I long linger'd, while the milk-maid sung 
 
 The tragic legend, till the woodland rung ! 
 
 That tale, so sad ! which, still to memory dear, 
 
 From its sweet source can call the sacred tear. 
 
 And (lulled to rest stern Reason's harsh control) 
 
 Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. 
 
 These hallow'd shades, — these trees that woo the wind. 
 
 Recall its faintest features to my mind. 
 
 A hundred passing years, with march sublime, 
 
 Have swept beneath the silent wing of time. 
 
 Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, 
 
 Reclusely dwelt the far-famed Clifton Maid, 
 
 The beauteous Margaret ; for her each swain 
 
 Confess'd in private his peculiar pain, 
 
 In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair. 
 
 Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. 
 
 No more the shepherd on the blooming mead 
 
 Attuned to gaiety his artless reed. 
 
 No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck 
 
 His favorite wether's unpolluted neck, 
 
 But listless, by yon babbling stream reclined. 
 
 He mixed his sobbings with the passing wind, 
 
 Bemoan'd his hapless love ; or, boldly bent, 
 
 Far from these smiling fields, a rover went, 
 
 O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, 
 
 A self-will'd exile from his native home. 
 
 Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain ; 
 
 Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. 
 
 Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs. 
 
 The echoing vault responded to their vows, 
 
 As here deep hidden from the glare of day, 
 
 Enamor'd oft, they took their secret way. 
 
60 • COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Yon bosky dingle, still the rustic's name ; 
 'Twas there the blushing maid confess'd her flame. 
 Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, 
 When evening slumber'd on the western sky. 
 That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare, 
 Each bears mementos of the fated pair. 
 
 One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze 
 With the fall'n honors of the mourning trees. 
 The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower. 
 And waited long beyond the appointed hour, 
 Yet Bateman came not : — o'er the woodland drear, 
 Howling portentous, did the winds career ; 
 And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods. 
 The fitful rains rush'd down in sudden floods ; 
 The night was dark ; as, now and then, the gale 
 Paused for a moment, — Margaret listen'd, pale ; 
 But through the covert to her anxious ear, 
 No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. 
 Strange fears now fill'd her breast, — she knew not why, 
 She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. 
 She hears a noise, — 'tis he, — ^he comes at last ; — 
 Alas ! 'twas but the gale which hurried past : 
 But now she hears a quickening footstep sound, 
 Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound ; 
 'Tis Bateman's self, — he springs into her arms, 
 'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. 
 ' Yet why this silence ? — I have waited long, 
 And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. 
 And now thou'rt here my fears are fled — yet speak, 
 Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek ? 
 Say, what is wrong ?' — Now, through a parting cloud' 
 The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud, 
 And Bateman's face was seen : — 'twas deadly white, 
 And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. 
 ' Oh, speak, my love !' again the maid conjured, 
 ' ' Why is thy heart in sullen wo immured ? ' 
 He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell. 
 Thrice from his lips the unfinish'd accents fell ; 
 When thus at last reluctantly he broke 
 His boding silence, and the maid bespoke : 
 ' Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance, 
 I on these fields must cast my parting glance ; 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 61 
 
 For three long years, by cruel fate's command, 
 I go to languish in a foreign land. 
 Oh, Margaret ! omens dire have met my view, 
 Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true r 
 Should honors tempt thee, and should riches fee, 
 Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me. 
 And, on the silken couch of wealth reclined. 
 Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! why,' replies the maid, ' my faith thus prove, 
 
 Canst thou ! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love ? 
 
 Hear me, just God ! if from my traitorous heart, 
 
 My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, 
 
 If, when he hail again his native shore. 
 
 He finds his Margaret true to him no more, 
 
 May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, 
 
 Conjoin'd, then drag me from my perjured bed, 
 
 And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps, 
 
 To find deserved death in yonder deeps ! ' * 
 
 Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew 
 
 A golden ring, and broke it quick in two ; 
 
 One half she in her lovely bosom hides, 
 
 The other, trembling, to her love confides. 
 
 ' This bind the vow,' she said, 'this mystic charm. 
 
 No future recantation can disarm, 
 
 The right vindictive does the fates involve, 
 
 No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve.' 
 
 She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry, 
 The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, 
 And once again the Lady of the night 
 Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. 
 Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay : 
 But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away : 
 Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, 
 Still melancholy bodings fiU'd his heart. 
 
 When to the distant land the youth was sped, 
 
 A lonely life the moody maiden led. 
 
 Still would she trace each dear, each well-known walk, 
 
 Still by the moonlight to her love would talk, 
 
 * This part of the Trent is commonly called ' The Clifton Deeps.' 
 
 6 
 
62 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 And fancy, as she paced among the trees, 
 She heard his whispers in the dying- breeze. 
 Thus two years ghded on in silent grief ; 
 The third, her bosom own'd the kind rehef ! 
 Absence had cooled her love — the impoverish'd flame 
 Was dwindling fast, when lo ! the tempter came ; 
 .He offer'd wealth, and all the joys of life. 
 And the weak maid became another's wife ! 
 
 Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime, 
 
 When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime, 
 
 Sure of her constancy, elate he came, 
 
 The lovely partner of his soul to claim. 
 
 Light was his heart, as up the well-known way 
 
 He bent his steps — and all his thoughts were gay. 
 
 Oh ! who can paint his agonizing throes, 
 
 When on his ear the fatal news arose ! 
 
 Chill'd with amazement, — senseless with the blow, 
 
 He stood a marble monument of wo ; 
 
 Till call'd to all the horrors of despair. 
 
 He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair ; 
 
 Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot. 
 
 And sought those scenes, (by memory ne'er forgot,) 
 
 Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame. 
 
 And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 
 
 'Twas night — he sought the river's lonely shore, 
 
 And traced again their former wanderings o'er. 
 
 Now on the bank in silent grief he stood. 
 
 And gazed intently on the stealing flood, 
 
 Death in his mien and madness in his eye. 
 
 He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by ; 
 
 Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave — 
 
 Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. 
 
 Yet still he stood irresolutely bent. 
 
 Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent. 
 
 He knelt. — Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind. 
 
 And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind. 
 
 The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, 
 
 The paly moonbeam on its surface slept. 
 
 And all was peace ; — ^he felt the general calm 
 
 O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm : 
 
 When casting far behind his streaming eye, 
 
 He saw the Grove, — in fancy saw her lie, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 63 
 
 His Margaret, lull'd in Germain's* arms to rest, 
 And all the demon rose within his breast. 
 Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand, 
 Cast his dark eye once more upon the land. 
 Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank. 
 And in the calm deceitful current sank. 
 
 Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound, 
 
 As in the stream he plunged, was heard around : 
 
 Then all was still — the wave was rough no more, 
 
 The river swept as sweetly as before ; 
 
 The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene, 
 
 And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. 
 
 Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang 
 
 Remorse's glooms and never-ceasing pang. 
 
 Full well she knew, repentant now too late, 
 
 She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. 
 
 But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast. 
 
 The offended God prolong'd her life unbless'd. 
 
 But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away. 
 
 And near, and nearer drew the dreadful day ; 
 
 That day, foredoom'd to give her child the light, 
 
 And hurl its mother to the shades of night. 
 
 The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife 
 
 The guiltless baby struggled into life. — 
 
 As night drew on, around her bed, a band 
 
 Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand ; 
 
 In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time, 
 
 Intent to expiate her awful crime. 
 
 Their prayers were fruitless. — As the midnight came, 
 
 A heavy sleep oppress 'd each weary frame. 
 
 In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load. 
 
 Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. 
 
 They slept, till in the blushing eastern sky 
 
 The blooming Morning oped her dewy eye ; 
 
 Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed, 
 
 But lo ! the hapless Margaret was fled ; 
 
 And never more the weeping train were doom'd 
 
 To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd. 
 
 * Germain is the traditionary name of her husband. 
 
64 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 The neighbouring rustics told that in the night 
 
 They heard such screams as froze them with affright ; 
 
 And many an infant, at its mothers breast, 
 
 Started dismay'd, from its unthinking rest. 
 
 And even now, upon the heath forlorn, 
 
 They show the path down which the fair was borne, 
 
 By the fell demons, to the yawning wave, 
 
 Her own, and murder'd lover's mutual grave. 
 
 Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, 
 Which oft in youth has charm 'd my listening ear. 
 The tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets 
 In the dear silence of these dark retreats, 
 And even now, with melancholy power, 
 Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 
 'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given 
 To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, 
 With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans 
 On the attendant legend of the scenes. 
 This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, 
 And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods ; 
 This, as the distant cataract swells around, 
 Gives a romantic cadence to the sound ; 
 This, and the deepening glen, the alley green, 
 The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between. 
 The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas. 
 The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees, 
 The lengthening vista, and the present gloom. 
 The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume ; 
 These are thy charms, the joys which these impart 
 Bind thee, bless'd Clifton ! close around my heart. 
 
 Bear Native Grove ! where'er my devious track, 
 To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back. 
 Whether in Arno's polished vales I stray, 
 Or where ' Oswego's swamps ' obstruct the day ; 
 Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide. 
 The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side ; 
 Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse, 
 Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views ; 
 Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, 
 My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. 
 When splendor offers, and when Fame incites, 
 
OF H. K. TVHITE. 65 
 
 I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights, 
 
 Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change, 
 
 Renounce the wish which first induced to range ; 
 
 Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes once more, 
 
 Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore. 
 
 And, tired with worlds, and all their busy ways, 
 
 Here waste the little remnant of my days. 
 
 But, if the Fates should this last wish deny, 
 
 And doom me on some foreign shore to die ; 
 
 Oh ! should it please the world's supernal King, 
 
 That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing ; 
 
 Or that my corse should, on some desert strand. 
 
 Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand ; 
 
 Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb. 
 
 My sprite shall wander through this favorite gloom. 
 
 Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove, 
 
 Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove. 
 
 Sit, a lorn spectre on yon well-known grave, 
 
 And mix its moanings with the desert wave. 
 
 MISCELLAJVEOUS P0EI&:S. 
 
 GONDOLINE ; 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 The night it was still, and the moon it shone 
 
 ^Serenely on the sea. 
 And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock 
 They murmur'd pleasantly. 
 
 When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, 
 
 A maiden full fair to the sight ; 
 Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek, 
 
 And turn'd it to deadly white. 
 6* 
 
66 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear 
 
 It fill'd her faint blue eye, 
 As oft she heard, in Fancy's ear, 
 
 Her Bertrand's dying sigh. 
 
 Her Bertrand was the bravest youth 
 
 Of all our good King's men, 
 And he was gone to the Holy Land 
 
 To fight the Saracen. 
 
 And many a month had pass'd away, 
 
 And many a rolling year. 
 But nothing the maid from Palestine 
 
 Could of her lover hear. 
 
 Full oft she vainly tried to pierce 
 
 The Ocean's misty face ; 
 Full oft she thought her lover's bark 
 
 She on the wave could trace. 
 
 And every night she placed a light 
 
 In the high rock's lonely tower. 
 To guide her lover to the land. 
 
 Should the murky tempest lower. 
 >^ 
 But now despair had seized her breast, 
 
 And sunken in her eye ; 
 ' Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, 
 
 And I in peace will die.' 
 
 She wander'd o'er the lonely shore. 
 
 The Curlew scream'd above. 
 She heard the scream with a sickening heart 
 
 Much boding of her love. . 
 
 Yet still she kept her lonely way, 
 
 And this was all her cry, 
 ' Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, 
 
 And I in p^ce shall, die.' 
 
 And now she came to a horrible rift, 
 All in the rock's hard side, 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 67 
 
 A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread 
 The cavern yawning wide. 
 
 And pendent from its dismal top 
 The deadly nightshade hung ; 
 
 The hemlock and the aconite 
 
 Across the mouth were flung. 
 
 And all within was dark and drear, 
 And all without was calm ; 
 
 Yet Gondoline entered, her soul upheld 
 By some deep-working charm. 
 
 And as she enter'd the cavern wide. 
 The moonbeam gleamed pale, 
 
 And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, 
 It clung by its slimy tail. 
 
 Her foot it slipped, and she stood aghast, 
 She trod on a bloated toad ; 
 
 Yet, still upheld by the secret charm. 
 She kept upon her road. t- 
 
 And now upon her frozen ear 
 
 Mysterious sounds arose ; 
 So, on the mountain's piny top, 
 
 The blustering north wind blows. 
 
 Then furious peals of laughter loud 
 
 Were heard with thundering sound, 
 
 Till they died away in soft decay. 
 Low whispering o'er the ground. 
 
 Yet still the maiden onward went. 
 The charm yet onward led, 
 
 Though each big glaring ball of sight 
 Seem'd bursting from her head. 
 
 But now a pale blue light she saw. 
 
 It from a distance came. 
 She followed, till upon her sight, 
 
 Burst full a flood of flame. 
 
68 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 She stood appall 'd ; yet still the charm 
 
 Upheld her sinking- soul ; 
 Yet each bent knee the other smote, 
 
 And each wild eye did roll. 
 
 And such a sight as she saw there, 
 
 No mortal saw before, 
 And such a sight as she saw there, 
 
 No mortal shall see more. 
 
 A burning caldron stood in the midst. 
 The flame was fierce and high, 
 
 And all the cave so wide and long, 
 Was plainly seen thereby. 
 
 And round about the caldron stout 
 Twelve withered witches stood : 
 
 Their waists were bound with living snakes, 
 And their hair was stiff" with blood. 
 
 Their hands were gory too ; and red 
 And fiercely flamed their eyes : 
 
 And they were muttering indistinct 
 Their hellish mysteries. 
 
 And suddenly they join'd their hands, 
 
 And uttered a joyous cry. 
 And round about the caldron stout 
 
 They danced right merrily. 
 
 And now they stopp'd ; and each prepared 
 
 To tell what she had done. 
 Since last the Lady of the night 
 
 Her waning course had run. 
 
 Behind a rock stood Gondoline, 
 Thick weeds her face did veil, 
 
 And she lean'd fearful forwarder. 
 To hear the dreadful tale. 
 
 The first arose : She said she'd seen 
 . . Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 69 
 
 She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, ' 
 And a jovial storm had brew'd. 
 
 She call'd around the winged winds, 
 
 And rais'd a devilish rout ; 
 And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard 
 
 Full fifteen leagues about. 
 
 She said there was a little bark 
 
 Upon the roaring wave. 
 And there was a woman there who'd been 
 
 To see her husband's grave. 
 
 And she had got a child in her arms, 
 
 It was her only child. 
 And oft its little infant pranks 
 
 Her heavy heart beguil'd. 
 
 And there was too in that same bark, 
 
 A father and his son ; 
 The lad was sickly, and the sire 
 
 Was old and wo-begone. 
 
 And when the tempest waxed strong, 
 And the bark could no more it 'bide,' 
 
 She said it was jovial fun to hear 
 How the poor devils cried. 
 
 The mother clasp 'd her orphan child 
 
 Unto her breast, and wept ; 
 And sweetly folded in her arms 
 
 The careless baby slept. 
 
 And she told how, in the shape o' the wind, 
 
 As manfully it roar'd. 
 She twisted her hand in the infant's hair 
 
 *And threw it overboard. 
 
 And to have seen the mother's pangs, 
 
 'Twas a glorious sight to see ; 
 The crew could scarcely hold her down 
 
 From jumping in the sea. 
 
70 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 The hag" held a lock of the hair in her hand, 
 
 And it was soft and fair : 
 It must have been a lovely child, 
 
 To have had such lovely hair. 
 
 And she said, the father in his arms 
 
 He held his sickly son. 
 And his dying throes they fast arose, 
 
 His pains were nearly done. 
 
 And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands, 
 
 And his face grew deadly blue ; 
 And his father he tore his thin gray hair, 
 
 And kiss'd the livid hue. 
 
 And then she told, how she bored a hole 
 
 In the bark, and it fill'd away : 
 And 'twas rare to hear, how some did swear, 
 
 And some did vow and pray. 
 
 The man and woman they soon were dead, 
 The sailors their strength did urge ; 
 
 But the billows that beat were their windingsheet. 
 And the winds sung their funeral dirge. 
 
 She threw *the infant's hair in the fire, 
 
 The red flameHamed high, 
 And round about the caldron stout 
 
 They danced right merrily. 
 
 The second begun ; She said she had done 
 The task that Queen Hecat' had set her. 
 
 And that the devil, the father of evil, 
 Had never accomplished a better. 
 
 She said, there was an aged v/oman, 
 
 And she had a daughter fair, 
 Whose evil habits filPd her heart 
 
 With misery and care. 
 
 The daughter had a paramour, 
 ' A wicked man was he, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 71 
 
 And oft the woman him against 
 Did murmur grievously. 
 
 And the hag had work'd the daughter up 
 
 To murder her old mother, 
 That then she might seize on all her goods, 
 
 And wanton with her lover. 
 
 And one night as the old woman 
 
 Was sick and ill in bed. 
 And pondering solely on the life 
 
 Her wicked daughter led, 
 
 She heard her footstep on the floor, 
 
 And she raised her pallid head, 
 And she saw her daughter, with a knife, 
 
 Approaching to her bed. 
 
 And said, My child, I'm very ill 
 
 I have not long to live, 
 Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die 
 
 Thy sins I may forgive. 
 
 And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, 
 xind she lifted the sharp bright knife. 
 
 And the mother saw her fell intent. 
 And hard she begg'd for life. 
 
 But prayers would nothing her avail, 
 
 And she scream 'd aloud with fear ; 
 But the house was lone, and the piercing screams 
 
 Could reach no human ear. 
 
 And though that she was sick, and old, 
 
 She struggled hard, and fought ; 
 The murderess cut three fingers through 
 
 Ere she could reach her throat. 
 
 And the hag she held the fingers up, / 
 
 The skin was mangled sore ; 
 And they all agreed a nobler deed 
 
 Was never done before. 
 
12 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 And she threw the finders in the fire, 
 The red flame fi^feed high, 
 
 And round about the caldron stout 
 They danced right merrily. 
 
 The third arose : She said she'd been 
 
 To Holy Palestine ; 
 And seen more blood in one short day, 
 
 Than they had all seen in nine. 
 
 Now Gondoline, with fearful steps, 
 Drew nearer to the flame, 
 
 For much she dreaded now to hear 
 Her hapless lover's name. 
 
 The hag related then the sports 
 
 Of that eventful day, 
 When on the well-contested field 
 
 Full fifteen thousand lay. 
 
 She said, that she in human gore 
 Above the knees did wade, 
 
 And that no tongue could truly tell 
 The tricks she there had play'd. 
 
 There was a gallant-featured youth, 
 Who like a hero fought ; 
 
 He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, 
 And every danger sought. 
 
 And in a vassal's garb disguised 
 Unto the knight she sues, 
 
 And tells him she from Britain comes, 
 And brings unwelcome news. 
 
 That three days ere she had embark'd. 
 His love had given her hand 
 
 Unto a wealthy Thane : — and thought 
 Him dead in holy land. 
 
 And to have seen how he did writhe 
 , When this her tale she told, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 73 
 
 It would have made a wizard's blood 
 Within his heart run cold. 
 
 Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, 
 
 And sought the battle's bed ; 
 And soon all mangled o'er with wounds, 
 
 He on the cold turf bled. 
 
 And from his smoking corse she tore 
 
 His head, half clove in two : 
 She ceased, and from beneath her garb 
 
 The bloody trophy drew. 
 
 The eyes were starting from their socks, 
 
 The mouth it ghastly grinn'd, 
 And there was a gash across the brow, 
 
 The scalp was nearly skinn'd. 
 
 'Twas Bertrand's Head ! ! With a terrible scream, 
 
 The maiden gave a spring, 
 And from her fearful hiding place 
 
 She fell into the ring. 
 
 The lights they fled — the caldron sunk. 
 
 Deep thunders shook the dome, 
 And hollow peals of laughter came 
 
 Resounding through the gloom. 
 
 Insensible the maiden lay 
 
 Upon the hellish ground, 
 And still mysterious sounds were heard 
 
 At intervals around. 
 
 She woke — she half arose, — and wild, 
 
 She cast a horrid glare. 
 The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, 
 
 And all was stillness there. 
 
 And through an awning in the rock, 
 
 The moon it sweetly shone. 
 And show'd a river in the cave 
 
 Which dismally did moan. 
 
 7 
 
74 
 
 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 The stream was black, it sounded deep 
 As it rush'd the rocks between, 
 
 It offer 'd well, for madness fired 
 The breast of Gondoline. 
 
 She plunged in, the torrent moan'd 
 With its accustom'd sound, 
 
 And hollow peals of laughter loud 
 Again rebellow'd round. 
 
 The maid was seen no more. — But oft 
 Her ghost is known to glide, 
 
 At midnight's silent, solemn hour, 
 Along the ocean's side. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS, 
 
 [n the Morning before Daybreak. 
 
 Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold 
 
 Your brilliant places in the sable vault 
 
 Of night's dominions ! — Planets, and central orbs 
 
 Of other systems : — big as the burning sun 
 
 Which lights this nether globe, — yet to our eye 
 
 Small as the glow-worm's lamp ! — To you I raise 
 
 My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd, 
 
 My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts ; 
 
 Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, 
 
 Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold, 
 
 And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring. 
 
 Through ye, I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, 
 
 The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, 
 
 The great Creator ! Him ! who now sublime. 
 
 Wrapt in the solitary amplitude 
 
 Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres 
 
 Sits on his silent throne, and meditates. 
 
 The angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven, 
 Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 75 
 
 Repeating loud, ' The Lord our God is great,' 
 In varied harmonies. — The glorious sounds 
 Roll o'er the air serene — The ^Eolian spheres, 
 Harping along their viewless boundaries, 
 Catch the full note, and cry, ' The Lord is great,' 
 Responding to the Seraphim. — O'er all. 
 From orb to orb, to the remotest verge 
 Of the created world, the soand is borne, 
 Till the whole universe is full of Him. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now 
 
 In fancy strikes upon my listening ear. 
 
 And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile 
 
 On the vain world, and all its bustling cares. 
 
 And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. 
 
 Oh ! what is man, when at ambition's height. 
 
 What even are kings, when balanced in the scale 
 
 Of these stupendous worlds ! Almighty God ! 
 
 Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works ! 
 
 Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm. 
 
 One look of kind benevolence ? — Thou canst ; 
 
 For Thou art full of universal love, 
 
 And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart 
 
 Thy beams as well to me as to the proud. 
 
 The pageant insects of a glittering hour. 
 
 Oh ! when reflecting on these truths sublime, 
 
 How insignificant do all the joys, 
 
 The gauds, and honors of the world appear ! 
 
 How vain ambition ! Why has my wakeful lamp 
 
 Outwatch'd the slow-paced night ? — Why on the page. 
 
 The schoolman's labor'd page, have I employ'd 
 
 The hours devoted by the wotld to rest, 
 
 And needful to recruit exhausted nature .-' 
 
 Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay 
 
 The loss of health .-* or can the hope of glory 
 
 Lend a new throb unto my languid heart, 
 
 Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow. 
 
 Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye, 
 
 Or paint new colors on this pallid cheek .'' 
 
 Say, foolish one — can that unbodied fame. 
 For which thou barterest health and happiness, 
 
76 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Say, can it soothe the shimbers of the grave ? 
 Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs 
 Of everlasting- punishment condign ? 
 Alas ! how vain are mortal man's desires ! 
 How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God ! 
 Guide Thou my footsteps in the way of truth, 
 And oh ! assist me so to live on,earth, 
 That I may die in peace, and claim a place 
 In thy high dwelling. — All but this is folly, 
 The vain illusions of deceitful life. 
 
 LINES 
 
 surrosED to be spoken by a lover at the grave 
 
 OF HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 Occasioned by a Situation in a Romance. 
 
 Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave. 
 
 And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling, 
 
 The big tear in his eye. — Mary, awake. 
 
 From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight 
 
 On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low, 
 
 Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale. 
 
 Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love, 
 
 To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul, 
 
 And cheer his breaking heart. — Come, as thou didst, 
 
 When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd, 
 
 And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne 
 
 Of the startled night. — ! then, as lone reclining, 
 
 I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm, 
 
 Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering 
 
 Didst strike my moody eye ; — dead pale thou wert, 
 
 Yet passing lovely. — Thou didst smile upon me. 
 
 And oh ! thy voice it rose so musical. 
 
 Between the hollow pauses of the storm, 
 
 That at the sound the winds forgot to rave. 
 
 And the stern demon of the tempest, charm 'd, 
 
 Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose, 
 
 Lock'd in the arms of silence. 
 
 Spirit of her ! 
 My only love ! — ! now again arise, 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 77 
 
 And let once more thine aery accents fall 
 
 Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm, 
 
 The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence 
 
 With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling 
 
 On the still air, the distant waterfall 
 
 Mingles its melody ; — and, high above, 
 
 The pensive empress of the solemn night, 
 
 Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds. 
 
 Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky. 
 
 No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll 
 
 Dare now assemble at their mystic revels ; 
 
 It is a night, when from their primrose beds, 
 
 The gentle ghosts of injured innocents 
 
 Are known to rise, and wander on the breeze. 
 
 Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, 
 
 And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. 
 
 The spirit of my love might now awake, 
 
 And hold its custom 'd converse. 
 
 Mary, lo ! 
 Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, 
 And calls upon thy name. — The breeze that blows 
 On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him 
 In solemn music, a funeral dirge. 
 Wild and most sorrowful. — His cheek is pale, 
 The worm that play'd upon thy youthful bloom. 
 It canker 'd green on his. — Now lost he stands. 
 The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew 
 Which bathes his aching temples gives sure omen 
 Of speedy dissolution. — Mary, soon 
 Thy lov'd will lay his pallid cheek to thine. 
 And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death. 
 
 MY STUDY. 
 
 A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE. 
 
 You bid me, Ned, describe the place 
 Where I, one of the rhyming race, 
 Pursue my studies con amore, 
 And wanton with the muse in glory. 
 
78 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Well, figure to your senses straight, 
 
 Upon the house's topmost height, 
 
 A closet, just six feet by four, 
 
 With white-wash'd walls and plaster floor, 
 
 So noble large, 'tis scarcely able 
 
 To admit a single chair and table : 
 
 And (lest the muse should die with cold) 
 
 A smoky grate my fire to hold : 
 
 So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose 
 
 To melt the ice-drop on one's nose ; 
 
 And yet so biff, it covers o'er 
 
 Full half the spacious room and more. 
 
 A window vainly stuff'd about, 
 To keep November's breezes out, 
 So crazy, that the panes proclaim, 
 That soon they mean to leave the frame. 
 
 My furniture I sureTmay crack— 
 
 A broken chair without a back ; 
 
 A table wanting just two legs. 
 
 One end sustain'd by wooden pegs ; 
 
 A desk— of that I am not fervent, 
 
 The work of, sir, your humble servant , 
 
 (Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler ;) 
 
 A glass decanter and a tumbler, 
 
 From which, my night-parch'd throat I lave, 
 
 Luxurious, with the limpid wave. _ 
 
 A chest of drawers, in antique sections, 
 
 And saw'd by me in all directions ; 
 
 So small, sir, that whoever views 'em 
 
 Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. 
 
 To these, if you will add a store 
 
 Of oddities upon the floor, 
 
 A pair of globes, electric balls, 
 
 Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler s awls, 
 ■ And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, 
 
 Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves : 
 
 I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, 
 
 You'll have my earthly catalogue. 
 
 But stay,— I nearly had left out 
 
 My bellows destitute of snout ; . , ^, 
 
 And on the walls,— Good Heavens ! why there 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 79 
 
 I've such a load of precious ware, 
 
 Of heads, and coins, and silver medals. 
 
 And organ works, and broken pedals ; 
 
 (For I was once a-building- music. 
 
 Though soon of that employ I grew sick ;) 
 
 And skeletons of laws which shoot 
 
 All out of one primordial root ; 
 
 That you, at such a sight, would swear 
 
 Confusion's self had settled there. 
 
 There stands, just by a broken sphere, 
 
 A Cicero without an ear, 
 
 A neck, on which, by logic good, 
 
 I know for sure a head once stood ; 
 
 But who it was the able master 
 
 Had moulded in the mimic plaster, 
 
 Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn, 
 
 I never yet could justly learn : 
 
 But knowing well, that any head 
 
 Is made to answer for the dead, 
 
 (And sculptors first their faces frame. 
 
 And after pitch upon a name. 
 
 Nor think it aught of a misnomer 
 
 To christen Chaucer's busto Homer, 
 
 Because they both have beards, which, you know, 
 
 Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,) 
 
 For some great man, I could not tell 
 
 But Neck might answer just as well, 
 
 So perch 'd it up, all in a row 
 
 With Chatham and with Cicero. 
 
 Then all around in just degree, 
 A range of portraits you may see, 
 Of mighty men, and eke of women / 
 Who are no whit inferior to men. A^'^-^'^-^ 
 
 With these fair dames, and heroes round, -^^^ ' ^_^ 
 
 I call my garret classic ground. .t/^*^ 
 
 For though confined, 'twill well contain y^^*— ^ '^ J 
 
 The ideal flights of Madam Brain. ^ 
 
 No dungeon's walls, no cell confined, ^ 
 
 Can cramp the energies of mind ! 
 
 Thus, though my heart may seem so small, 
 
80 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 I've friends, and 'twill contain them all ; 
 And should it e'er become so cold 
 That these it will no longer hold, 
 No more may Heaven her blessings give, 
 f shall not then be fit to live. 
 
 TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 
 
 Mild oJfFspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
 Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
 
 Was nursed in whirling storms, 
 
 And cradled in the winds. 
 
 Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway, 
 And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
 
 Thee on this bank he threw 
 
 To mark his victory. 
 
 In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
 Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 
 
 Unnoticed and alone, 
 
 Thy tender elegance 
 
 So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
 Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 
 
 Of life she rears her head, 
 
 Obscure and unobserved ; 
 
 While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
 Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 
 
 And hardens her to bear 
 
 Serene the ills of life. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 SONNET I. 
 
 To the River Trent. Written on Recovery from Sickness. 
 
 Once more, Trent ! along thy pebbly marge 
 
 A pensive invalid, reduced and pale. 
 From the close sick-room newly let at large, 
 Woos to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale. 
 ! to his ear how musical the tale 
 
 Wliich fills with joy the throstle's little throat ! 
 And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, 
 
 How wildly novel on his senses float ! 
 It was on this that many a sleepless night, 
 
 As, lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, 
 And at his casement heard, with wild affright. 
 The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream, 
 On this he thought, this, this his sole desire, 
 Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choiy. 
 
 SONNET 11. 
 
 Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild. 
 
 Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, 
 And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, 
 
 May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. 
 While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, 
 
 List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, 
 Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, 
 
 I shall not want the world's delusive joys ; 
 But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, 
 
 Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; 
 And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, 
 
82 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, 
 And lay me down to rest where the wild wave 
 Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. 
 
 SONNET III * 
 
 Supposed to have been addressed by a Female Lunatic to a Lady. 
 
 Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's wo. 
 
 And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young ; 
 Oh ! may thy bosom never, never know 
 
 The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung. 
 I had a mother once — a brother too — 
 
 (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head :) 
 I had a lover once, — and kind, and true, 
 
 But mother, brother, lover, all are fled ! 
 Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye ? 
 
 ! gentle lady — not for me thus weep, 
 The green sod soon upon my breast will lie, 
 
 And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep, 
 Go thou and pluck the roses while they bloom — 
 
 My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. 
 
 SONNET IV. 
 
 Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in a Storm, while on board 
 a Ship in his Majesty's Service. 
 
 Lo ! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds 
 Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind 
 
 Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds. 
 While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined 
 
 Lists to the changeful storm : and as he plies 
 His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad, 
 Of wife and little home, and chubby lad. 
 
 And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes ; 
 
 I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn. 
 
 View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, 
 
 * This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, ' occasioned by seeing a 
 young Female Lunatic,' written by Mrs. Lofft, and jiublishedin die Monthly Mirror. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 83 
 
 Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, 
 For not for me shall wife or children mourn, 
 And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell 
 Sweetly, as solemn peal of pious passing-bell. 
 
 SONNET V. 
 
 THE WINTER TRAVELLER. 
 
 CrOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far ; 
 The wind is bitter keen, — the snow o'rlays 
 The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways. 
 And darkness will involve thee. — No kind star 
 To-night will guide thee, Traveller, — and the war 
 Of winds and elements on thy head will break. 
 And in thy agonizing ear the shriek 
 Of spirits howling on their stormy car, 
 Will often ring appalling — I portend 
 
 A dismal night — and on my wakeful bed 
 Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head. 
 And him who rides where winds and waves contend, 
 And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide 
 His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. 
 
 SONNET VI. 
 
 BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 
 
 This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this Volume, and was occasioned by several 
 little (iuatorzaiiis, niisnomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. 
 He begs leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, for the permission so 
 politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to ex- 
 press of his productions. 
 
 Ye, whose aspirings court the muse of lays, 
 ' Severest of those orders which belong. 
 Distinct and separate, to Delphic song, ' 
 
 Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze .'' 
 
 And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days. 
 
 Assume, its rules disown'd .'' whom from the throng 
 
 The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys 
 Of its full harmony : — they fear to wrong 
 
84 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 The Sonnet, by adorning with a name 
 
 Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet, 
 Yet not in magic texture taught to meet 
 Of that so varied and peculiar frame. 
 think ! to vindicate its genuine praise 
 
 Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favoring impulse sways. 
 
 SONNET VII. 
 
 Recantatory, in reply to the foregoing elegant Admonition. 
 
 Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapt in night, 
 Rides on the raven pennons of the storm. 
 Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, 
 Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight. 
 Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, 
 Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form. 
 And scorn to its wild cadence to conform 
 The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. 
 But me, far lowest of the sylvan train. 
 
 Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade 
 With wildest song ; — Me, much behooves thy aid 
 Of mingled melody, to grace my strain. 
 And give it power to please, as soft it flows 
 Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close. 
 
 SONNET YIII. 
 
 On hearing the Sounds of an jEolian Harp. 
 
 So ravishingly soft upon the tide 
 Of the infuriate gust, it did career, 
 It might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer, 
 
 And sunk him to a zephyr ; — then it died. 
 
 Melting in melody ; — and I descried, 
 Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear 
 Of druid sage, who on the far-ofl" ear / 
 
 Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied : 
 
 Or. thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's ^nell. 
 Lost in some wild enchanted iforest's bounds, 
 
OF H. K* WHITE. 85 
 
 By unseen beings sung ; or are these sounds 
 Such, as 'tis said, at night are known to swell 
 By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, 
 Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death ? 
 
 SONNET IX. 
 
 What art thou, Mighty One ! and where thy seat ? 
 Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands. 
 And thou dost bear within thine awful hands 
 
 The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. 
 
 Stern on thy dark- wrought car of cloud and wind. 
 Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead noon. 
 Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon, 
 
 Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the !nd. 
 
 In the drear silence of the polar span 
 Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude 
 
 Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan 
 Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ? 
 
 Vain thought ! the confines of his throne to trace, 
 
 Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, 
 
 Ye pelting rains a little rest : 
 Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, 
 
 Thatwringwith grief my aching breast. 
 
 Oh ! cruel was my faithless love, 
 To triumph o'er an artless maid ; 
 
 Oh ! cruel was my faithless love, 
 To leave the breast by him betray'd. 
 
 When exiled from my native home, 
 He should have wiped the bitter tear ; 
 
 Nor left me faint and lone to roam, 
 A heart-sick weary wanderer here. 
 8 
 
86 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 My child moans sadly in ray arms, 
 The winds they will not let it sleep : 
 
 Ah, little knows the hapless babe 
 What makes its wretched mother weep ! 
 
 Now lie thee still, my infant dear, 
 I cannot bear thy sobs to see, 
 
 Harsh is thy father, little one. 
 And never will he shelter thee. 
 
 Oh, that I were but in my grave, 
 And winds were piping- o'er me loud, 
 
 And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, 
 Were nestling in thy mother's shroud ! 
 
 THE LULLABY 
 
 OP A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO 
 
 EXECUTION 
 
 Sleep, baby mine,* enkerchieft on my bosom, 
 Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast ; 
 
 Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother 
 To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. 
 
 Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining. 
 Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled ; 
 
 Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, 
 And I would fain compose my aching head. 
 
 Poor wayward wretch ! and who will heed thy weeping. 
 When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be : 
 
 Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping 
 In her low grave of shame and infamy ! 
 
 Sl^ep, baby mine — To-morrow I must leave thee. 
 
 And I would snatch, an interval of rest : 
 Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee, 
 
 For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. 
 
 '•Sir Philip Sidney has a Poem beginning, * Sleep, Baby mine.* 
 
POEMS, 
 
 WRITTEN DURING, OE SHORTLY AFTER, THE PUBLICATION OP 
 
 CLIFTON GROVE. 
 
 ODE, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. 
 On seeing Engravings fiom his Designs. 
 
 Mighty magician ! who on Torneo's brow, 
 
 When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, 
 Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light, 
 
 That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below ; 
 
 And listen to the distant death-shriek long 
 From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, 
 Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, 
 
 VVTiile the weird sisters weave the horrid song : 
 Or when along the liquid sky 
 Serenely chant the orbs on high. 
 Dost love to sit in musing trance, 
 And mark the northern meteor's dance, 
 (While far below the fitful oar 
 Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,) 
 And list the music of the breeze, 
 That sweeps by fits the bending seas ; 
 And often bears with sudden swell 
 The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell. 
 By the spirits sung, who keep 
 Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, 
 And guide the wakeful helms-man's eye 
 To Helice in northern sky : 
 And there upon the rock inclined 
 With mighty visions fill'st the mind, 
 Such as bound in magic spell 
 
88 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Him* who grasp'd the gates of Hell, 
 And bursting Pluto's dark domain, 
 Held to the day the terrors of his reign. 
 
 Genius of Horror and romantic awe, 
 .Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, 
 Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, 
 
 Can force the inmost soul to own its law ; 
 Who shall now, sublimest spirit, 
 Who shall now thy wand inherit, 
 From him f thy darling child who best 
 Thy shuddering images express'd ? 
 Sullen of soul, and stern and proud, 
 ' His gloomy spirit spurn 'd the crowd, - 
 And now he lays his aching head 
 
 In the dark mansion of the silent dead. 
 
 Mighty magician ! long thy wand has lain 
 Buried beneath the unfathomable deep ; 
 And oh ! forever must its efforts sleep. 
 
 May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain ? 
 ,0h yes, 'tis his ! — Thy other son ; 
 He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, 
 Fuesslin waves thy wand, — again they rise. 
 Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes. 
 
 Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep 
 
 Where round his head the volley'd lightnings flung, 
 And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, 
 
 Wooed the stern infant to the arms of sleep. 
 Or on the highest top of Tenerifle 
 
 Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look 
 Where far below the weather-beaten skiff* 
 
 On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. 
 
 Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear 
 The death-sob, and, disdaining rest. 
 
 Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast. 
 
 And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. 
 Then, Superstition, at thy call. 
 She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, 
 And set before his awe-struck sight 
 The savage feast and spectred fight ; . 
 
 * Da«te.. t f'>i<i- 
 
OF H. K. WHITE, 89 
 
 And summon'd from his mountain tomb 
 
 The ghastly warrior son of gloom, 
 
 His fabled Runic rhymes to sing, 
 
 While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing ; 
 
 Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, 
 
 Laid on the stormy Hebrides, 
 
 Which on the mists of evening gleam. 
 
 Or crowd the foaming desert stream ; 
 
 Lastly her storied hand she waves, 
 
 And lays him in Florentian caves ; 
 
 There milder fables, lovelier themes, 
 
 Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams, 
 
 There Pity's lute arrests his ear, 
 
 And draws the half-reluctant tear ; 
 
 And now at noon of night he roves 
 
 Along the embowering moonlight groves. 
 
 And as from many a cavern'd dell 
 
 The hollow wind is heard to swell. 
 
 He thinks some troubled spirit sighs ; 
 
 And as upon the turf he lies, 
 
 Where sleeps the silent beam of night, 
 
 He sees below the gliding sprite, • 
 
 And hears in Fancy's organs sound 
 
 Aerial music warbling round. 
 
 Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole, 
 And breathes her polish o'er his soul; , 
 Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, 
 The wonderous work is now complete. 
 
 The Poet dreams : — The shadow flies, 
 
 And fainting fast its image dies. 
 
 But lo ! the Painte'r's magic force 
 
 Arrests the phantom's fleeting course ; 
 
 It lives — it lives — ^the canvass glows, 
 
 And tenfold vigor o'er it flows. 
 The Bard beholds the work achieved. 
 
 And as he sees the shadow rise, 
 
 Sublime before his wondering eyes. 
 Starts at the image his own mind conceived. 
 
90 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 ODE, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G. 
 
 Retired, remote from human noise, 
 
 A humble Poet dwelt serene ; 
 His lot was lowly, yet his joys 
 
 Were manifold, I ween. 
 He laid him by the brawling brook 
 
 At eventide to ruminate, 
 
 He watch 'd the swallow skimming round, 
 And mused, in reverie profound, 
 On wayward man's unhappy state, 
 And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of ancient date. 
 
 n. 1. 
 
 ' Oh, 'twas not always thus,' he cried, 
 ' There was a time, when Genius claimed 
 
 Respect from even towering Pride, 
 Nor hung her head ashamed : 
 
 But now to Wealth alone we bow, 
 The titled and the rich alone 
 
 Are honor'd, while meek Merit pines. 
 
 On Penury's wretched couch reclines, 
 Unheeded in his dying moan. 
 As overwhelm'd with want and wo, he sinks unknown. 
 
 III. 1. 
 
 ' Yet was the muse not always seen 
 In Poverty's dejected mien, 
 Not always did repining rue. 
 And misery her steps pursue. 
 Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced, 
 By the sweet honors of poetic bays, 
 When Sidney sung his melting song, 
 When Sheffield joined the harmonious throng. 
 And Lyttleton attuned to love his lays. 
 Those days are gone — alas, forever gone ! 
 
 No more our nobles love to grace 
 Their brows with anademes, by genius won. 
 But arrogantly deem the muse as base ; 
 How different thought the sire^ of this degenerate race ! * 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 91 
 
 I. 2. 
 
 Thus sang the minstrel : — still at eve 
 
 The upland's woody shades among 
 In broken measures did he grieve, 
 
 With solitary song. 
 And still his shame was aye the same, 
 
 Neglect had stung him to the core ; 
 And he with pensive joy did love 
 To seek the still congenial grove, 
 
 And muse on all his sorrows o'er, 
 And vow that he would join the abjured world no more. 
 
 II. 2. 
 
 But human vows, how frail they be \ 
 
 Fame brought Carlisle unto his view. 
 And all amazed, he thought to see 
 The Augustan age anew. 
 Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose. 
 No more he ponders on the woes. 
 Which erst he felt that forward goes, 
 Regrets he'd sunk in impotence. 
 And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. 
 
 III. 2. 
 
 Ah ! silly man, yet smarting sore, 
 With ills which in the world he bore, 
 Again on futile hope to rest, 
 An unsubstantial prop at best, 
 And not to know one swallow makes no summer ! 
 
 Ah ! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam. 
 Which flashed across the hemisphere, 
 Illumining the darkness there, 
 
 Was but a single solitary beam, 
 Wliile all around remained in customed night. 
 
 Still leaden Ignorance reigns serene, 
 In the false court's delusive height. 
 
 And only one Carlisle is seen. 
 To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light. 
 
COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. 
 
 Down the sultry arc of day 
 
 The burning wheels have urged their way. 
 
 And eve along the western skies 
 
 Spreads her intermingling dyes. 
 
 Down the deep, the miry lane, 
 
 Creeking comes the empty wain, 
 
 And driver on the shaft-horse sits, 
 
 Whistling now and then by fits ; 
 
 And oft with his accustom 'd call, 
 
 Urging on the sluggish Ball. 
 
 The barn is still, the master's gone, 
 
 And thresher puts his jacket on, 
 
 While Dick, upon the ladder tall, 
 
 Nails the dead kite to the wall. 
 
 Here comes shepherd Jack at last, 
 
 He has penn'd the sheep-cote fast, 
 
 For 'twas but two nights before, 
 
 A lamb was eaten on the moor : 
 
 His empty wallet Rover carries. 
 
 Now for Jack, when near home, tarries. 
 
 With lolling tongue he runs to try, 
 
 If the horse-trough be not dry. 
 
 The milk is settled in the pans. 
 
 And supper messes in the cans ; 
 
 In the hovel carts are wheel'd, 
 
 And both the colts are drove a-field ; 
 
 The horses are all bedded up. 
 
 And the ewe is with the tup, 
 
 The snare for Mister Fox is set. 
 
 The leaven laid, the thatching wet, 
 
 And Bess has slink'd away to talk 
 
 With Roger in the holly-walk. 
 
 Now, on the settle all, but Bess, 
 Are set to eat their supper mess ; 
 And little Tom and roguish Kate, 
 Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
 Now they chat of various things, 
 Of taxes, ministers, and kings. 
 Or else tell all the village news. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 93 
 
 How madam did the squire refuse .; 
 How parson on liis tithes was bent, 
 And landlord oft distrained for rent. 
 Thus do they talk, till in the sky 
 The pale-eyed moon is mounted high, 
 And from the alehouse drunken Ned 
 Had reePd — then hasten all to bed. 
 The mistress sees that lazy Kate 
 The happing coal on kitchen grate 
 Has laid — while master goes throughout, 
 Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out, 
 The candles safe, the hearths all clear. 
 And nought from thieves or fire to fear ; 
 Then both to bed together creep. 
 And join the general troop of sleep. 
 
 TO CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 Come, pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell 
 In some retired Lapponian cell. 
 Where, far from noise and riot rude, 
 Resides sequester'd Solitude. 
 Come, and o'er my longing soul 
 Throw thy dark and russet stole, 
 And open to my duteous eyes, 
 The volume of thy mysteries. 
 
 I will meet thee on the hill. 
 Where, with printless footsteps still 
 The morning in her buskin gray, 
 Springs upon her eastern way ; 
 While the frolic zephyrs stir, 
 Playing with the gossamer, 
 And, on ruder pinions borne. 
 Shake the dew-drops from the thorn. 
 There, as o'er the fields we pass, 
 Brushing with hasty feet the grass, 
 We will startle from her nest 
 The lively lark with speckled breast, 
 And hear the floating clouds among 
 Her gale-transported matin song, 
 
94 , COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Or on the upland stile embower'd, 
 
 With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd, 
 
 Will sauntering sit, and listen still 
 
 To the herdsman's oaten quill, 
 
 Wafted from the plain below ; 
 
 Or the heifer's frequent low ; 
 
 Or the milkmaid in the grove, 
 
 Singing of one that died for love. 
 
 Or when the noontide heats oppress, 
 
 We will seek the dark recess, 
 
 Where, in th' embower'd translucent stream, 
 
 The cattle shun the sultry beam, 
 
 And o'er us on the marge reclined. 
 
 The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, 
 
 While echo, from her ancient oak. 
 
 Shall answer to the woodman's stroke ; 
 
 Or the little peasant's song, 
 
 Wandering lone the glens among. 
 
 His artless lip with berries dyed, 
 
 And feet through ragged shoes descried. 
 
 But oh ! when evening's virgin queen 
 
 Sits on her fringed throne serene. 
 
 And mingling whispers rising near. 
 
 Steal on the still reposing ear : 
 
 While distant brooks decaying round, 
 
 Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, 
 
 And the zephyr flitting by. 
 
 Whispers n^ystic harmony,' 
 
 We will seek the woody lane, 
 
 By the hamlet, on the plain, 
 
 Where the weary rustic nigh. 
 
 Shall whistle his wild melody. 
 
 And the croaking wicket oft 
 
 Shall echo from the neighbouring croft ; 
 
 And as we trace the green path lone. 
 
 With moss and rank weeds overgrown, 
 
 We will muse on pensive lore 
 
 Till the full soul brimming o'er. 
 
 Shall in our upturn 'd eyes appear, 
 
 Embodied in a quivering tear. 
 
 Or else, serenply silent, set 
 
 By the brawling rivulet, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 95 
 
 Which on its cahn unruffled breast, 
 
 Bears the old mossy arch impress'd, 
 
 That clasps its secret stream of glass 
 
 Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, 
 
 The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, 
 
 Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, 
 
 We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid, 
 
 The rich vermilion slowly fade ; 
 
 Or catch, faint twinkling from afar, 
 
 Tne first glimpse of the eastern star. 
 
 Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light. 
 
 That heralds in imperial night ; 
 
 Meanwhile, upon our wandering ear, 
 
 Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, 
 
 The distant sounds of pastoral lute, 
 
 Invoking soft the sober suit 
 
 Of dimmest darkness — fitting well 
 
 With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, 
 
 (So erst did music's silver tone 
 
 Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne.) 
 
 And haply then, with sudden swell, 
 
 Shall roar the distant curfew bell. 
 While in the castle's mouldering tower, 
 
 The hooting owl is heard to pour 
 Her melancholy song, and scare 
 Dull Silence brooding in the air. 
 Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car. 
 Black-suited Night drives on from far, 
 And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, 
 Arrests the waxing darkness drear, 
 And summons to her silent call. 
 Sweeping, in their airy pall, 
 The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance. 
 To join her moonshine morrice-dance ; 
 While around the mystic ring 
 The shadowy shapes elastic spring, 
 Then with a passing shriek they fly. 
 Wrapt in mists, along the sky, 
 And oft are by the shepherd seen, 
 In his lone night-watch on the green. 
 
 Then, hermit, let us turn our feet 
 To the low abbey's still retreat, ' 
 
96 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Embower'd in the distant glen, 
 
 Far from the haunts of busy men, 
 
 Where, as we sit upon the tomb, 
 
 The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom. 
 
 And show to Fancy's saddest eye, 
 
 Where some lost hero's ashes lie. 
 
 And oh, as through the mouldering arch, 
 
 With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, 
 
 The night-gale whispers sadly clear. 
 
 Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear. 
 
 We'll hold communion with the shade 
 
 Of some deep-wailing, ruin'd maid — 
 
 Or call the ghost of Spenser down, 
 
 To tell of wo and Fortune's frown ; 
 
 And bid us cast the eye of hope 
 
 Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. 
 
 Or if these joys, to us denied. 
 
 To linger by the forest's side ; 
 
 Or in the meadow, or the wood, 
 
 Or by the lone, romantic flood ; 
 
 Let us in the busy town. 
 
 When sleep's dull streams the people drown, 
 
 Far from drowsy pillows flee. 
 
 And turn the church's massy key ; 
 
 Then, as through the painted glass 
 
 The moon's faint beams obscurely pass ; 
 
 And darkly on the trophied wall. 
 
 Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall ; 
 
 Let us, while the faint winds wail. 
 
 Through the long reluctant aisle. 
 
 As we pace with reverence meet, 
 
 Count the echoings of our feet ; 
 
 While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, 
 
 Distinct responds the voice of death. 
 
 If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend, 
 
 Thus on my footsteps to attend. 
 
 To thee my lonely lamp shall burn 
 
 By fallen Genius' sainted urn. 
 
 As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, 
 
 And sagely spell of ancient lore. 
 
 Till I can rightlj'" guess of all 
 
 That Plato could to memory call. 
 
 And scan the formless views of things, 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 97 
 
 Or with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, 
 Arrange the mystic trains that shine 
 In night's high philosophic mine ; 
 And to thy name shall e'er belong 
 The honors of undymg song. 
 
 ODE 
 
 TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE. 
 
 Oh ! thou who, in my early youth. 
 When fancy wore the garb of truth, 
 Were wont to win my infant feet, 
 To some retired, deep-fabled seat. 
 Where, by the brooklet's secret tide, 
 The midnight ghost was known to glide ; 
 Or lay me in some lonely glade, 
 In native Sherwood's forest shade. 
 Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, 
 Was wont his sylvan courts to hold ; 
 And there, as musing deep I lay. 
 Wo aid steal my little soul away. 
 And all thy pictures represent. 
 Of siege and solemn tournament ; 
 Or bear me to the magic scene, 
 Where, clad in greaves and gaberdine, 
 The warrior knight of chivalry 
 Made many a fierce enchanter flee , 
 And bore the high-born dame away, 
 Long held the fell magician's prey ; 
 Or oft would tell the shuddering tale 
 Of murders, and of goblins pale. 
 Haunting the guilty baron's side, 
 (Whose floors with secret blood were dyed,) 
 WTiich o'er the vaulted corridor. 
 On stormy nights was heard to roar. 
 By old domestic, waken'd wide 
 By the angry winds that chide ; 
 Or else the mystic tale would tell, 
 Of Greensleeve, or of Blue Beard fell. 
 
98 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. 
 I. 
 
 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 travelled 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 Of distant climes the false report 
 
 It lured 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 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. 
 
 »• 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 99 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written impromptu, on reading tlie following passage in Mr. Capel Loffi's beautiful and 
 interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, just published.—' It has a mixture 
 of the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy close. I could have 
 wished as I have said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. TJie sours 
 of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it.' 
 
 Go to the raging' sea, and say, ' Be still ! ' 
 Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will ; 
 -Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, 
 But tell not Misery's son that life is fair. 
 
 Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd, 
 
 And every year with new delight hast told. 
 
 Thou, who recumbent on the lacker'd barge, 
 
 Hast dropp'd down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, 
 
 Thou may'st extol life's calm, untroubled sea, 
 
 The storms of misery never burst on thee. 
 
 Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines, 
 Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines ; 
 Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, 
 And bind the rising yearnings of his soul. 
 Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there, 
 Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair ! 
 
 Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, 
 /,nd ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled ; 
 Mark his dew'd temples, and his half-shut eye, 
 His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh, 
 His muttering mouth contorted with despair, 
 And ask if Genius could inhabit there. 
 
 Oh, yes ! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd. 
 
 And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd ; 
 
 But now Neglect has stung him to the core, 
 
 And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more ; 
 
 Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round, 
 
 And added Grief compels him to the ground. 
 
 Lo ! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan. 
 
 The shades of death with gradual steps steal on ; 
 
 And the pale mother, pining to decay, 
 
 Weeps for her boy her wretched life away. 
 
100 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Go, child of Fortune ! to his early grave, 
 
 Wliere o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave ; 
 
 Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head 
 
 On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. 
 
 Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, 
 
 And tell us then that life is wondrous fair I 
 
 Yet, Lofll, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth, 
 
 T' encourage genius, and to foster worth ; 
 
 On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 
 
 'Tis jast that every blessing should descend ; 
 
 'Tis just that life to thee should only show 
 
 Her fairer side but little mix'd with wo. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 
 
 Sad solitary Thought^ who keep'st thy vigils, 
 
 Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind ; 
 
 Comnmning lonely with his sinking soul. 
 
 And musing on the dubious glooms that lie 
 
 In dim obscurity before him, — thee, 
 
 Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call 
 
 At this still midnight hour, this awful season, 
 
 When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, 
 
 I turn me wearisome ; while all around. 
 
 All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness ; 
 
 I only wake to watch the sickly taper 
 
 ^Vhich lights me to my tomb. — Yea. 'tis the hand 
 
 Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals. 
 
 Slow sapping the warm current of existence. 
 
 My moments nov/ are few — the sand of life 
 
 Ebbs fastly to its finish. — Yet a little. 
 
 And the last fleeting particle will fall, 
 
 Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. 
 
 Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate 
 
 While meditate we may. — We have now 
 
 But a small portion of what men call time 
 
 To hold communion ; for even now the knife, 
 
 The separating knife, I feel divide 
 
 The' tender bond that binds my soul to earth. 
 
 Yes, I must die — I feel that I must die ; 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 101 
 
 And though to me has hfe been dark and dreary, 
 
 Though Hope for nie has smiled but to deceive, 
 
 And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments, 
 
 Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me 
 
 As I contemplate the dim gulf of death, 
 
 The shuddering void, the awful blank — futurity. 
 
 Ay, I had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme 
 
 Of earthly happiness — romantic schemes, 
 
 And fraught with loveliness ; and it is hard 
 
 To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps, 
 
 Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes. 
 
 And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, 
 
 Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. 
 
 Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry .'' 
 
 Oh ! none ; — another busy brood of beings 
 
 Will shoot up in the interim, and none 
 
 Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink, 
 
 As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets 
 
 Of busy London : — Some short bustle's caused, 
 
 A few inquiries, and the crowds close in. 
 
 And all's forgotten. — On my grassy grave 
 
 The men of future times will careless tread, 
 
 And read my name upon the sculptured stone ; 
 
 Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears. 
 
 Recall my vanish'd memory. — I did hope 
 
 For better things ! — I hoped I should not leave 
 
 The earth without a vestige ; — Fate decrees 
 
 It shall be otherwise, and I submit. 
 
 Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires ! 
 
 No more of hope ! the wanton vagrant Hope ! 
 
 I abjure all. — Now other cares engross me, 
 
 And my tired soul, with emulative haste. 
 
 Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven. 
 
 PASTORAL SONG. 
 
 Come, Anna I come, the morning dawns, 
 Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies 
 
 Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, 
 And watch the early lark arise ; 
 
102 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 While Nature, clad in vesture gay, 
 Hails the loved return of day. . 
 
 Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade 
 
 Upon the moor, shall seek the vale ; 
 And then, secure beneath the shade, 
 We'll listen to the throstle's tale ; 
 And watch the silver clouds above, 
 As o'er the azure vault they rove. 
 
 Come, Anna ! come, and bring thy lute, 
 
 That with its tones, so softly sweet, 
 In cadence with my mellow flute, 
 We may beguile the noontide heat ; 
 Wliile near the mellow bee shall join, 
 To raise a harmony divine. 
 
 And then at eve, when silence reigns, 
 
 Except when heard the beetle's hum, 
 We'll leave the sober-tinted plains. 
 
 To these sweet heights again we'll come 
 And thou to thy soft lute shalt play 
 A solemn vesper to departing day. 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 When pride and envy, and the scorn 
 
 Of wealth, my heart with gall embued, 
 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 : 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 103 
 
 So to the woods and waste 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. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 Bloomfield, thy happy-omen'd name 
 Ensures continuance to thy fame ; 
 Both sense and truth this verdict give, 
 While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live ! 
 
 ODE TO MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Season of general rest, whose solemn still. 
 Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, 
 
 But speaks to philosophic souls delight, 
 Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, 
 My candle waning melancholy by, 
 
 I sit and taste the holy calm of night. 
 
 Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, 
 And gilds the misty shadov/s of the vales. 
 
 Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame. 
 To her, while all around in sleep recline, 
 Wakeful I raise my orisons divine, 
 
 And sing the gentle honors of her name ; 
 
104 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends, 
 To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, 
 
 And pours upon my ear her thrilling song. 
 And Superstition's gentle terrors come, 
 See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom ? 
 
 See round yon church-yard elm what spectres throng t 
 
 Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, 
 My flagelet — and, as I pensive play. 
 
 The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene : 
 The traveller late journeying o'er the moors 
 Hears them aghast, — (while still the dull owl pours 
 
 Her hollow screams each dreary pause between,) 
 
 Till in the lonely tower he spies the light 
 Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night. 
 
 Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep, 
 And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene. 
 Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene. 
 
 And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep. 
 
 ODE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 Written at midnight. 
 I. 
 
 Hence away, vindictive Thought ! 
 
 Thy pictures are of pain ; 
 The visions through thy dark eye caught, 
 They with no gentle charms are fraught, 
 So prithee back again. 
 I would not weep, 
 I wish to sleep, 
 Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep ? 
 
 II- 
 
 Why dost o'er bed and couch recline .'* 
 
 Is this thy new delight ? , 
 
 Pale visitant, is it not thine 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 105 
 
 To keep thy sentry throug-h the mine, 
 The dark vault of the night : 
 'Tis thine to die, 
 While o'er the eye 
 The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. 
 
 III. 
 
 Go thou, and bide with him who guides 
 
 His bark through lonely seas ; 
 And as reclining on his helm. 
 Sadly he marks the starry realm, 
 To him thou mayst bring ease ; 
 But thou to me 
 Art misery. 
 So prithee, prithee, plume tny wings, and from my pil 
 low flee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And, Memory, pray what art thou ? 
 
 Art thou of pleasure born ? 
 Does bliss untainted from thee flow ? 
 The rose that gems thy pensive brow, 
 Is it without a thorn ? 
 With all thy smiles, 
 And witching wiles. 
 Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles. 
 
 The drowsy night-watch has forgot 
 
 To call the solemn hour ; 
 LulPd by the winds he slumbers deep, 
 While I in vain, capricious Sleep, 
 Invoke thy tardy power ; 
 And restless lie. 
 With unclosed eye. 
 And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. 
 
106 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 I. 1. 
 
 Many there be, who, through the vale of life, 
 
 With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go, 
 While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife 
 
 Awakes them not to wo. 
 By them unheeded, carking Care, 
 Green-eyed Grief, and dull Despair ; 
 Smoothly they pursue their way. 
 
 With even tenor and with equal breath, 
 Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, 
 
 Then sink in peace to death. 
 
 II. 1. 
 
 But, ah ! a few there be whom griefs devour, 
 
 And weeping Wo, and Disappointment keen, 
 Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour. 
 
 And self-consuming Spleen. 
 And these are Genius' favorites : these 
 Know the thought-throned mind to please, 
 And from her fleshy seat to draw 
 
 To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, 
 Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law. 
 
 The captivated soul. 
 
 III. 1. 
 
 Genius, from thy starry throne, 
 
 High above the burning zone, 
 In radient robe of light array'd. 
 Oh ! hear the plaint by thy sad favorite made. 
 
 His melancholy moan. 
 He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, 
 
 Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days. 
 Pangs that his sensibility uprouse 
 
 To curse his being and his thirst for praise. 
 Thou gav'st to him with treble force to feel 
 
 The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn ; 
 And what o'er all does in his soul preside 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 107 
 
 Predominant, and tempers him to steel, 
 His high indignant pride. 
 
 I. 2. 
 
 Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, 
 
 That Genius visits not your lowly shed ; 
 For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife 
 Distract his hapless head ! 
 For him awaits no balmy sleep, 
 He wakes all night, and wakes to weep ; 
 Or by his lonely lamp he sits 
 
 At solemn midnight when the peasant sleeps.. 
 In feverish study, and in moody fits 
 His mournful vigils keeps. 
 
 II. 2. 
 
 And, oh ! for what consumes his watchful oil ? 
 
 For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath .'' 
 'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, 
 
 'Tis for untimely death. 
 Lo ! where dejected pale he lies. 
 Despair depicted in his eyes, 
 He feels the vital flame decrease, 
 
 He sees the grave wide-yawning for its prey, 
 Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, 
 
 And cheer the expiring ray. 
 
 m. 2. 
 
 By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame. 
 By gentle Otway's magic name. 
 By him, the youth, who smiled at death, 
 And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, 
 
 Will I thy pangs proclaim ; 
 For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, 
 Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, 
 
 And far-resounding Fame. 
 What though to thee the dazzled millions bow. 
 And to thy posthumous merit bend them low ; 
 Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe. 
 And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw, 
 Yet, ah ! unseen behind thee fly 
 
 Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing ''Pain, 
 And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky : 
 
108 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 A melancholy train. 
 Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, 
 Mocking thy derided state ; 
 Thee chill Adversity will still attend, 
 Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend, 
 
 And leaves thee all forlorn ; 
 While leaden Ignoraiice rears her head and laughs, 
 
 And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides, 
 And while the cup of affluence he quaffs 
 ^ With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides, 
 /Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, 
 ■vTo gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering in 
 his grave. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON. 
 I. 
 
 Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night, 
 
 A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, 
 Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light. 
 
 Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled. 
 Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, 
 Nocturnal Study's still retreat, 
 It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, 
 And through my lofty casement weaves. 
 Dim through the vine's encircling leaves. 
 An intermingled beam. 
 
 n. 
 
 These feverish dews that on my temples hang, 
 This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame : 
 
 These the dread signs of many a secret pang. 
 These are the meed of him who pants for fame ! 
 
 Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul ; 
 
 . Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high ; 
 
 My lamp expires ; — beneath thy mild control. 
 These restless dreams are aver wont to fly. 
 
 Come, kindred mourner, in my breast 
 
 Soothe these discordant tones to rest. 
 
 And breathe the soul of peace ; 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 109 
 
 Mild visitef, I feel thee here, 
 It is not pain that brings this tear, 
 For thou hast bid it cease. 
 
 Oh ! many a year has pass'd away 
 Since I, beneath thy fairy ray 
 Attun'd my infant reed. 
 When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, 
 Those happy moments now no more — 
 
 Wlien on the lake's damp marge 1 lay. 
 
 And mark'd the northern meteor's dance, 
 Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there 
 To inspirate my trance. 
 Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign 
 Your magic sweets on me to shed, 
 In vain your powers are now essay'd 
 To chase superior pain. 
 
 And art thou fled, thou welcome orb ? 
 
 So swiftly pleasure flies ; 
 So to mankind, in darkness lost, 
 
 The beam of ardor dies. 
 Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, 
 And now, encurtain'd in the main, 
 
 Thou sinkest into rest ; 
 But I, in vain, on thorny bed 
 
 Shall woo the god of soft repose — 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Loud rage the winds without. — The wintry cloud 
 O'er the cold north star casts her flitting shroud ; 
 And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale, 
 Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale ; 
 Where now, shut out from every still retreat, 
 Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat, 
 Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood. 
 Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood ? 
 10 
 
110 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Shivering- and blae the peasant eyes askance 
 The drifted fleeces that around him dance, 
 And hurries on his half-averted form, 
 Stemming the fury of the side-long storm. 
 Him soon shall greet his snow-topt [cot of thatch,] 
 Soon shall his 'numb'd hand tremble on the latch, 
 Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame 
 Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame ; 
 Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud. 
 What merry groups of vacant faces crowd ; 
 These hail his coming — these his meal prepare, 
 And boast in all that cot no lurking care. 
 
 What, though the social circle be denied, 
 Even Sadness brightens at her own fire-side, 
 Loves, with fixed eye, to watch the fluttering blaze, 
 While musing Memory dwells on forpaer days ; 
 Or Hope, bless'd spirit ! smiles — and still forgiven. 
 Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven. 
 Then heap the fire — shut out the biting air. 
 And from its station wheel the easy chair : 
 Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet 
 To hear without the bitter tempest beat 
 All, all alone — to sit, and muse, and sigh, 
 The pensive tenant of obscurity. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Oh ! thou most fatal of Pandora's train, 
 Consumption ! silent cheater of the eye ; 
 
 Thou com'st not robed in agonizing pain. 
 Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye, 
 But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie ; 
 
 O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse. 
 And, while thou giv'st new lustre to the eye. 
 
 While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues, 
 
 Even then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues. 
 
 Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth 
 Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. Ill 
 
 And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth 
 I knew would never stay, till all consumed, 
 In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd. 
 
 But oh ! what sorrow did I feel, as swift, 
 Insiduous ravager, I saw thee fly 
 
 Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow, 
 Preparing swift her passage to the sky. 
 
 Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance, 
 The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye ; 
 
 Yet soon did languid listlessness advance, 
 
 And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance. 
 
 Even when her end was swiftly drawing near 
 And dissolution hover 'd o'er her head : 
 
 Even then so beauteoiis did her form appear 
 That none who saw her but admiring said. 
 Sure so much beauty never could be dead. 
 
 Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye, 
 
 Bent lowly down upon the languid — 
 
 SOIfJ^ETS. 
 
 TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 
 
 LoppT, unto thee one tributary song 
 
 The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring ; 
 She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, 
 
 And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. 
 Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth, 
 
 Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, 
 Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth, 
 
 And to thy bosom snatch 'd Misfortune's child ; 
 Firm she would paint thee, with becoriiing zeal. 
 
 Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire. 
 
112 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Would say how sweetly thou couldst sv/eep the lyre, 
 And show thy labors for the public weal. 
 
 Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, 
 
 But ah ! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme. 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. 
 
 Sublime, emerging from the misty verge 
 
 Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, 
 
 As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale 
 Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. 
 Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, 
 
 And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, 
 Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night. 
 
 With double joy my homage do I pay. 
 
 When clouds disguise the glories of the day, 
 And stern November sheds her boisterous blight, 
 
 How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray 
 Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height, 
 
 And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring 
 1 The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OP A FRIEND. 
 
 Fast from the West the fading day-streaks fly, 
 
 And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway. 
 Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie, 
 
 And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. 
 Oh ! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd 
 
 The maid of musings by yon moaning wave, 
 And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which now renew'd, 
 ■ Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave ! 
 The busy world pursues its boisterous way, 
 
 The noise of revelry still echoes round. 
 Yet I am sad while all beside is gay ; 
 
 Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. 
 Oh ! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, 
 And 'neath the green-sward sleep the sleep of peace. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 113 
 
 TO MISFORTUNE. 
 
 Misfortune, I am young-, my chin is bare, 
 
 And I have wonder 'd much when men have told. 
 How youth was free from sorrow and from care, 
 
 That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old. 
 Sure dost not like me ! — Shrivell'd hag- of hate, 
 
 My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long ; 
 
 I am not either. Beldam, over strong ; 
 Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, 
 For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. 
 Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate, 
 I am yet young, and do not like thy face ; 
 And, lest thoii shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, 
 I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, 
 Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age. 
 
 As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care, 
 (Though young yet sorrowful,) I turn my feet 
 To the dark woodland, longing much to greet 
 
 The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there ; 
 
 Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair. 
 
 Fills my sad breast ; and, tired with this vain coil, 
 
 I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. 
 
 And as amid the leaves the evening air 
 
 Whispers still melody, — I think ere long, 
 
 When I no more can hear, these woods will speak , 
 
 And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek. 
 
 And mournful fantasies upon me throng, 
 
 And I do ponder with most strange delight, 
 
 On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. 
 
 TO APRIL. 
 
 Emblem of life ! see changeful April sail 
 In varying vest along the shadowy skies, 
 Now bidding Summer's softest zephyrs rise, 
 
 Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale, 
 10* 
 
114 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail ; 
 
 Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes, 
 While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, 
 Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail. 
 So, to us, sojourners in Life's low vale, 
 The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive, 
 While still the Fates the web of Misery weave ; 
 So Hope exultant spreads her aery sail. 
 And from the present gloom the soul conveys 
 To distant summers and far happier days. 
 
 Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies. 
 At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear, 
 Steal on the musing- poet's pensive ear, 
 
 As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies, 
 When he who now invokes you low is laid, 
 
 His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed. 
 
 Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head. 
 And chant a dirge to his reposing shade I 
 
 For he was vront to love your madrigals ; 
 And often by the haunted stream that laves ^ 
 The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, 
 
 Would sit and listen to the dying falls. 
 
 Till the full tear would quiver in his eye. 
 
 And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy. 
 
 TO A TAPER. 
 
 'Tis midnight — On the globe dead slumber sits, 
 
 And all is silence — in the hour of sleep ; 
 Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, 
 
 In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. 
 I wake alone to listen and to weep, 
 
 To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn ; 
 And, as still Memory does her vigils keep. 
 
 To think of days that never can return. 
 By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, 
 
 ' My eye survej^s the solitary gloom ; 
 And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 115 
 
 Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. 
 Like thee I wane ;— like thine my life's last ray- 
 Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think, 
 That we, thy children, when old age shall shed 
 Its blanching honors on thy weary head, 
 
 Could from our best of duties ever shrink ? 
 
 Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink 
 Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day. 
 To pine in solitude thy life away. 
 
 Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink 
 
 Banish the thought ! — where'er our steps may roam, 
 O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree. 
 Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, 
 
 And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home ; 
 
 While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage. 
 
 And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. 
 
 Yes, 'twill be over soon. — This sickly dream 
 
 Of life will vanish from my feverish brain ; 
 And death my wearied spirit will redeem 
 
 From this wild region of unvaried pain. 
 Yon brook will glide as softly as before, — 
 
 Yon landscape smile, — yon golden harvest grow,- 
 Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar 
 
 When Henry's name is heard no more below. 
 I sigh when all my youthful friends caress. 
 
 They laugh in health, and future eyils brave ; 
 Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, 
 
 While I am mouldering in my silent grave. 
 God of the just — Thou gavest the bitter cup ; 
 I bow to thy behest, and drink it up. 
 
116 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 TO CONSUMPTION. 
 
 Gently, most gently, "^n thy victim's head, 
 Consumption, lay thine hand ! — let me decay, 
 Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away. 
 
 And softly go to slumber with the dead. 
 
 And if 'tis true, what holy men have said, 
 That strains angelic oft foretell the day 
 Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, 
 
 let the aerial music round my bed, 
 
 Dissolving sad in dying symphony. 
 Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear : 
 
 That I may bid my weeping friends good-by 
 Ere I depart upon my journey drear : 
 
 And, smiling faintly on the painful past, 
 
 Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. 
 
 TRANSLATED 
 
 FEOM THE FRFNCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. 
 
 Thy judgments, Lord, are just ; thou lov'st to wear 
 
 The face of pity and of love divine ; 
 But mine is guilt — thou must not, canst not spare. 
 
 While Heaven is true, and equity is thine. 
 Yes, oh my God ! — such crimes as mine, so dread, 
 
 Leave but the choice of punishment to thee ; 
 Thy interest calls for judgment on my head. 
 
 And even thy mercy dares not plead for me ! 
 Thy will be done — since 'tis thy glory's due," 
 
 Bid from mine eyes the endless torrents flow ; 
 Smite — it is time — though endless death ensue, 
 
 I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. 
 But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, 
 That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning 
 blood ? ^ 
 
POEMS 
 OF A LATER DATE. 
 
 TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, 
 
 Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly, asked, 
 
 ' If he did not feel for him 7 ' 
 
 ' Do I not feel V The doubt is keen as steel. 
 
 Yea, I do feel — most exquisitely feel ; 
 
 My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye 
 
 I chase the tear, and stem the rising* sigh : 
 
 Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, 
 
 And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. 
 
 On this I act — whatever pangs surround, 
 
 ' Tis magnanimity to hide the wound ! 
 
 When all was new, and life was in its spring, . 
 
 1 lived an unloved solitary thing ; 
 
 li^ven then I learn'd to bury deep from day. 
 
 The piercing cares that wore my youth away : 
 
 Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel ; 
 
 Even then I wept I had not power to heal : 
 
 Even then, deep-sounding through the nig'htly gloom, 
 
 I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretch- 
 
 ed's doom. 
 Who were my friends in youth ? — The midnight fire — 
 The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir ; 
 To these I 'plained, or turn'd from outer sight, 
 To bless my lonely taper's friendly light ; 
 I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, 
 For vulgar pity raix'd with vulgar scorn 
 The sacred source of wo I never ope. 
 
118 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 My. breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. 
 But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show, 
 Though the cold crowd the secret never know ; 
 With them I laugh — yet, when no eye can see, 
 I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. 
 Yes, thou didst wrong me, * * * ; I fondly thought 
 In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought ! 
 I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise. 
 And read the truth that in my bosom lies ; 
 I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone. 
 Thy heart and mine had mingled into one ! 
 Yes — and they yet will mingle. Days and yeai^e 
 Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears : 
 •We then shall feel that friendship has a power 
 To soothe afiliction in her darkest hour ; 
 Time's trial o'er, shall qlasp each other's hand. 
 And wait the passport to a better land. 
 Thine, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 Half past Eleven o' Clock at Night. 
 
 CHRISTMAS-DAY 
 
 1804. 
 
 Yet once more, and once more, awake my Harp, 
 From silence and neglect — one lofty strain. 
 Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven, 
 And speaking mysteries more than words can tell, 
 I ask of thee, for I, with hymnings high, 
 Would join the dirge of the departing year. 
 
 Yet with no wintry garland from the woods, 
 Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear. 
 Wreath I thy tresses, dark December ! now ; 
 Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, 
 And fearful joy, to celebrate the day 
 Of the Redeemer. — Near two thousand suds , . ^ 
 Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse .,^- * 
 Of generations, since the day-spring first 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 119 
 
 Beamed from on high ! — Now to the mighty mass 
 Of that increasing aggregate we add 
 One unit more. Space, in comparison, 
 How small, yet mark'd with how much misery ; 
 Wars, famines, and the fury. Pestilence,,. 
 Over the nations hanging her dread scourge ; 
 The oppress'd, too, in silent bitterness, 
 Weeping their sufferance ; and the arm of wrong, 
 Forcing the scanty portion from the weak, 
 And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears. 
 
 So has the year been character'd with wo 
 
 In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes ; 
 
 Yet 'twas not thus He taught — not thus He lived, 
 
 Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer 
 
 And much thanksgiving. — He, a man of woes, 
 
 Went on the way appointed, — path, though rude. 
 
 Yet borne with patience still : — He came to cheer 
 
 The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, 
 
 And on the wandering and benighted mind 
 
 To pour the light of truth. — task divine ! 
 
 more than angel teacher ! He had words 
 
 To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds ; 
 
 And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, 
 
 Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm. 
 
 He, pointing to the star of peace on lugh, 
 
 Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile 
 
 At the surrounding wreck. 
 
 When with deep agony his heart was rack'd, 
 Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, 
 For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd, 
 His persecutors — ' Father, pardon them, 
 They know not what they do.' 
 
 Angels of Heaven, 
 Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross, 
 And did him homage, say, may mortal join 
 The hallelujahs of the risen God ? 
 Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard 
 Amid the seraphim in light divine ? 
 Yes, He will deign, the Prince" of Peace will deign, 
 For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith, 
 Low though it be and humble. — Lord of life. 
 The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now 
 
120 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Fills my uprising soul. — I mount, I fly- 
 Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs ; 
 The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes, 
 And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more. 
 
 NELSONI MORS. 
 
 Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again, 
 
 One ditty more, and on the mountain ash 
 
 I will again suspend thee. I have felt 
 
 The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last, 
 
 At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, 
 
 I woke to thee the melancholy song. 
 
 Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, 
 
 I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks 
 
 Of frolic fancy to the line of truth ; 
 
 Not unrepining, for my froward heart, 
 
 Still turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow 
 
 Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied haunts 
 
 Of my not songless boyhood. — Yet once more, 
 
 Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, 
 
 My long neglected Harp. — He must not sink ; 
 
 The good, the brave — he must not, shall not sink 
 
 Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
 
 Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour 
 
 No precious dews of Aganippe's well. 
 
 Or Castaly, — though from the morning cloud 
 
 I fetch ^o hues to scatter on his hearse : 
 
 Yet will I wreath a garland for his brows. 
 
 Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent 
 
 Of Bi'itain, my loved country ; and with tears 
 
 Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe 
 
 Thy honor'd corse, my JVelson, tears as warm 
 
 And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd 
 
 Fast from thy honest heart. — Thou, Pity, too, 
 
 If ever I have loved, with faltering step, 
 
 To follow thee in the cold and starless night, 
 
 To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff"; 
 
 And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. I2t 
 
 Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd 
 
 Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, 
 
 The dying soul's viaticum ; if oft 
 
 Amid the carnage of the field I've sat 
 
 With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung 
 
 To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, 
 
 With mercy and forgiveness — visitant 
 
 Of Heaven — sit thou upon my harp, 
 
 And give it feeling, which were else too cold 
 
 For argument so great, for theme so high. 
 
 How dimly on that morn the sun arose, 
 Kerchief d in mists, and tearful, when- 
 
 HYMN 
 
 In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be abje to endure the splendors of the Deity. 
 
 I. 
 
 Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, 
 Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake ; 
 We sing the Saviour of our race, 
 The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place. 
 
 II. 
 
 When God's right arm is bared for war. 
 And thunders clothe his cloudy car. 
 Where, where, oh where, shall man retire. 
 To escape the horrors of his ire .'' 
 
 III. 
 
 'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly, 
 While the dread tempest passes by ; 
 God sees his Well-beloved's face, 
 And spares us in our hiding-place. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thus while we dwell in this low scene, 
 The Lamb is our unfailing screen ; 
 11 
 
122 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 To him, though guilty, still we run, 
 And God still spares us for his Son. 
 
 While yet we sojourn here below, 
 Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow ; 
 Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, 
 We deeply need a hiding-place. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet courage — days and years will glide, 
 And we shall lay these clods aside ; 
 Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, 
 And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, 
 We through the Lamb shall be decreed ; 
 Shall meet the Father face to face. 
 And need no more a hiding-place. 
 
 ITie last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, by Henry, one summer 
 evening, when he was witli a few friends on the Trent, and singing it aa he was used to 
 do on such occasions. 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. 
 I. 
 
 Lord, another day is flown, 
 And we, a lonely band, 
 Are met once more before thy throne, 
 To bless thy fostering hand. 
 
 IL 
 
 And wilt thou bend a listening ear, 
 
 To praises low as ours ? 
 Thou wilt ! for Thou dost love to hear 
 
 The song which meekness pours. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 123 
 
 III. 
 
 And, Jesus, thou thy smiles will deign. 
 
 As we before thee pray ; 
 For thou didst bless the infant train, 
 
 And we are less than they. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O let thy grace perform its part, 
 
 And let contention cease ; 
 And shed abroad in every heart 
 
 Thine everlasting peace ! , 
 
 Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, 
 
 A flock by Jesus led ; 
 The Sun of Holiness shall shine. 
 
 In glory on our head. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, 
 And thou wilt bless our way ; 
 
 Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 
 The dawn of lasting day. 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 I. 
 
 When marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
 The glittering host bestud the sky ; 
 
 One star alone, of all the train, 
 
 Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 
 
 II. 
 
 H^rk ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
 .From every host, from every gem ; 
 
 But one alone the Saviour speaks. 
 It is the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
124 ' COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 III. 
 
 Once on the raging seas I rode, 
 
 The storm was loud, — the night was dark, 
 The ocean yawn'd — and rudely blow'd 
 
 The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Deep horror then my vitals froze, 
 
 Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; 
 
 When suddenly a star arose, 
 It was the Star of Bethlehem- 
 
 V. 
 
 It was my guide, my light, my all, 
 
 It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 
 
 And through the storm and dangers' thrall, 
 It led me to the port of peace. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now safely moor'd — my perils o'er, 
 I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 
 
 For ever and for evermore. 
 
 The star !— The Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 O Lord, my God, in mercy turn, 
 In mercy hear a sinner mourn ! 
 To thee I call, to thee I cry, 
 
 leave me, leave me not to die ! 
 
 1 strove against thee, Lord, I know, 
 
 I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law ; 
 The hour is past — the day's gone by. 
 And I am left alone to die. 
 
 O pleasures past, what are ye now 
 But thorns about my bleeding brow ! 
 Spectres that hover round my brain, 
 And aggravate and mock my pain. 
 
OF H. K. V/HITE. 125 
 
 For pleasure I have given my soul ; 
 Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll ! 
 Now Vengeance smile — and with a blow, 
 Lay the rebellious ingrate low- 
 Yet, Jesus, Jesus ! there I'll cling, 
 I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing ; 
 I'll clasp the cross, and holding there, 
 Even me, oh bliss ! — his wrath may spare. 
 
 MELODY. 
 
 Inserted in a, Collection of Selected and Original Songs, published by the Rev. J. 
 Plumptre, of Clare Hall, Cambridge. 
 
 I. 
 
 Yps, once more that dying strain, 
 
 Anna, touch thy lute for me ; 
 Sweet, when Pity's tones complain, 
 
 Doubly sweet is melody. 
 
 II. 
 
 While the Virtues thus enweave 
 
 Mildly soft the thrilling song, 
 Winter's long and lonesome eve 
 
 Glides unfelt, unseen, along. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thus when life hath stolen away. 
 
 And the wintry night is near, 
 Thus shall Virtues friendly ray 
 
 Age's closing evening cheer. 
 
 SONG.— BY WALLER. 
 
 A lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to Henry, and when he ceturned them to 
 her, she discovered an additional Stanza written by him at the bottom of the Song 
 here copied. 
 
 Go, lovely rose ! 
 Tell her, that wastes her time on me, 
 That now she knows, 
 11* 
 
126 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 When I resemble her to thee, 
 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 Tell her that's young', 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 
 That hadst thou sprung 
 In deserts where no men abide, 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired ; 
 
 Bid her come forth. 
 Suffer herself to be desired. 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die, that she 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in thee ; 
 X How small a part of time they share, 
 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 
 
 [Yet, though thou fade, 
 From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; 
 
 And teach the Maid 
 That Goodness Time's rude hand defies ; 
 That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.] 
 
 H. K. White. 
 
 'I AM PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD.' 
 I. 
 
 When twilight steals along the ground. 
 And all the bells are ringing' round. 
 
 One, two, three, four, and five, 
 I at my study- window sit, 
 And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit. 
 
 To bliss am all alive. 
 
 II. 
 
 But though impressions calm and sweet 
 Thrill round my heart a holy heat. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 127 
 
 And I am inly glad, 
 The tear-drop stands in either eye, 
 And yet I cannot tell thee why, 
 
 I am pleased, and yet I'm sad. 
 
 III. 
 
 The silvery rack that flies away 
 Like mortal life or pleasure's ray. 
 
 Does that disturb my breast ? 
 Nay, what have I, a studious man, 
 To do with life's unstable plan, 
 
 Or pleasure's fading vest ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Is it. that here I must not stop. 
 But o'er yon blue hill's woody top 
 
 Must bend my lonely way ? 
 No, surely no ! for give but me 
 My own fire-side, and I shall be 
 At home where'er I stray. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then is it that yon steeple there. 
 With music sweet shall fill the air. 
 
 When thou no more canst hear ? 
 Oh, no ! oh, no ! for then forgiven 
 I shall be with my God in Heaven, 
 
 Released from every fear. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then whence it is I cannot tell. 
 But there is some mysterious spell 
 
 That holds me when I'm glad ; 
 And so the tear-drop fills my eye. 
 When yet in truth I know not why, 
 
 Or wherefore I am sad. 
 
128 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 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 hies 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 sudden 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. 
 
 If far from me the Fates remove 
 Domestic peace, connubial love, 
 The prattling ring, the social cheer, 
 Aff"ection's voice, affection's tear. 
 Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart. 
 To me your iron aid impart ! 
 O teach me, when the nights are chill, 
 And my fire-side is lone and still ; 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 129 
 
 When to the blaze that crackles near, 
 I turn a tired and pensive ear, 
 And Nature conquering bids me sigh, 
 For love's soft accents whispering nigh 
 
 teach me, on that heavenly road, 
 That leads to Truth's occult abode, 
 To wrap my soul in dreams divine. 
 Till earth and care no more be mine. 
 Let bless'd Philosophy impart 
 
 Her soothing measures to my heart ; 
 And while with Plato's ravish 'd ears 
 
 1 list the music of the spheres, 
 Or on the mystic symbols pore. 
 That hide the Chald's sublimer lore, 
 I shall not brood on summers gone. 
 Nor think that I am all alone. 
 
 Fanny ! upon thy breast I may not lie ! 
 
 Fanny ! thou dost not hear me when I speak ! 
 Where art thou, love ? — Around I turn my eye, 
 
 And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. 
 Was it a dream ? or did my love behold 
 
 Indeed my* lonely couch ? — Methought the breath 
 Fann'd not her bloodless lip ; her eye was cold 
 
 And hollow, and the livery of death 
 Invested her pale forehead. — Sainted maid ! 
 
 My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, 
 
 Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave 
 Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. 
 Yet, hush ! my fond heart, hush ! there is a shore 
 
 Of better promise ; and I know at last, 
 
 When the long sabbath of the tomb is past. 
 We two shall meet in Christ — to part no more. 
 
FRAGMENTS. 
 
 These Fragments are Henry's latest compositions ; and were, for the most part, written 
 upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the few moments of the last year of 
 his life, in which he suffered himself to follow the impulse of his genius. 
 
 I. 
 
 Saw'st thou that light ? exclaim 'd the youth, and paused 
 
 Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream 
 
 That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd. 
 
 Again, more light it gleam'd, — or does some sprite 
 
 Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams, 
 
 And lamp far-beaming through the thicket's gloom, 
 
 As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice 
 
 Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness. 
 
 Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour ? 
 
 No sprite deludes mine eyes, — the beam now glows 
 
 With steady lustre. — Can it be the moon. 
 
 Who, hidden long by the invidious veil 
 
 That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods ? 
 
 No moon to-night has look'd upon the sea 
 
 Of clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger, 
 
 She has been sleeping with Endymion. 
 
 11. 
 
 The pious man, 
 In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms 
 Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith 
 Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields 
 Of ether, where the day is never veil'd 
 With intervening vapors ; and looks down 
 Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 131 
 
 The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face 
 To grovelUng mortals frowns and darkness all ; 
 But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd. 
 The glaring sunbeam plays. 
 
 III. 
 
 Lo ! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, 
 Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, 
 And from his tower of mist, 
 Night's watchman hurries down. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There was a little bird upon that pile ; 
 
 It perch 'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle, 
 
 And made sweet melody. 
 
 The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear. 
 
 For other note none swell'd the air but his. 
 
 It seem'd as if the little chorister. 
 
 Sole tenant of the melancholy pile, 
 
 Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind. 
 
 Yet withal cheerful. — I have heard the note 
 
 Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn. 
 
 -Much musing- 
 
 PALE art thou, my lamp, and faint 
 
 Thy melancholy ray : 
 When the still night's unclouded saint 
 
 Is walking on her way. 
 Through my lattice leaf embower'd. 
 Fair she sheds her shadowy beam. 
 And o'er my silent sacred room. 
 Casts a checker 'd twilight gloom ; 
 I throw aside the learned sheet, 
 
 1 cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. 
 
132 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Sad vestal, why art thou so fair, 
 Or why am I so frail ? 
 
 Methinks thou lookest kindly on me. Moon, 
 
 And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards ! 
 Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak 
 Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd ; 
 So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud 
 Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far 
 From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave. 
 
 VI. 
 
 GIVE me music — for my soul doth faint ; 
 
 I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear 
 Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint, 
 
 That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. 
 
 Hark how it falls ! and now it steals along, 
 Like distant bells upon the lake at eve. 
 
 When all is still ; and now it grows more strong, 
 As when the choral train their dirges weave, 
 
 Mellow and many-voiced ; where every close, 
 
 O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. 
 
 Oh ! I am rapt aloft. My spirit soars 
 
 Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behmd. 
 
 Lo ! angels lead me to the happy shores, 
 And floating pajans fill the buoyant wind. 
 
 Farewell ! base earth, farewell ! my soul is freed, 
 
 Far from its clayey cell it springs, — 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah ! who can say, however fair his view, 
 Through what sad scenes his path may lie } 
 Ah ! who can give to others' woes his sigh, 
 
 Secure his own will never need it too ? 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 133 
 
 Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, 
 Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye 
 The illusive past and dark futurity ; 
 
 Soon will they know — 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And must thou go, and must we part ? 
 
 Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit ; 
 The pang that rends in twain my heart, 
 
 Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it ? 
 
 Thy sex is fickle, — when away. 
 
 Some happier youth may win thy — 
 
 IX. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 When I sit musing on the checker'd past, 
 (A term much darken'd with untimely woes,) 
 My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows 
 
 The tear, though half disown'd ; — and binding fast 
 
 Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, 
 I say to her she robb'd me of my rest. 
 When that was all my wealth. — 'Tis true my breast 
 
 Received from her this wearying, lingering smart, 
 
 Yet, ah ! I cannot bid her form depart ; 
 
 Though wrong'd, I love her — yet in anger love. 
 For she was most unworthy. — ^Then I prove 
 
 Vindictive joy ; and on my stern front gleams, 
 
 Throned in dark clouds, inflexible * * * 
 
 The native pride of my much injured heart. 
 
 12 
 
134 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 X. 
 
 When high romance o'er every wood and stream 
 
 Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire, 
 Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering dream, 
 
 First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre. 
 All there was mystery then, the gust that woke 
 
 The midnight echo with a spirit's dirge, . 
 And unseen fairies would the moon invoke. 
 
 To their light morris by the restless surge. 
 Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles, 
 
 Too much * * 
 The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, 
 And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Hush'd is the lyre — the hand that swept 
 The low and pensive wires, 
 Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. 
 
 Yes — it is still — the lyre is still ; 
 
 The spirit which its slumbers broke 
 
 Hath pass'd away, — and that weak hand that woke 
 Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. 
 Yet I would press you to my lips once more. 
 
 Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy ; 
 Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour, 
 
 Mix'd with decaying odors : for to me 
 Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, 
 
 As in the wood-paths of my native — 
 
 XII. 
 
 Once more, and yet once more, 
 
 I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay ; 
 I heard the waters roar, 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 
 
 I heard the flood of ages pass away. 
 thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell 
 
 In thine eternal cell, 
 Noting, gray chronicler ! the silent years ; 
 
 I saw thee rise, — I saw the scroll complete, 
 
 Thou spakest, and at thy feet 
 The universe gave way. 
 
 135 
 
 TIME, 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 This Poem was begun either during the publication of Clifton Grove, or shortly afterwards. 
 Henry never laid aside the intention of completing it, and some of the detached parts 
 were among his latest productions. 
 
 Genius of musings, who, the midnight hour 
 
 Wasting in woods or haunted forests wild, 
 
 Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower. 
 
 Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance ; 
 
 Or when the vollied lightnings cleave the air, 
 
 And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm, 
 
 Sitt'st in some lonely watch-tower, where thy lamp, 
 
 Faint-blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far. 
 
 And, 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved 
 
 Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace 
 
 The vast effect to its superior source, — 
 
 Spirit, attend my lowly benison ! 
 
 For now I strike to themes of import high 
 
 The solitary lyre ; and, borne by thee 
 
 Above this narrow cell, I celebrate 
 
 The mysteries of Time ! 
 
 Him who, august. 
 Was ere these worlds were fashioned, — ere the sun 
 Sprang from the east, or Lucifer display 'd 
 His glowing cresset in the arch of morn. 
 
136 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. 
 Yea, He had been for an eternity ! 
 Had swept unvarying from eternity ! 
 Tlie harp of desolation — ere his tones, 
 At God's command, assumed a milder strain, 
 And startled on his watch, in the vast deep, 
 Chaos' sluggish sentry, and evoked 
 From the dark void the smiling universe. 
 
 Chain'd to the grovelling frailties of the flesh, 
 
 Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross, 
 
 Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye. 
 
 The dim uncertain gulf, which now the muse, 
 
 Adventurous, would explore ; — but dizzy grown, 
 
 He topples down the abyss. — If he would scan 
 
 The fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse 
 
 Of its unfathomable depths, that so 
 
 His mind may turn with double joy to God, 
 
 His only certainty and resting place ; 
 
 He must put off awhile this mortal vest, 
 
 And learn to follow, without giddiness. 
 
 To heights where all is vision, and surprise, 
 
 And vague conjecture. — He must waste by mgh+ 
 
 The studious taper, far from all resort 
 
 Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat ; 
 
 High on the beetling promontory's crest, 
 
 Or in the caves of the vast wilderness, 
 
 Where, compass'd round with Nature's wildest shapes. 
 
 He may be driven to centre all his thoughts 
 
 In the great Architect, who lives confess'd 
 
 In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes. 
 
 So has divine Philosophy, with voice 
 
 Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, 
 
 Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes, 
 
 Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy. 
 
 His faint, neglected song — intent to snatch 
 
 Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep 
 
 Of poesy, a bloom of such a hue, 
 
 So sober, as may not unseemly suit 
 
 With Truth's severer brow ; and one withal 
 
 So hardy as shall brave the passing wind 
 
 Of many winters, — rearing its meek head 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 137 
 
 In loveliness, when he who gather'd it 
 
 Is number'd with ffie generations gone. 
 
 Yet not to me hath God's good providence 
 
 Given studious leisure,* or unbroken thought, 
 
 Such as he owns, — a meditative man, 
 
 Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve 
 
 Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er, 
 
 Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din : 
 
 From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd 
 
 With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day 
 
 Hath duties which require the vigorous hand 
 
 Of steadfast application, but which leave 
 
 No deep improving trace upon the mind. 
 
 But be the day another's ; — let it pass ! 
 
 The night's my own — They cannot steal my night ! 
 
 When evening lights her folding-star on high, 
 
 I live and breathe, and in the sacred hours 
 
 Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies. 
 
 Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, 
 
 lAnd mounts the skies, and imps her wing for Heaven. 
 
 Hence do I love the sober-suited maid ; 
 
 Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my theme. 
 
 And she shall aid me now to magnify 
 
 The night of ages, — noio when the pale ray 
 
 Of star-light penetrates the studious gloom. 
 
 And, at my window seated, while mankind 
 
 Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze 
 
 Of stilljiess blow, while, in her saddest stole, 
 
 Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, 
 
 Assumes her wonted sway. 
 
 Behold the world 
 Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused 
 From trouble and turmoil. The widow now 
 Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie 
 Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. 
 The man of sorrow has forgot his woes ; 
 The outcast that his head is shelterless, 
 His griefs unshared. — The mother tends no more 
 Her daughter's dying slumbers, but, surprised 
 With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch, 
 
 * The author was then in an attorney's office 
 
 12^ 
 
138 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, hili'd 
 
 On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapp'd, 
 
 Crowning- with Hope's bland wreath his shuddering nurse, 
 
 Poor victim ! smiles. — Silence and deep repose 
 
 Reign o'er the nations ; and the warning voice 
 
 Of Nature utters audibly within 
 
 The*^eneral moral : — tells us that repose, 
 
 Deathlike as this, but of far longer span, 
 
 Is coming on us — that the weary crowds, 
 
 Who now enjoy a temporary calm. 
 
 Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapp'd around 
 
 With grave-clothes : and their aching restless heads 
 
 Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved. 
 
 Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep. 
 
 Who needs a teacher to admonish him 
 
 That flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist ? 
 
 What are our joys but dreams ? and what our hopes 
 
 But goodly shadows in the summer cloud ? 
 
 There's not a wind that blows but bears with it 
 
 Some rainbow promise : — Not a moment flies 
 
 But puts its sickle in the fields of life. 
 
 And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. 
 
 'Tis but as yesterday since on yon stars, 
 
 Yf hich now I view, the Chaldee Shepherd * gazed 
 
 In his mid-watch observant, and disposed 
 
 The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. 
 
 Yet in the interim what mighty shocks 
 
 Have buffeted mankind — whole nations razed — 
 
 Cities made desolate, — the polish'd sunk 
 
 To barbarism, and once barbaric states 
 
 Swaying the wand of science and of arts ; 
 
 Illustrious deeds and memorable names 
 
 Blotted from record, and upon the tongue 
 
 Of gray Tradition, voluble no more. 
 
 Where are the heroes of the ages past ? 
 
 Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones 
 
 Who fiourish'd in the infancy of days ? 
 
 All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame 
 
 Exultant, mocking at the pride of man, 
 
 * Alluding to tlie first astrcnomical observations made by the Chaldean shepherds. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 139 
 
 Sits grim Forgetfulness. — The warrior's arm 
 Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame ; 
 Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze 
 Of his red eye-ball. — Yesterday his name 
 Was mighty on the earth — To day — 'tis what ? 
 The meteor of the night of distant years, 
 That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld^ 
 Musing at midnight upon prophecies, 
 Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam 
 Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly 
 Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up 
 Safe in the charnel's treasures. 
 
 '> how weak 
 
 Is mortal man ! how trifling — how confined 
 His scope of vision ! Puif 'd with confidence, 
 His phrase grows big with immortality. 
 And he, poor insect of a summer's day ! 
 Dreams of eternal honors to his name ; 
 Of endless glory and perennial bays. 
 He idly reasons of eternity, 
 As of the train of ages, — when, alas ! 
 Ten thousand thousand of his centuries 
 Are, in comparison, a little point 
 Too trivial for accompt. — 0, it is strange, 
 'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies ; 
 Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, 
 Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies. 
 And smile, and say, my name shall live with this 
 Till Time shall be no more ; while at his feet. 
 Yea, at his verj?" feet, the crumbling dust 
 Of the fallen fabric of the other day 
 Preaches the solemn lesson. — He should know 
 That time must conquer ; that the loudest blast 
 That ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trump 
 Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. 
 Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom 
 Of the gigantic pyramid ? or who 
 Rear'd its huge walls ? Oblivion laughs, and says, 
 The prey is mine. — They sleep, and never more 
 Their names shall strike upon the ear of man. 
 Their memory bursts its fetters. 
 
 Where is Rome ? 
 She lives but in the tale of other times ; 
 
140 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home. 
 And her long colonnades, her public walks, 
 Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet, 
 Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace, 
 Through the rank moss reveaPd, her honor'd dust. 
 But not to Rome alone has fate confined 
 The doom of ruin ; cities numberless, 
 Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, 
 And rich PhoBnicia — they are blotted out, 
 Half-razed from memory, and their very name 
 And being in dispute. — Has Athens fallen ? 
 Is polish'd Greece become the savage seat 
 Of ignorance and sloth ? and shallnoe dare 
 
 * * * # 
 
 And empire seeks another hemisphere. 
 Where now is Britain ? — Where her laurell'd names, 
 Her palaces and halls ? Dash'd in the dust. 
 Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride, 
 And with one big recoil hath thrown her back 
 
 To primitive barbarity. Again, 
 
 Through her depopulated vales, the scream 
 
 Of bloody Superstition hollow rings, 
 
 And the scared native to the tempest howls 
 
 The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts. 
 
 Her crowded ports, broods Silence ; and the cry 
 
 Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash 
 
 Of distant billows, breaks alone the void. 
 
 Even as the savage sits upon the stone 
 
 That marks where stood her capitals, and hears 
 
 The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks 
 
 From the dismaying solitude. — Her bards 
 
 Sing in a language that hath perished ; 
 
 And their wild Imrps suspended o'er their graves. 
 
 Sigh to the dese^rt winds a dying strain. 
 
 Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy, 
 Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance, 
 Some' bold adventurer, fill'd with golden dreams, 
 Steering his bark through trackless solitudes. 
 Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow 
 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 141 
 
 Hath ever plough'd before, — espies the cliffs 
 Of fallen Albion. — To the land unknown 
 He journeys joyful ; and perhaps descries 
 Some vestige of her ancient stateliness : 
 Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind 
 Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived 
 At science in that solitary nook. 
 Far from the civil world ; and sagely sighs, 
 And moralizes on the state of man. 
 
 Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt, 
 
 Moves on our being. We do live and breathe, 
 
 And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. 
 
 We have our spring-time and our rottenness ; 
 
 And as we fall, another race succeeds. 
 
 To perish likewise. — Meanwhile Nature smiles — 
 
 The seasons run their round — The sun fulfils 
 
 His annual course — and Heaven and earth remain 
 
 Still changing, yet unchanged — still doom'd to feel 
 
 Endless mutation in perpetual rest. 
 
 Where are conceal'd the days which have elapsed ? 
 
 Hid in the mighty cavern of the past, 
 
 They rise upon us only to appal, 
 
 By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, 
 
 Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. 
 
 Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch, 
 
 When the rude rushing winds forget to rave, 
 
 And the pale moon, that through the casement high 
 
 Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour 
 
 Of utter silence, it is fearful then 
 
 To steer the mind, in deadly solitude, 
 
 Up the vague stream of probability ; 
 
 To wind the mighty secrets of the past. 
 
 And turn the key of Time ? — Oh ! who can strive 
 
 To comprehend the vast, the awful truth, 
 
 Of the eternity that hath gone by, 
 
 And not recoil from the dismaying sense 
 
 Of human impotence ? The life of man 
 
 Is summ'd in birth-days and in sepulchres : 
 
 But the Eternal God had no beginning ; 
 
 He hath no end. Time had been with him 
 
 For everlasting, ere the daedal world 
 
142 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Rose from the gulf in loveliness. — Like him 
 
 It knew no source, like him 'twas uncreate. 
 
 What is it then ? The past Eternity ! 
 
 We comprehend a future without end ; 
 
 We feel it possible that even yon sun 
 
 May roll for ever : but we shrink amazed — 
 
 We stand aghast, when we reflect that Time 
 
 Knew no commencement, — That heap age on age, 
 
 And million upon million, without end, 
 
 And we shall never span the void of days 
 
 That were, and are not but in retrospect. 
 
 The Past is an unfathomable depth, 
 
 Beyond the span of thought ; 'tis an elapse 
 
 Which hath no mensuration, but hath been 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 Change of days 
 To us is sensible ; and each revolve 
 Of the recording sun conducts us on 
 Further in life, and nearer to our goal. 
 Not so with Time, — mysterious chronicler, 
 He knoweth not mutation ; — centuries 
 Are to his being as a day, and days 
 As centuries. — Time past, and Time to come, 
 Are always equal ; when the world began 
 God had existed from eternity. 
 
 W TT ^t % 
 
 Now look on man 
 Myriads of ages hence. — Hath time elapsed .'* 
 Is he not standing in the self-same place 
 Where once we stood ? — The same eternity 
 Hath gone before him, and is yet to come ; 
 His past is not of longer span than ours, 
 Though myriads of ages intervened ; 
 For who can add to what has neither sum. 
 Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end .' 
 Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind ? 
 Who can unlock the secrets of the High .'' 
 In speculations of an altitude 
 Sublime as this, our reason stands confess'd 
 Foolish, and insignificant, and mean. 
 Who can apply the futile argument 
 Of finite beings to infinity ? 
 He might as well compress the universe 
 
 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 143 
 
 Into the hollow compass of a gourd, 
 
 Scoop 'd out by human art ; or bid the whale 
 
 Drink up the sea it sw|ms in ! — Can the less 
 
 Contain the greater ? or the dark obscure 
 
 Infold the glories of meridian day ? 
 
 What does Philosophy impart to man 
 
 But undiscover'd wonders ? — Let her soar 
 
 Even to her proudest heights — to where she caught 
 
 The soul of Newton and of Socrates, 
 
 She but extends the scope of wild amaze 
 
 And admiration. All her lessons end 
 
 In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths. 
 
 Lo ! the unletter'd hind, who never knew 
 
 To raise his mind excursive to the heights 
 
 Of abstract contemplation, as he sits 
 
 On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, 
 
 What time the insect swarms are murmuring, 
 
 And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds 
 
 That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky, 
 
 Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse 
 
 The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd 
 
 The goodly prospect ; he beholds the God 
 
 Throned in the west, and his reposing ear 
 
 Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze 
 
 That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy brake, 
 
 Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. 
 
 Go with the cotter to his winter fire, ^^ 
 
 Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, t^H 
 
 And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon ; ^^^M 
 
 Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar, 
 * Silent, and big with thought ; and hear him bless 
 
 The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds 
 
 For his snug hearth, and all his little joys : 
 
 Hear him compare his happier lot with his 
 
 Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, 
 
 A poor night-traveller, while the dismal snow 
 
 Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path. 
 
 He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast. 
 
 He hears some village-mastiff's distant howl. 
 
 And sees, far-streaming, some lone cottage light ; 
 
 Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, 
 ' And clasps his shivering hands ; or, overpower'd, 
 
144 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh 'd down with sleep, 
 
 From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. 
 
 Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise 
 
 And glowing gratitude, — he turns to bless, 
 
 With honest warmth, his Maker and his God ! 
 
 And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, 
 
 Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred 
 
 In want and labor, glows with nobler zeal 
 
 To laud his Maker's attributes, while he 
 
 Whom starry Science in her cradle rock'd, 
 
 And Castaly enchasten'd with its dews, 
 
 Closes his eyes upon the holy word, 
 
 And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, 
 
 Dares to declare his infidelity. 
 
 And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts ? 
 
 What is philosophy, if it impart 
 
 irreverence for the Deity, or teach 
 
 A mortal man to set his judgment up 
 
 Against his Maker's will ? — The Polygar, 
 
 Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him 
 
 Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys. 
 
 Is the most bless'd of men ! — Oh ! I would walk 
 
 A weary journey, to the furthest verge 
 
 Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, 
 
 Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art. 
 
 Preserves a lowly mind ; and to his God, 
 
 Feeling the sense of his own littleness. 
 
 Is as a child in meek simplicity ! 
 
 What is the pomp of learning ? the parade 
 
 Of letters and of tongues ? Even as the mists 
 
 Of the gray morn before the rising sun, 
 
 That pass away and perish. 
 
 Earthly things 
 Are but the transient pageants of an hour ; 
 And earthly pride is like the passing flower, 
 .That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 
 'Tis as the tower erected on a cloud. 
 Baseless and silly as the school-boy's dream. 
 Ages and epochs that destroy our pride. 
 And then record its downfall, what are they 
 But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain ? 
 Hath Heaven its ages ? or doth Heaven preserve 
 Its stated eras ? Doth the Omnipotent 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 145 
 
 Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays ? 
 
 There is to God nor future nor a past ; 
 
 Throned m his might, all times to him are present ; 
 
 He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come ; 
 
 He sees before him one eternal now. 
 
 Time moveth not ! — our being- 'tis that moves : 
 
 And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream, 
 
 Dream of swift ages and revolving years, 
 
 Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days ; 
 
 So the young sailor in the gallant bark, 
 
 Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast 
 
 Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while. 
 
 Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, 
 
 And that the land is sailing. 
 
 Such, alas ! 
 Are the illusions of this Proteus life ; 
 All, all is false : through every phasis still 
 'Tis shadowy and deceitful. It assumes 
 The semblances of things and specious shapes , > ; 
 But the lost traveller might as soon rely 
 On the evasive spirit of the marsh, " 
 
 Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, 
 O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, 
 As we on its appearances. 
 
 On earth 
 There is nor certainty nor stable hope. 
 As well the weary mariner, whose bark 
 Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, 
 Where Storm and Darkness hold their drear domain, 
 And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust 
 To expectation of serener skies, 
 4And linger in the very jaws of death, 
 Because some peevish cloud were opening, 
 Or the loud storm had bated in its rage ; 
 As we look forward in this vale of tears 
 To permanent delight — from some slight glimpse 
 Of shadowy unsubstantial happiness. 
 
 The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond 
 The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep 
 Of mortal desolation. — He beholds, 
 Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride 
 Of rampant Ruin, or the unstable waves 
 
146 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Of dark Vicissitude. — Even in death, 
 
 In that dread hour, when with a giant pang-. 
 
 Tearing the tender fibres of the heart, 
 
 The immortal spirit struggles to be free. 
 
 Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not, 
 
 For it exists beyond the narrow verge 
 
 Of the cold sepulchre. — The petty joys 
 
 Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd. 
 
 And rested on the bosom of its God. 
 
 This is man's only reasonable hope ; 
 
 And 'tis a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, 
 
 Shall not be disappointed. — Even he. 
 
 The Holy One — Almighty — ^who elanced 
 
 The rolling world along its airy way. 
 
 Even He will deign to smile upon the good. 
 
 And welcome him to these celestial seats. 
 
 Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign. 
 
 Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault. 
 
 Survey the countless gems which richly stud. 
 
 The Night's imperial chariot ; — Telescopes 
 
 Will show thee myriads more innumerous 
 
 Than the sea sand ; — each of those little lamps 
 
 Is the great source of light, the central sun 
 
 Round which some other mighty sisterhood 
 
 Of planets travel, every planet stock'd 
 
 With living beings impotent as thee. 
 
 Now, proud man ! now, where is thy greatness fled .-* 
 
 What art thou in the scale of universe .-' 
 
 Less, less than nothing ! — Yet of thee the God 
 
 Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, 
 
 As well as of the mendicant who begs 
 
 The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou 
 
 Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn 
 
 His heavenly providence ! Deluded fool, 
 
 Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death, 
 
 Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell. 
 
 How insignificant is mortal man. 
 Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour ; 
 How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit 
 Of infinite duration, boundless space ! 
 God of the universe ! Almighty one ! 
 Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 147 
 
 Or with the storm thy rugged charioteer, 
 
 Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, 
 
 Ridest from pole to pole ; Thou who dost hold 
 
 The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp, 
 
 And reinest in the earthquake, when thy wrath 
 
 Goes down towards erring man, I would address 
 
 To Thee my parting psean ; for of Thee, 
 
 Great beyond comprehension, who thyself 
 
 Art Time and Space, sublime Infinitude, 
 
 Of Thee has been my song — With awe I kneel 
 
 Trembling before the footstool of thy state, 
 
 My God ! my Father ! — I will sing to Thee 
 
 A Hymn of laud, a solemn canticle. 
 
 Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades 
 
 The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre, 
 
 And give its wild strings to the desert gale. 
 
 Rise, Son of Salem ! rise, and join the strain, 
 
 Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp, 
 
 And leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul 
 
 To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing. 
 
 And hallelujah, for the Lord is great 
 
 And full of mercy ! He has thought of man ; 
 
 Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds, has thought 
 
 Of we poor worms, that batten in the dews 
 
 Of morn, and perish ere the noon-day sun. 
 
 Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful ; 
 
 He gave the Nubian lion but to live. 
 
 To rage its hour, and perish ; but on man 
 
 He lavish'd immortality, and Heaven. 
 
 The eagle falls from her aerial tower. 
 
 And mingles with irrevocable dust : 
 
 But man from death springs joyful, 
 
 Springs up to life and to eternity. 
 
 Oh, that, insensate of the favoring boon, 
 
 The great exclusive privilege bestow'd 
 
 On us unworthy trifles, men should dare 
 
 To treat with slight regard the profFer'd Heaven, 
 
 And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear 
 
 In wrath, ' They shall not enter in my rest.' 
 
 Might I address the supplicative strain 
 
 To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou 
 
 Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers. 
 
 And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock. 
 
148 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him, 
 Thy well-beloved, who, upon the cross, 
 Bled a dead sacrifice for human sin, 
 And paid, with bitter agony, the debt 
 Of primitive transgression. 
 
 Oh ! I shrink, 
 My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect 
 That the time hastens, when in vengeance clothed, 
 Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate 
 On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels 
 Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves, 
 And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start 
 At the appalling summons. Oh ! how dread 
 On the dark eye of miserable man. 
 Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, 
 Will burst the efl'ulgence of the opening Heaven ; 
 When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar, 
 Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend^ 
 Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word ! 
 The dead shall start astonish 'd from their sleep ! 
 The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey, 
 The bellowing floods shall disembogue their charge 
 Of hiuTian victims. — From the farthest nook 
 Of the wide world shall troop their risen souls, 
 From him whose bones are bleaching in the waste 
 Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse, 
 Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides. 
 Is wash'd on some Carribean prominence, 
 To the lone tenant of some secret cell 
 In the Pacific's vast * * * realm. 
 Where never plummet's sound was heard to part 
 The wilderness of water ; they shall come 
 To greet the solemn advent of the Judge. 
 Thou first shalt summon the elected saints, 
 To their apportion'd Heaven ! and thy Son, 
 At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joy 
 On all his past distresses, when for them 
 He bore humanity's severest pangs. 
 Then shalt thou seize the avenging cimcter, 
 And, with a roar as loud and horrible 
 As th-e stern earthquake's monitory voice. 
 The wicked shall be driven to their abode, 
 Down the immitigable gulf, to wail 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 149 
 
 And gnash their teeth in endless agony. 
 
 Rear thou aloft thy standard. — Spirit, rear 
 
 Thy flag on high ! — Invincible, and throned 
 
 In unparticipated might. Behold 
 
 Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent sway, 
 
 Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, 
 
 Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush 
 
 Of mighty generations, as they pass 
 
 To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp 
 
 Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. 
 
 Who shall contend with Time— unvanquish'd Time, 
 
 The conqueror of conquerors, and lord 
 
 Of desolation ? — Lo ! the shadows fly. 
 
 The hours and days, and years and centuries, 
 
 They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall. 
 
 The young are old, the old are in their graves. 
 
 Heard'st thou that shout .'' It rent the vaulted skies ; 
 
 It was the voice of people, — mighty crowds, — 
 
 Again ! 'tis hush'd — Time speaks, and all is hush'd ; 
 
 In the vast multitude now reigns alone 
 
 Unrufiled solitude. They all are still ; 
 
 All — yea, the whole — the incalculable mass, 
 
 Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. 
 
 Rear thou aloft thy standard. — Spirit, rear 
 Thy flag on high ! and glory in thy strength. < 
 
 But do thou know the season yet shall come, 
 When from its base thine adamantine throne 
 Shall tumble ; when thine arm shall cease to strike, 
 Thy voice forget its petrifying power ; 
 When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more. 
 Yea, he doth come — the mighty champion comes, 
 Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death-wound, 
 Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors. 
 And desolate stern Desolation's lord. 
 Lo ! where he cometh ! the Messiah comes ! 
 The King ! the Comforter ! the Christ ! — He comes 
 To burst the bonds of death, and overturn 
 The power of Time. — Hark ! the trumpet's blast 
 Rings o'er the heavens ! They rise, the myriads rise — 
 Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains 
 Of torpor — He has ransom'd them, * * * 
 13^ 
 
150 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Forgotten generations live again, 
 Assume the bodily .shapes they own'd of old, 
 Beyond the flood : — the righteous of their times 
 Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. 
 The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap 
 Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave, 
 And 'heritor with her of Heaven, — a flower 
 Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain 
 Of native guilt, even in its early bud. 
 And, hark ! those strains, how solemnly serene 
 They fall, as from the skies — at distance fall — 
 Again more loud — The hallelujah's swell ; 
 The newly-risen catch the joyful sound ; 
 They glow, they burn ; and now with one accord 
 Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song 
 Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb 
 Who bled for mortals. 
 
 Yet there is peace for man. — Yea, there is peace 
 
 Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene ; 
 
 When from the crowd, and from the city far. 
 
 Haply he may be set ( in his late walk 
 
 O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs 
 
 Of honey-suckle, when the sun is gone, 
 
 And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys 
 
 The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail, 
 
 And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time 
 
 Will waft him to repose, to deep repose, 
 
 Far from the unquietness of life — from noise 
 
 And tumult far — beyond the flying clouds, 
 
 Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, 
 
 Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 CHILDHOOD: 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 Thto.appeara to be one of the Author's earliest productions : written when about the 
 age of 14. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Pictured in memory's mellowing" glass how sweet 
 
 Our infant days, our infant joys to greet ; 
 
 To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, 
 
 The village church-yard, and the village-green. 
 
 The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, 5 
 
 The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade, 
 
 The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine grew, 
 
 And all the favorite haunts our childhood knew ! 
 
 How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, 
 
 To view th' unclouded skies of former days ! 10 
 
 Beloved age of innocence and smiles. 
 
 When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles. 
 
 When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true, 
 
 Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. 
 
 Bless'd Childhood, hail ! — Thee simply will I sing, 1 5 
 
 And from myself the artless picture bring ; 
 
 These long-lost scenes to me the past restore. 
 
 Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more, 
 
 And every stump familiar to my sight 
 
 Recalls some fond idea of delight. " 20 
 
 This shrubby knoll was once my favorite seat ; 
 Here did I love at evening to retreat, 
 
152 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 And muse alone, till in the vault of night, 
 
 Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. 
 
 Here once again, remote from human noise, 25 
 
 I sit me down to think of former joys ; 
 
 Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more. 
 
 And once again each infant walk explore. 
 
 While as each grove and lawn I recognise, 
 
 My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. 3Q / 
 
 And oh ! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort 
 
 To distant scenes, and picture them to thought ; 
 
 Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye. 
 
 Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy ; 
 
 Bless'd memory, guide, with finger nicely true, 35 
 
 Back to my youth my retrospective view ; 
 
 Recall with faithful vigor to my mind, y 
 
 Each face familiar, each relation kind ; /' 
 
 And all the finer traits of them afford, ^ 
 
 Whose general outline in my heart is stored. 40 
 
 In yonder cot, along whose mouldering wallSj, 
 
 In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls. 
 
 The village matron kept her little school. 
 
 Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; 
 
 Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 45 
 
 Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean : 
 
 Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair, 
 
 Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decejit care ; • 
 
 And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn, 
 
 Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 50 
 
 Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, 
 
 A pair of spectacles their want supplies ; 
 
 These does she guard secure in leathern case. 
 
 From thoughtless wights, in some iinweeted place. 
 
 Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain, 55 
 
 The low vestibule of learning's fane ; 
 Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way. 
 Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. 
 Much did I grieve, on that iU'fated morn, 
 Wliile I was first to school reluctant borne : 60 
 
 Severe I thought the dame, though oft she try*d 
 To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd ; 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 153 
 
 And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, 
 
 To my lone corner broken-hearted crept, 
 
 And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. 65 
 
 But soon inured to alphabetic toils, 
 
 Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles ; 
 
 First at the form, my task forever true, 
 
 A little favorite rapidly I grew : 
 
 And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, 70 
 
 Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight ; 
 
 And as she gave my diligence its praise, 
 
 Talk'd of the honors of my future days. 
 
 Oh ! had the venerable matron thought 
 
 Of all the ills by talent often brought ; 75 
 
 Could she have seen me when revolving years 
 
 Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, 
 
 Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate 
 
 Had^been a lowlier, an unletter'd state ; 
 
 Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, 80 
 
 Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life. 
 
 Where, in the busy scene, by peace unbless'd, 
 
 Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ? 
 
 A lonely mariner on the stormy main. 
 
 Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain ; 85 
 
 Long toss'd by tempest o'er the world's wide shore, 
 
 When shall his spirit rest to toil no more ? 
 
 Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave 
 
 The sandy surface of his unwept grave. 
 
 Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, 90 
 
 Serenest season of perpetual calms, — 
 
 Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, 
 
 And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. 
 
 Sweet reign of innocence when no crime defiles. 
 
 But each new object brings attendant smiles ; . 95 
 
 When future evils never haunt the sight, 
 
 But all is pregnant with unmix'd delight ; 
 
 To thee I turn, from riot and from noise, 
 
 Turn to partake of more congenial joys. 
 
 'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, 100 
 
 When the clock spoke the hour of labor o'er. 
 
154 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were seen, 
 
 In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green ! 
 
 Some shoot the marble, others join the chase 
 
 Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race ; 105 
 
 While others, seated on the dappled grass, 
 
 With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. 
 
 Well I remember how, with gesture starch 'd, 
 
 A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march 'd ; 
 
 For banners, to a tall ash we did bind 110 
 
 Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind ; 
 
 And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, 
 
 And guns and spears we made of brittle reed ; 
 
 Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown. 
 
 We storm 'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town. 115 
 
 Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont 
 
 To set her wheel before the cottage front, 
 
 And o'er her spectacles would often peer. 
 
 To view our gambols, and our boyish geer. 
 
 Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round, 120 
 
 With its beloved monotony of sound. 
 
 When tired with play, we'd set us by her side 
 
 (For out of school she never knew to chide) — 
 
 And wonder at her skill — well known to fame — 
 
 For who could match in spinning with the dame ? 125 
 
 Her sheets, her linen, which she showed with pride 
 
 To strangers, still her thriftness testified ; 
 
 Though we poor wights did wonder much in troth. 
 
 How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth. 
 
 Oft would we leave, though well-beloved, our play, 130? 
 
 To chat at home the vacant hour away. 
 
 Many's the time I've scamper'd down the glade, 
 
 To ask the promised ditty from the maid, 
 
 Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing, . 
 
 While we around her form'd a little ring : 135 
 
 She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed. 
 
 Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed. 
 
 Or little children murder'd as they slept ; 
 
 While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. 
 
 Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we, 140 
 
 Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. 
 
 Poor simple wights, ah ! little did we ween 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 166 
 
 The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene ! 
 Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know, 
 This world 's a world of weeping and of wo ! 1 45 
 
 Beloved moment ! then 'twas first I caught 
 
 The first foundation of romantic thought ; 
 
 Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, 
 
 Then first that poesy charm 'd mine infant ear. 
 
 Soon stored with much of legendary lore, 150 
 
 The sports of Childhood charm 'd my soul no more-* 
 
 Far from the scene of gayety and noise, 
 
 Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, 
 
 I hied me to the thick o'er-arching shade. 
 
 And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, 155 
 
 While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, 
 
 The days of wild romance antique I'd scan ; 
 
 Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, 
 
 To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. 159 
 
 PART II. 
 
 There are, who think that childhood does not share 
 With age the cup, the bitter cup of care : 
 Alas ! they know not this unhappy truth. 
 That every age, and rank, is born to ruth. 
 
 From the first dawn of reason in the mind, 5 
 
 Man is foredoom'd the thorns of grief to find ; 
 
 At every step has farther cause to know. 
 
 The draught of pleasm'e still is dash'd with wo. 
 
 Yet in the youthful breast forever caught 
 
 With some new object for romantic thought, 10 
 
 The impression of the moment quickly flies. 
 
 And with the morrow every sorrow dies. 
 
 How different manhood ! — then does Thought's control 
 
 Sink every pang still deeper in the soul ; 
 
 Then keen Afiiiction's sad unceasing smart 15 
 
 ./ 
 
156 COMPLETE WORKS. 
 
 Becomes a painful resident in the heart ; 
 
 And Care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, 
 
 Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. 
 
 Then, as each long-known friend is summon'd hence, 
 
 We feel a void no joy can recompense, 20 
 
 And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb. 
 
 Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom. 
 
 Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, 
 
 No forms of future ill salute thy view, 
 
 No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep, 25 
 
 But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, 
 
 And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life, 
 
 Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife. 
 
 Yet even round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shrine, 
 
 Affection's little thread will ever twine ; 30 
 
 And though but frail may seem each tender tie, 
 
 The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. 
 
 Thus, when the long-expected moment came, 
 
 When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame, 
 
 Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast, 35 
 
 And a still tear my silent grief express'd 
 
 "When to the public school compelled to go. 
 
 What novel scenes did on my senses flow ! 
 
 There in each breast each active power dilates. 
 
 Which broils whole nations, and convulses states ; 40 
 
 There reigns by turns alternate, love and hate. 
 
 Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate ; 
 
 And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere, 
 
 The dark deformities of man appear. 
 
 Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim, 45 
 
 There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame, 
 
 There mild Benevolence delights to dwell, 
 
 And sweet Contentment rests without her cell ; 
 
 And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find 
 
 The good of heart, the intelligent of mind. 50 
 
 'Twas there, 0, George ! with thee I learn'd to join 
 
 In Friendship's bands — in amity divine. 
 
 Oh, mournful thought ! — Where is thy spirit now ? 
 
 As here I sit on favorite Logar's brow, 
 
 And trace below each well-remember'd glade, 55 
 
 Where arm in arm, etewhile with thee I stray'd. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 157 
 
 Where art thou laid — on what untrodden shore, 
 
 Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar, 
 
 Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state. 
 
 At last repose from all the storms of fate ? 60 
 
 Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave. 
 
 Without one aiding hand stretch 'd out to save ; 
 
 See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend. 
 
 And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend ; 
 
 Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, 65 
 
 Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way, 
 
 While sorrow and disease with anguish rife. 
 
 Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. 
 
 Again I see his door against thee shut, 
 
 The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut ; 70 
 
 I see thee spent with toil and worn with grief, 
 
 Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief ; 
 
 Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er. 
 
 Think on thy native land — and rise no more ! 
 
 Oh ! that thou couldst, from thine august abode, 75 
 
 Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road. 
 
 That thou couldst see him at this moment here, 
 
 Embalm thy memory with a pious tear. 
 
 And hover o'er him as he gazes round, 
 
 Where all the scenes of infant joys surround. 80 
 
 Yes ! yes ! his spirit's near ! — The whispering breeze 
 Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees ; 
 And lo ! his form transparent I perceive. 
 Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve : 
 He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe, 85 
 
 While deathly silence reigns upon the globe. 
 Yet ah ! whence comes this visionary scene ? 
 'Tis Fancy's wild aerial dream I ween ; 
 By her inspired, when reason takes its flight. 
 What fond illusions beam upon the sight ! 90 
 
 She waves her hand, and lo ! what forms appear ! 
 What magic sounds salute the wondering ear ! 
 Once more o'er distant regions do we tread. 
 And the cold grave yields up its cherish 'd dead ; 
 Wliile present sorrow 's banish'd far away, 95 
 
 Unclouded azure gilds the placid day, 
 14 
 
158 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Or in the future's cloud-encircled face, 
 
 Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, 
 
 And draw minutely every little wile, 
 
 Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile. 100 
 
 So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate, 
 
 The Royal Mary solitary sat. 
 
 And view'd the moon-beam trembling on the wave, 
 
 And heard the hollow surge her prison lave. 
 
 Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight, 105 
 
 For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight ; 
 
 There did she form full many a scheme of joy, 
 
 Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy, 
 
 Which bright through Hope's deceitful optics beam'd, 
 
 And all became the surety which it seem'd ; 110 
 
 She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm. 
 
 In every tear a melancholy charm. 
 
 To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, 
 
 Just yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep. 
 
 With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, 115 
 
 To see the sun rise from his healthy bed ; 
 
 To watch the aspect of the summer morn, 
 
 Smiling upon the golden fields of corn, 
 
 And taste delighted of superior joys. 
 
 Beheld through Sympathy's enchanted eyes : 120 
 
 With silent admiration oft we view'd 
 
 The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd ; 
 
 The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade, 
 
 Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd. 
 
 And the round orb itself, in azure throne, 125 
 
 Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone ; 
 
 We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay. 
 
 Reviving Nature, hail'd returning day ; 
 
 Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping heads. 
 
 And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads, 130 
 
 While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight. 
 
 The birds sung pasans to the source of light : 
 
 Oft have we watch 'd the speckled lark arise. 
 
 Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies. 
 
 And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight nojmore 135 
 
 Could trace him in his high aerial tour ; 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 159 
 
 Though on the ear, at intervals, his song 
 
 Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along ; 
 
 And we have thought how happy were our lot, 
 
 Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot, 140 
 
 Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve 
 
 Began in every dell her forms to weave. 
 
 We might pursue our sports from day to day, 
 
 And in each other's arms wear life away. 
 
 At sultry noon too, when our toils were done, 145 
 
 We to the gloomy glen were wont to run ; 
 
 There on the turf we lay, while at our feet 
 
 The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet : 
 
 And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore. 
 
 Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more ; 150 
 
 H'iard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept, 
 
 Sung wo unto the wicked land — and wept ; 
 
 Or, fancy-led — saw Jeremiah mourn 
 
 In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn. 
 
 Then to another shore perhaps would rove, 155 
 
 With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove ; 
 
 Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose. 
 
 Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes. 
 
 Sweet then to us was that romantic band, 
 
 The ancient legends of our native land — 160 
 
 Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair. 
 
 And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair, 
 
 By turns our thoughts engaged ; and oft we talk'd, 
 
 Of times when monarch superstition stalk'd ; 
 
 And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome 165 
 
 Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom : 
 
 While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow, 
 
 The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of wo. 
 
 While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell 
 
 Which summon 'd us to school ! 'Twas Fancy's knell, 170 
 
 And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear. 
 
 It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. 
 
 Yet even then,( for oh ! what chains can bind. 
 
 What powers control, the energies of mind !) 
 
 Even then we soar'd to many a height sublime, 175 
 
 And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time. 
 
160 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 At evening too, how pleasing was our walk, 
 
 Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk, 
 
 When to the upland heights we bent our way, 
 
 To view the last beam of departing day ; 180 
 
 How calm was all around ! no playfiil breeze 
 
 Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees, 
 
 But all was still, save when, with drowsy song, 
 
 The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along ; 
 
 And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee, 
 
 The distant church-bells' mellow harmony ; 186 
 
 The silver mirror of the lucid brook, 
 
 That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took ; 
 
 The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides. 
 
 With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides : 1 90 
 
 The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight ; 
 
 The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight ; 
 
 All, all was pregnant with divine delight. 
 
 We loved to watch the swallow swimming high, 
 
 In the bright azure of the vaulted sky ; 196 
 
 Or gaze upon the clouds, whose color'd pride 
 
 Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide, 
 
 And tinged with such variety of shade. 
 
 To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd. 
 
 In these what forms rom.antic did we trace, 200 
 
 While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space ! 
 
 Is^pw we espied~the Thunderer in his car, 
 
 Leading the embattled seraphim to war. 
 
 Then stately towers descried, sublimely high. 
 
 In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky — 205 
 
 Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, 
 
 A ridge of glaciers in mural white, 
 
 Hugely terrific. — But those times are o'er, 
 
 And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more ; 
 
 For thou art gone, and I am left below, 210 
 
 Alone to struggle through this world of wo. 
 
 The scene is o'er — still seasons onward roll, 
 
 And each revolve conducts me toward the goal ; 
 
 Yet all is blank, without one soft relief. 
 
 One endless continuity of grief ; 215 
 
 And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, 
 
 Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 161 
 
 Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant 
 
 For hoards of wealth which ye will never want ; 
 
 And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign 220 
 
 The calms of peace and happiness divine ! 
 
 Far other cares be mine — Men little crave 
 
 In this short journey to the silent grave ; 
 
 And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health, 
 
 I envy more than Croesus with his wealth. 225 
 
 Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree 
 
 Paternal acres to await on me ; 
 
 She gave me more, she placed within my breast 
 
 A heart with little pleased — with little bless'd : 
 
 I look around me, where, on every side, 230 
 
 Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride ; 
 
 And could my sight be borne to either zone, 
 
 I should not find one foot of land my own. 
 
 But whither do I wander ? shall the muse, 
 
 For golden baits, her simple theme refuse .-' 235 
 
 Oh, no ! but while the weary spirit greets 
 
 The fading scenes of childhood's far-gone sweets, 
 
 It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, 
 
 And prattles on in desultory song. 
 
 That song must close — the gloomy mists of night 240 
 
 Obscure the pale stars' visionary light. 
 
 And ebon darkness, clad in vapory wet, 
 
 Steals on the welkin in primeval jet. 
 
 The song must close. — Once more my adverse lot 
 Leads me reluctant from this cherish 'd spot : 245 
 
 Again compels to plunge in busy life. 
 And brave the hateful turbulence of strife. 
 
 Scenes of my youth — ere my unwilling feet 
 Are turn'd forever from this loved retreat. 
 Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er, 250 
 
 My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, 
 Let me ejaculate, to feeling due. 
 One long, one last affectionate adieu. 
 Grant that, if ever Providence should please 
 To give me an old age of peace and ease, 255 
 
 Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days 
 14* 
 
162 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 May wear away in gradual decays ; 
 
 And oh ! ye spirits, who unbodied play, 
 
 Unseen upon the pinions of the day, 
 
 Kind genii of my native fields benign, 260 
 
 Who were * * * * . 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 ECCE]!«^TRIC DRAMA, 
 
 WRITTEN AT A VERY EARL.Y AGE. 
 
 THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. 
 1. 
 
 Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
 Merry, merry, go the bells, 
 
 Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
 Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, 
 
 ' Swinging slow with sullen roar,' 
 Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay ! 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away. 
 
 2. 
 
 Round the oak, and round the elm, 
 
 Merrily foot it o'er the ground ! 
 The sentry ghost it stands aloof. 
 So merrily, merrily foot it round. 
 Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
 Merry, merry go the bells 
 Swelling in the nightly gale, 
 The sentry ghost, 
 it keeps its post, 
 And soon, and soon our sports must fail : 
 But let us trip the nightly ground. 
 While the merry, merry bells ring round. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 163 
 
 3. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the death-watch ticks ! 
 See, see, the winding-sheet ! 
 
 Our dance is done, 
 
 Our race is run. 
 And we must He at the alder's feet ! 
 
 Ding-dong-, ding-dong. 
 
 Merry, merry go the bells, 
 Swinging o'er the weltering wave ! 
 
 And we must seek 
 
 Our death-beds bleak, 
 Where the green sod grows upon the grave. 
 
 [They vanish — The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited in a sky-blue Robe, 
 attended by mournful Music] 
 
 Come, Melancholy, sister mine. 
 
 Cold the dews, and chill the night ! 
 Come from thy dreary shrine ! 
 
 The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, 
 
 And underneath the sickly ray, 
 
 Troops of squalid spectres play, 
 
 And the dying mortals' groan 
 
 Startles the night on her dusky throne. 
 
 Come, come, sister mine ! 
 
 Gliding on the pale moon-shine : 
 We'll ride at ease, 
 On the tainted breeze, 
 
 And oh ! our sport will be divine. 
 
 [The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep Glen in the rear, habited in 
 Black, and covered with a thick Veil. — She speaks.] 
 
 Sister from my dark abode, 
 
 Where nests the raven, sits the toad, 
 
 Hither I come, at thy command : 
 
 Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 
 
 Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 
 
 I will smooth the way for thee, 
 
 Thou shalt furnish food for me. 
 
 Come, let us speed our way 
 
 Where the troops of spectres play ; 
 
 To charnel-houses, church-yards drear, 
 
164 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Where Death sits with a horrible leer, 
 A lasting grin, on a throne of bones, 
 And skim along the blue tomb-stones. 
 
 Come, let us speed away. 
 Lay our snares, and spread our tether ! 
 I will smooth the way for thee. 
 Thou Shalt furnish food for me ; 
 And the grass shall wave 
 O'er many a grave, 
 Where youth and beauty sleep together. 
 
 CONSUMPTION, 
 
 Come, let us speed our way ! 
 Join our hands, and spread our tether ! 
 I will furnish food for thee. 
 Thou shalt smooth the way for me ; 
 And the grass shall wave 
 O'er many a grave. 
 Where youth and beauty sleep together. 
 
 MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Hist, sister, hist ! who comes here ? 
 Oh ! I know her by that tear, 
 By that blue eye's languid glare, 
 By her skin, and by her hair : 
 
 She is mine. 
 
 And she is thine, 
 Now the deadliest draught prepare. 
 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 In the dismal night air dress 'd, 
 I will creep into her breast : 
 Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, 
 And feed on the vital fire within. 
 Lover, do not trust her eyes, — 
 When they sparkle most, she dies ! 
 Mother, do not trust her breath, — 
 Comfort she will breathe in death ! 
 Father, do not strive to save her, — 
 She is mine, and I must have her ! 
 The coffi^jn^ust be her bridal bed ; 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 165 
 
 The winding-sheet must wrap her head ; 
 The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, 
 For soon in the grave the maid must lie, 
 
 The worm it will riot 
 
 On heavenly diet, 
 When death has deflour'd her eye. 
 
 [ They vanish, 
 
 [While Consumption epeaks, Angelina enters.] 
 ANGELINA. 
 
 With* what a silent and dejected pace 
 
 Dost thou, wan Moon ! upon thy way advance 
 
 In the blue welkin's vault ! — Pale wanderer ! 
 
 Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love, 
 
 That thus, with such a melancholy grace, 
 
 Thou dost pursue thy solitary course .'' 
 
 Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook 
 
 Thy widow'd breast — on which the spoiler oft 
 
 Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds 
 
 Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night, 
 
 Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round 
 
 With its thick fringe thy couch .'' — Wan traveller, 
 
 How like thy fate to mine ! — Yet I have still 
 
 One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st ; 
 
 My woes will soon be buried in the grave 
 
 Of kind forgetfulness : — my journey here. 
 
 Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn, 
 
 Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet 
 
 Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. 
 
 But thou, unhappy Queen ! art doom'd to trace 
 
 Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night, 
 
 While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath 
 
 The leaden pinions of unshaken time ; 
 
 Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue 
 
 To cheat thy steps along the weary way. 
 
 that the sum of human happiness 
 Should be so trifling, and so frail withal, 
 
 * With how sad steps, O Moon ! thou climb'st the ekies. 
 How silently and with how wan a face t 
 
 Sir P. Sidney. 
 
166 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 That when possess'd, it is but lessen'd grief; 
 
 And even then there's scarce a sudden gust 
 
 That blows across the dismal waste of life, 
 
 But bears it from the view. — Oh ! who would shun 
 
 The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press 
 
 The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave, 
 
 And yet endure the various ills of life, 
 
 And dark vicissitudes ! — Soon, I hope, I feel, 
 
 And am assured, that I shall lay my head. 
 
 My weary aching head, on its last rest. 
 
 And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod 
 
 Will flourish sweetly. — And then they will weep 
 
 That one so young, and what they're pleased to call 
 
 So beautiful, should die so soon — And tell 
 
 How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang 
 
 Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek. 
 
 Oh, foolish ones ! why, I shall sleep so sweetly, 
 
 Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves 
 
 Might envy me my rest ! — And as for them. 
 
 Who, on the score of former intimacy, 
 
 May thus remembrance me — they must themselves 
 
 Successive fall. 
 
 Around the winter fire 
 ( When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, 
 And shrill the skater's irons on the pool 
 Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs 
 His graceful evolutions ) they not long 
 Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats 
 Of early youth, but silent, one by one. 
 Shall drop into their shrouds.— Some, in their age, 
 Ripe for the sickle ; others young, like me, 
 And falling green beneath th' untimely stroke. 
 Thus, in short time, in the church-yard forlorn, 
 Wliere I shall lie, my friends will lay them down, 
 And dwell with me, a happy family. 
 And oh ! thou cruel, yet beloved youth, 
 Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn, 
 Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse, 
 And say that I was gentle, and deserved 
 A better lover, and I shall forgive 
 All,, all thy wrongs ; — and then do thou forget 
 The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 167 
 
 As wish can make thee — Laugh, and play, and sing, 
 With thy dear choice, and never think of me. 
 
 Yet hist, I hear a step. — In this dark wood — 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Written at a very early age. 
 
 I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian, 
 
 And many other noble Grecian, 
 
 Who wealth and palaces resign'd, " 
 
 In cots the joys of peace to find ; 
 
 Maximian's meal of turnip-tops, 
 
 (Disgusting food to dainty chops,) 
 
 I've also read of, without wonder ; 
 
 But such a curs'd egregious blunder. 
 
 As that a man of wit and sense. 
 
 Should leave his books to hoard up pence, — 
 
 Forsake the loved Aonian maids, 
 
 For all the petty tricks of trades, 
 
 I never, either now, or long since, 
 
 Have heard of such a piece of nonsense • 
 
 That one who learning's joys hath felt, 
 
 And at the Muse's altar knelt. 
 
 Should leave a life of sacred leisure, 
 
 To taste the accumulating pleasure ; 
 
 And, metamorphosed to an alley duck, 
 
 Grovel in loads of kindred muck. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis beyond my comprehension ! 
 
 A courtier throwing up his pension, — 
 
 A lawyer working without a fee, — 
 
 A parson giving charity, — 
 
 A truly pious methodist preacher, — 
 
 Are not, egad, so out of nature. 
 
 Had nature made thee half a fool. 
 
 But given thee wit to keep a school, 
 
 I had not stared at thy back,sliding : 
 
 But when thy wit I can confide in, JL 
 
168 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 When well I know thy just pretence 
 
 To solid and exalted sense ; 
 
 When well I know that on thy head 
 
 Philosophy her lights hath shed, 
 
 I stand aghast ! thy virtues sum too, 
 
 And wonder what this world will come to ! 
 
 Yet, whence this strain ? shall I repine 
 That thou alone dost singly shine ? 
 Shall I lament that thou alone. 
 Of men of parts, hast prudence known ? 
 
 s 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. 
 
 Age fourteen. 
 
 Oh, Warton ! to thy soothing shell, 
 Stretch'd remote in hermit cell. 
 Where the brook runs babbling by, 
 Forever I could listening lie ; 
 And, catching all the Muse's fire. 
 Hold converse with the tuneful quire. 
 
 What pleasing themes thy page adorn. 
 The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn. 
 The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime. 
 And Melancholy's mournful chime ! 
 Each with unwonted graces shines 
 In thy ever-lovely lines. 
 
 Thy Muse deserves the lasting meed ; 
 Attuning sweet the Dorian reed. 
 Now the love-lorn swain complains. 
 And sings his sorrows to the plains ; 
 Now the Sylvan scenes appear 
 Through all the changes of the year ; 
 'Or the elegiac strain 
 Softly sings of mental pain. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 169 
 
 And mournful diapasons sail 
 On the -faintly-dying gale. 
 
 But, ah ! the soothing scene is o'er ! 
 
 On middle flight we cease to soar, 
 For now the Muse assumes a bolder sweep, 
 Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep, 
 
 In strains unheard before. 
 Now, now the rising fire thrills high, 
 Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly, 
 
 And every throne explore ; 
 The soul entranced, on mighty wings, 
 With all the poet's heat, upsprings, 
 
 And loses earthly woes ; 
 Till all alarm'd at the giddy height, 
 The Muse descends on gentler flight. 
 
 And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. 
 
 TO THE MUSE. 
 
 Written at the age of fourteen. 
 
 Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy train 
 Chill poverty and misery are seen, 
 
 Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane 
 Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. 
 
 Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel 
 So keenly all the scorns — the jeers of life .-' 
 Why not endow them to endure the strife 
 
 With apathy's invulnerable steel. 
 
 Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah ! who would taste your self-deluding joys, 
 That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, 
 
 That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, 
 Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb ? 
 
 What is the charm which leads thy victims on 
 15 
 
170 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 To persevere in paths that lead to wo ? 
 
 What can induce them in that rout to go, 
 In which innumerous before have gone, 
 And died in misery, poor and wo-begone. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found ; 
 I, who have drank from thine ethereal rill, 
 
 And tasted all the pleasures that abound 
 Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill ? 
 
 I, through whose soul the Muses' strains aye thrill ! 
 Oh ! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied ; 
 
 And though our annals fearful stories tell. 
 How Savage languish 'd, and how Otway died, 
 Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. 
 
 TO LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Why should I blush to own 1 love ? 
 'Tis Love that rules the realms above. 
 Why should I blush to say to all. 
 That Virtue holds my heart in thrall ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Why should I seek the thickest shade, 
 Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd .'' 
 Why the stern brow deceitful move. 
 When I am languishing with love ? 
 
 Ill 
 
 Is it weakness thus to dwell 
 On passion that I dare not tell .'' 
 Such weakness I would ever prove ! 
 'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet, to love. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 171 
 
 THE WANDERING BOY. 
 
 A SONG. 
 I. 
 
 When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, 
 And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door ; 
 When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, 
 Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The winter is cold, and I have no vest, 
 And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast ; 
 No father, no mother, no kindred have I, 
 For I am a parentless Wandering Boy. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, , 
 A mother who granted each infant desire ; 
 Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale. 
 Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But my father and mother were summon'd away, 
 And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey ; 
 I fled from their rigor with many a sigh. 
 And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy. 
 
 V. 
 
 The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, 
 And no one will list to my innocent tale ; 
 I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, 
 And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 -The western gale. 
 
 Mild as the kisses of connubial love. 
 
 Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved, 
 
172 '('■' COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade 
 I he, exhausted with the noontide heat : 
 While rippling- o'er his deep-worn pebble bed, 
 The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet, 
 Dispensing coolness. — On the fringed marge 
 Full many a floweret rears its head, — or pink, 
 Or gaudy daffodil. — 'Tis here, at noon. 
 The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire, 
 And lave them in the fountain ; here secure 
 From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport • 
 Or stretch 'd supinely on the velvet turf, 
 LuU'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly, 
 Invoke the God of slumber. * * * 
 
 And, hark ! how merrily, from distant tower. 
 Ring round the village bells ! now on the gale 
 They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud ; 
 Anon they die upon the pensive ear. 
 Melting in faintest music. — They bespeak 
 A day of Jubilee, and oft they bear, 
 Commix 'd along the unfrequented shore. 
 The sound of village dance and tabor loud, 
 Startling the musing ear of Solitude. 
 
 Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide. 
 When happy Superstition, gabbling eld ! 
 Holds her unhurtful gambols. — All the day 
 The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance 
 On the smooth-shaven green, and then at eve 
 Commence the harmless rites and auguries ; 
 And many a tale of ancient days goes round. 
 They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells 
 Could hold in dreadful thrall the laboring moon, 
 Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence, 
 And still the midnight tempest. — Then anon 
 Tell of uncharnell'd spectres, seen to glide 
 Along the lone wood's unfrequented path, 
 Starthng the 'nighted traveller ; while the sound 
 Of undistinguish'd murmurs, heard to come 
 From the dark centre of the deep'ning glen, 
 Struck on his frozen ear. 
 
OF H. R. WHITE. 173 
 
 Oh, Ignorance ! 
 Thou art fall'n man's best friend ! With thee he speeds 
 In frigid apathy along his way, 
 And never does the tear of agony 
 Burn down his scorching cheek ; or the keen steel 
 Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast. 
 
 Even now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, 
 
 I taste of all the keener happiness 
 
 Which sense refined affords — Even now, my heart 
 
 Would fain induce me to forsake the world, 
 
 Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds. 
 
 With a small flock, and short suspended reed, 
 
 To sojourn in the woodland. — Then my thought 
 
 Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss, 
 
 That I could almost err in reason's spite, 
 
 And trespass on my judgment. 
 
 Such is life : 
 The distant prospect always seems more fair, 
 And when attain'd, another still succeeds, 
 Far fairer than before, — yet compass'd round 
 With the same dangers, and the same dismay. 
 And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze, 
 Still discontented, chase the fairy form 
 Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find. 
 When life itself is sinking in the strife, 
 'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat. 
 
 ODE, 
 
 WRITTEN ON WHIT-MONDAY- 
 
 Hark ! how the merry bells ring jocund round, 
 And now they die upon the veering breeze ; 
 
 Anon they thunder loud 
 
 Full on the musing ear. 
 
 Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore 
 Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak 
 15* 
 
1*74 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 A day of jubilee, 
 An ancient holiday. 
 
 And, lo ! the rural revels are begun, 
 And gaily echoing to the laughing sky. 
 
 On the smooth-shaven green, 
 
 Resounds the voice of Mirth. 
 
 Alas ! regardless of the tongue of Fate, 
 That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they 
 
 Who now are in their graves. 
 
 Kept up the Whitsun dance. 
 
 And that another hour, and they must fall 
 Like those who went before, and sleep as still 
 
 Beneath the silent sod, 
 
 A cold and cheerless sleep. 
 
 Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare 
 The vagrant Happiness, v/hen she will deign 
 
 To smile upon us here, 
 
 A transient visiter ? 
 
 Mortals ! be gladsome while ye have the power, 
 And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy ; 
 
 In time the bell will toll 
 
 That warns ye to your graves. 
 
 I to the woodland solitude will bend 
 
 My lonesome way — where Mirth's obstreperous shout 
 
 Shall not intrude to break 
 
 The meditative hour. 
 
 There will I ponder on the state of man, 
 Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate 
 
 This day of jubilee 
 
 To sad reflection's shrine ; 
 
 And I will cast my fond eye far beyond 
 This world of care, to where the steeple loud 
 Shall rock above the sod, 
 ' Where I shall sleep in peace. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 176 
 
 CANZONET. 
 
 I. 
 
 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 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. 
 
 COMMENCEMENT OP A POEM 
 
 ON DESPAIR. 
 
 Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound 
 
 With winning- elegance attune their song, 
 
 Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense, 
 
 And charm the soul with softest harmony : 
 
 'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen 
 
 Roving through Fancy's gay futurity ; 
 
 Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure 
 
 Pleasure of days to come. — Memory, too, then 
 
 Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad. 
 
 Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, 
 
 Scenes never to return.* 
 
 Such subjects merit poets used to raise 
 
 The attic verse harmonious ; but for me 
 
 A dreadlier theme demands my backward hand, 
 
 And bids me strike the strings of dissonance 
 
 * Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory. 
 
176 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 With frantic energy. 
 
 'Tis wan Despair I sing ; if sing I can 
 
 Of him before whose blast the voice of Song, 
 
 And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly. 
 
 Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard 
 
 At noon of night, where on the coast of blood, 
 
 The lacerated son of Angola 
 
 Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind ; 
 
 And, when the awful silence of the night 
 
 Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart, 
 
 He speaks in every conscience-prompted word 
 
 Half utter'd, half suppress'd — 
 
 'Tis him I sing — Despair — terrific name, 
 
 Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord 
 
 Of timorous terror — discord in the sound : 
 
 For to a theme revolting as is this, 
 
 Dare not I woo the maids of harmony. 
 
 Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound 
 
 Of lyre J^^olian, or the martial bugle, 
 
 Calling the hero to the field of glory. 
 
 And firing him with deeds of high emprise, 
 
 And warlike triumph : but from scenes like mine 
 
 Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard 
 
 Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. 
 
 Hence, then, soft maids, 
 And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers 
 By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream : 
 For aid like yours I seek not ; 'tis for powers 
 Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine ! 
 'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends ! 
 
 Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, 
 Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light. 
 And all the myriads of the burning concave ; 
 Souls of the damned ; — Hither, oh ! come and join 
 The infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing ! 
 • He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang 
 Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair .' 
 Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power ; 
 Unite shouts, screams, and agonising shrieks. 
 Till the loud psean ring throvig-h hell's high vault, 
 And the remotest spirits of the deep 
 Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 177 
 
 TO THE WIND, 
 
 AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Not unfamiliar to mine ear, 
 
 Blasts of the night ! ye howl as now 
 
 My shuddering casement loud 
 With fitful force ye beat. 
 
 Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, 
 The howling sweep, the sudden rush ; 
 
 And when the passing gale 
 
 Pour 'd deep the hollow dirge. 
 
 THE EVE OF DEATH. 
 
 IRREGULAR. 
 I. 
 
 Silence of death — portentous calm, 
 
 Those airy forms that yonder fly, 
 Denote that your void fore-runs a storm, 
 
 That the hour of fate is nigh. 
 I see, I see, on the dim mist borne, 
 
 The Spirit of battles rear his crest ! 
 I see, I see, that ere the morn. 
 
 His spear will forsake its hated rest, 
 And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked 
 breast. 
 
 n. 
 
 O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep. 
 
 No softly ruffling zephyrs fly ; 
 But Nature sleeps a deathless sleep. 
 
 For the hour of battle is nigh. 
 Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, 
 
 But a creeping stillness reigns around ; 
 Except when the raven, with ominous croak, 
 
 On the ear does unwelcomely sound. 
 
178 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 I know, I. know what this silence means ; 
 
 I know what the raven saith— 
 Strike, oh, ye bards ! the melancholy harp, 
 
 For this is the eve of death. 
 
 Ill- 
 Behold, how along the twilight air 
 
 The shades of our fathers glide ! 
 There Morven fled, v/ith the blood-drench 'd hair, 
 
 And Colma with gray side. 
 No gale around its coolness flings. 
 
 Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees ; 
 And, hark ! how the harp's unvisited strings 
 
 Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze ! 
 'Tis done ! the sun he has set in blood ! 
 
 He will never set more to the brave ; 
 Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death — 
 
 For to-morrow he hies to the grave. 
 
 THANATOS. 
 
 Oh ! who would cherish life, 
 And cling unto this heavy clog of clay, 
 
 Love this rude world of strife, 
 Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day ; 
 And where, 'neath outward smiles, 
 Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey, 
 Where pit-falls lie in every flowery way. 
 
 And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles ! 
 Hateful it is to me, 
 Its riotous railings and revengeful strife ; 
 
 I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts 
 Dinning the ear ; — away — away with life ! 
 
 And welcome, oh ! thou silent maid, 
 
 Who in some foggy vault art laid, 
 
 Where never day-light's dazzling ray 
 
 Comes to disturb thy dismal sway ; 
 
 And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, 
 
 In such forgetful slumbers deep. 
 
 That all thy senses stupified, 
 
of H. K. WHITE. 179 
 
 Are to marble petrified. 
 
 Sleepy Death, I welcome thee ! 
 
 Sweet are thy calms to misery. 
 
 Poppies I will ask no more. 
 
 Nor the fatal hellebore ; 
 
 Death is the best, the only cure, 
 
 His are slumbers ever sure. 
 
 Lay me in the Gothic tomb. 
 
 In whose solemn fretted gloom 
 
 I may lie in mouldering state. 
 
 With all the grandeur of the great : 
 
 Over me, magnificent, 
 
 Carve a stately monument : 
 
 Then thereon my statue lay, 
 
 With hands in attitude to pray, 
 
 And angels serve to hold my head, 
 
 Weeping o'er the father dead. 
 
 Duly too at close of day. 
 
 Let the pealing organ play ; 
 
 And while the harmonious thunders roll, 
 
 Chant a vesper to my soul : 
 
 Thus how sweet my sleep will be, 
 
 Shut out from thoughtful misery ! 
 
 ATHANATOS. 
 
 Away with Death — away 
 With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, 
 
 Impervious to the day, 
 Where Nature sinks into inanity. 
 How can the soul desire 
 Such hateful nothingness to crave, 
 And yield with joy the vital fire, 
 To moulder in the grave ! 
 
 Yet mortal life is sad. 
 Eternal storms molest its sullen sky ; 
 
 And sorrows ever rife 
 Drain the sacred fountain dry — 
 Away with mortal life ! 
 But, hail the calm reality, 
 
180 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 The seraph Immortality ! 
 
 Hail the Heavenly bowers of peace ! 
 
 Where all the storms of passion cease. 
 
 Wild Life's dismaying struggle o'er, 
 
 The wearied spirit weeps no more ; 
 
 But wears the eternal smile of joy, 
 
 Tasting bliss without alloy. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, 
 
 Where no passing tempest lowers ; 
 
 But the azure heavens display 
 
 The everlasting smile of day ; 
 
 Where the choral seraph choir. 
 
 Strike to praise the harmonious lyre ; 
 
 And the spirit sinks to ease, 
 
 Lull'd by distant symphonies. 
 
 Oh ! to think of meeting there 
 
 The friends whose graves received our tear, 
 
 The daughter loved, the wife adored. 
 
 To our widow 'd arms restored ; 
 
 And all the joys which death did sever, 
 
 Given to us again forever ! 
 
 Who would cling to wretched life, 
 
 And hug the poison'd thorn of strife ; 
 
 Who would not long from eartn to fly, 
 
 A sluggish senseless lump to lie. 
 
 When the glorious prospect lies 
 
 Full before his raptured eyes ? 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 Written between the Ages of Fourteen and Fifteen, with a few subsequent verbal 
 Alterations. 
 
 Music, all powerful o'er the human mind. 
 
 Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm. 
 
 Soothe anxious Care on sleepless couch reclined. 
 And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm. 
 
 At her command the various passions lie ; 
 
 She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace ; 
 Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy, 
 
 And' bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 181 
 
 Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire 
 With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise ; 
 
 Infuse new ardor, and with youthful fire 
 Urge on the warrior gray with length of days. 
 
 Far better she when with her soothing lyre 
 
 She charms the falchion from the savage grasp, 
 
 And melting into pity vengeful Ire, 
 
 Looses the bloody breast-plate's iron clasp. 
 
 With her in pensive mood I long to roam, 
 
 At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, 
 
 And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam. 
 In calm Seclusion's hermit-walks recline. 
 
 Wliilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise, 
 Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd, 
 
 With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies. 
 And pleased Attention claims the passive mind^ 
 
 Soft through the dell the dying strains retire, 
 Then burst majestic in the varied swell ; 
 
 Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre. 
 Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell. 
 
 Romantic sounds ! such is the bliss ye give. 
 
 That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the 
 soul, 
 
 With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live 
 Forever 'neath your undefiled control. 
 
 Oh ! surely melody from heaven was sent. 
 To cheer the- soul when tired with human strife, 
 
 To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent, 
 And soften down the rugged road of life. 
 
 16 
 
 t 
 
182 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 ODE, 
 
 TO THE HARVEST MOON. 
 
 -Cum ruit imbriferum ver : 
 
 Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum 
 Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent : 
 
 Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. — Virgil, 
 
 Moon of Harvest, herald mild 
 Of plenty, rustic labor's child. 
 Hail ! oh hail ! I greet thy beam, 
 As soft it trembles o'er the stream, 
 And gilds the straw-thatch 'd hamlet wide, 
 "WTiere Innocence and Peace reside ; 
 'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, 
 Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song. 
 
 Moon of Harvest, I do love 
 
 O'er the uplands now to rove, 
 
 While thy modest ray serene 
 
 Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 
 
 And to watch thee riding high 
 
 In the blue vault of the sky, 
 Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray. 
 But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. 
 
 Pleasing 'tis, oh ! modest Moon ! 
 Now the Night is at her noon, 
 'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
 While around the zephyrs sigh. 
 Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, 
 Ripen'd by the summer's heat ; 
 Picturing all the rustic's joy 
 When boundless plenty greets his eye, 
 
 And thinking soon, 
 
 Oh, modest Moon ! 
 How many a female eye will roam 
 
 Along the road, 
 
 To see the load, 
 The last dear load of harvest-home. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 183 
 
 Storms and tempests, floods and rains, 
 
 Stern despoilers of the plains, 
 
 Hence away, the season flee, 
 
 Foes to hght-heart jollity : 
 
 May no winds careering high, 
 
 Drive the clouds along the sky, 
 But may all nature smile with aspect boon, * 
 
 When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, Har- 
 vest Moon ! 
 
 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, 
 
 The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes ; 
 
 He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
 
 The yard he hears the flail resound ; 
 
 Oh ! may no hurricane destroy 
 
 His visionary views of joy ! 
 God of the Winds ! oh, hear his humble prayer. 
 And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blustering 
 whirlwind spare. 
 
 Sons of luxury, to you 
 
 Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo : 
 
 Press ye still the downy bed. 
 
 While feverish dreams surround your head ; 
 
 I will seek the woodland glade. 
 
 Penetrate the thickest shade, 
 
 Wrapp'd in Contemplation's dreams, 
 
 Musing high on holy themes. 
 
 While on the gale 
 
 Shall softly sail 
 The nightingale's enchanting tune, 
 
 And oft my eyes 
 
 Shall grateful rise 
 To thee, the modest Harvest Moon ! 
 
184 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Written at the age of fourteen. 
 
 I. 
 
 Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, 
 
 Gently o'er my Edwy fly ! 
 Lo ! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly i 
 Softly, zephyrs, pass him by ! 
 My love is asleep, 
 He lies by the deep. 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
 II. 
 
 I have cover'd him with rushes, 
 Water-flags, and branches dry. 
 Edwy, long have been thy slumbers ; 
 Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye ! 
 My love is asleep. 
 He lies by the deep. 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
 III. 
 
 Still he sleeps ; he will not waken, 
 
 Fastly closed is his eye ; 
 Paler is his cheek, and chiller 
 Than the icy moon on high. 
 Alas ! he is dead. 
 He has chose his death-bed 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Is it, is it so, my Edwy ? 
 
 Will thy slumbers never fly .'' 
 Couldst thou think I would survive thee ? 
 No, my love, thou bid'st me die. 
 Thou bid'st me seek 
 Thy death-bed bleak 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 185 
 
 V. 
 
 I will gently kiss thy cold-lips, 
 
 On thy breast I'll lay my head, 
 And the winds shall sing our death-dirge, 
 And our shroud the waters spread ; 
 The moon will smile sweet, 
 And the wild wave will beat. 
 Oh ! so softly o'er our lonely bed. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG 
 TO THE NIGHT, 
 
 Thou, spirit of the spangled night ! 
 I woo thee from the watch-tower high, 
 Where thou dost sit to guide the bark 
 Of lonely mariner. 
 
 The winds are whistling o'er the wolds. 
 The distant main is moaning low ; 
 Come, let us sit and weave a song- 
 A melancholy song ! 
 
 Sweet is the scented gale of morn, 
 And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, 
 But sweeter far the solemn calm, 
 
 That marks thy mournful reign. 
 
 I've pass'd here many a lonely year. 
 And never human voice have heard ; 
 I've pass'd here many a lonely year 
 A solitary man. 
 
 And I have linger'd in the shade, 
 From sultry noon's hot beam ; and I 
 Have knelt before my wicker door. 
 To sing my evening song. 
 16* 
 
186 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 And I have hail'd the gray morn high, 
 On the blue mountain's misty brow, 
 And tried to tune my little reed 
 To hymns of harmony. 
 
 But never could I tune my reed, 
 At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, 
 As when upon the ocean shore 
 
 I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 
 
 The day-spring brings not joy to me, 
 The moon it whispers not of peace ; 
 But oh ! when darkness robes the heavens, 
 My woes are mix'd with joy. 
 
 And then I talk, and often think 
 Aerial voices answer me ; 
 And oh ! I am not then alone — 
 A solitary man. 
 
 And when the blustering winter winds 
 Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, 
 I lay me on my lonely mat, 
 
 And pleasant are my dreams. 
 
 And Fancy gives me back my wife ; 
 And Fancy gives me back my child ; 
 She gives me back my little home, 
 And all its placid joys. 
 
 Then hateful is the morning hour, 
 That calls me from the dream of bliss. 
 To find myself still lone, and hear 
 
 The same dull sounds again. 
 
 The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea. 
 The whispering of the boding trees. 
 The brook's eternal flow, and oft 
 
 The Condor's hollow scream. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 187 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile, 
 
 Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring ; 
 But ah ! my soul far other scenes beguile, 
 
 Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. 
 Is it for me to strike the Idalian string — 
 
 Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, 
 While in my ears the howls of furies ring 
 
 And melancholy wastes the vital fire ? 
 Away with thoughts like these — To some lone cave 
 
 Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the 
 wave. 
 Direct my steps ; there, in the lonely drear, 
 
 I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse 
 
 Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse, 
 And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAD, 
 
 A DIVINE POEM. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 L 
 
 I SING 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, 
 Oh, now descend ! and with your harpings deep. 
 
 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. 
 Thy glittering fanes are levell'd with the ground ! 
 
188 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 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. 
 
 t 
 
 ' 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 j 
 
 While seraph hosts the lofty psean pour. 
 And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim ! 
 
 May a frail mortal dare the theme explore ? 
 May he to human ears his weak song frame ? 
 Oh ! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Spirits of pity ! mild Crusaders, come ! 
 
 Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float, 
 And give him eloquence who else were dumb. 
 
 And raise to feeling and to fire his note ! 
 
 And thou, Urania ! who dost still devote 
 Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, 
 
 Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote, 
 Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine. 
 And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 189 
 
 VI. 
 
 When from the temple's lofty summit prone, 
 Satan o'ercome, fell down ; and 'throned there, 
 
 The Son of God confess'd, in splendor shone ; 
 Swift as the glancing- sunbeam cuts the air, 
 Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, 
 
 Fled the stern king of Hell — and with the glare 
 Of gliding meteors, ominous and red. 
 Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late 
 
 The rude Massagetse adored, he bent 
 His northering course, while round, in dusky state. 
 
 The assembling fiends their summon 'd troops aug- 
 ment ; 
 
 Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went, 
 While, as they pass'd to regions more severe. 
 
 The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament 
 The solitary gale, and, fill'd with fear. 
 The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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 aye 
 Thrones him, — and, fix'd on his primeval mound, 
 
 Ruin, the giant, sits ; while stern Dismay 
 Stalks like some wo-struck man along the desert way. 
 
 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 
 ( Sweet interchange, which makes our labors light,) 
 
 Are there unknown ; while in the summer skies 
 The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height. 
 
I 
 
 \ 
 
 190 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Nor ever sets till 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 colors clear of every dark event. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight, 
 "^ And his thick host, 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. 
 Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 191 
 
 Lo ! the light breaks ! — The astonished nations gaze ! 
 For us is lifted high the avenging rod ! 
 For, spirits, this is He, — this is the Son of God. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 What then ! — shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear ? 
 
 Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign 
 Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear ? 
 
 Madness ! The very thought would make me fain 
 
 To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain, 
 And hurl them at their Maker !-^Fix'd as fate 
 
 I am his Foe ! — Yea, though his pride should deign 
 To soothe mine ire with half his regal state, ^fHk 
 
 Still would I burn with fix'd, unalterable hate. mf^ 
 
 XV. 
 
 Now hear the issue of my curs'd emprize. 
 
 When from our last sad %nod I took flight, 
 Buoy'd with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise, 
 
 To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write 
 
 His own self-condemnation ; in the plight 
 Of aged man in the lone wilderness, 
 
 Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight. 
 And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to guess 
 What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Then thus in homely guise I featly framed 
 
 My lowly speech : — 'Good sir, what leads this way 
 Your wandering steps ? must hapless chance be 
 blamed 
 
 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 ..s 
 
 That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.' *' 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ' I am that man,' said Jesus, ' I am He ! 
 
 But truce to questions^Canst thou point my feet 
 To some low hut, if haply such there be • 
 
 In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet 
 
192 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 With homely greeting, and may sit and eat ; 
 For forty days I have tarried fasting here, 
 
 Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, 
 And now I hunger ; and my fainting ear 
 Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing 
 near.' 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then thus I answer'd wily : — ' If, indeed, 
 Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek 
 
 For food from men ? — Lo ! on these flint stones feed, 
 Bid them be bread ! Open thy lips and speak, 
 And living rills from yon parch'd rock will break.' 
 
 Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye 
 Fix'd on my face ; — the blood forsook my cheek, 
 
 I could not bear his gaze ; — my mask slipp'd by ; 
 I would have shunn'd his look, but had not power to fly. 
 
 iix. 
 
 Then he rebuked me with the holy word — 
 Accursed sounds ! but now my native pride 
 
 Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd, 
 I bore him from the mountain's woody side, 
 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, 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 splendor 
 gain.' 
 
 XXI. 
 
 * Is it not written,' sternly he replied. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 193 
 
 ' 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 ear. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Senseless and stunn'd I lay ; till, casting round 
 My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe 
 
 Borne on a car of roses to the ground. 
 By volant angels ; and as sailing slow 
 He sunk, the hoary battlement below. 
 
 While on the tall spire slept the slant sun-beam, 
 Sweet on the enamoured zephyr was the flow 
 
 Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem, 
 On star-light hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's dream. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength ; 
 I smote the ether with my iron wing. 
 
 And left the accursed scene. — Arrived at length 
 In these drear halls, to ye, my peers ! I bring 
 The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king 
 
 Thrice vanquish'd, bafiled, smitten, and dismay'd ! 
 
 shame ! Is this the hero who could fling 
 Defiance at his Maker, while array'd. 
 
 High o'er the walls of light rebellion's banners play'd ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph long ; 
 
 Hell yet shall have revenge. — glorious sight, 
 Prophetic visions on my fancy throng, 
 
 1 see wild Agony's lean finger write 
 
 Sad figures on his forehead ! — Keenly bright 
 Revenge's flambeau burns ! Now in his eyes 
 
 Stand the hot tears, — immantled in the night, 
 Lo ! he retires to mourn ! — I hear his cries ! 
 He faints — ^he falls — and lo ! — 'tis true, ye powers, he 
 dies.' 
 
 17 
 
194 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Thus spake the chieftain, — and as if he view'd 
 The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced 
 
 And chest inflated, motionless he stood, 
 While under his uplifted shield he glanced. 
 With straining eye-ball fix'd, like one entranced, 
 
 On viewless air ; — thither the dark platoon 
 Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there 
 danced 
 
 The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon, 
 Darken'd the disk of the descending moon. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Silence crept stilly through the ranks. — The breeze 
 Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands. 
 
 When all the midnight gasping from the seas 
 Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands 
 High on the shrouds the spirit that commands 
 
 The ocean-farer's life ; so stiff" — so sear 
 
 Stood each dark power ; — while through their nu- 
 merous bands 
 
 Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear 
 Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 . One there was there, whose loud defying tongue 
 Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell 
 
 Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long 
 
 His passion mock'd, and long he strove to tell 
 His laboring ire ; still syllable none fell 
 
 From his pale quivering lip, but died away 
 For very fury ; from each hollow cell 
 
 Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray, 
 
 A]"JQ % # # # # 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 ' This comes,' at length burst from the furious 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 of 
 old! 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 195 
 
 wise I potent ! sagacious snare ! 
 
 And lo ! our prince — the mighty and the bold, 
 There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air, 
 While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her stand- 
 ard 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 con- 
 cern. 
 
 Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again to turn 
 His soul to rage. ' Behold, behold,' he cried, 
 
 ' The lord of Hell, who bade these legions spurn 
 Almighty rule — behold he lays aside 
 The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied.' 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Thus ended Moloch, and his [ burning ] tongue 
 Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat 
 
 In slaughter. So, his native wilds among. 
 The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his seat, 
 Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet. 
 
 Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword 
 
 Had from its scabbard sprung ; but toward the seat 
 
 Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord. 
 As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. 
 
 ' Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved tiiis of 
 old : who led your forces against the armies of Jehovah .'' 
 Who coped with Ithuriel and the thunders of the Al- 
 mighty ? Who, when stunned and confused ye lay on the 
 burning lake, who first awoke, and collected your scat- 
 tered powers ? Lastly, who led you across the un- 
 fathomable abyss to this delightful world, and establish- 
 ed 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 defence- 
 less — who 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 
 
196 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 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 pur- 
 poses determinately. In power we have learned, by 
 that experiment which lost us Heaven, that we are in- 
 ferior to the Thunder-bearer : — In subtlety — in subtlety 
 alone we are his equals. Open war is impossible. 
 
 Thus we shall pierce our Conqueror, through the race 
 Which as himself he loves ; thus if we fall, 
 
 We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace 
 Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call 
 Of vengeance wrings within me ! Warriors all. 
 
 The word is vengeance, and the spur despair. 
 
 Away with coward wiles ! — Death's coal-black pall 
 
 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 cloves 
 
 And cinnamon upheap'd the sacred pyre. 
 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 
 
 Of godlike deeds, far loftier that beseem 
 The lyre which I in early days have strung ; 
 And now my spirits faint, and I have hung 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 197 
 
 The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, 
 
 On the dark cypress ! and the strings which rung 
 With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, 
 Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard no 
 more. 
 
 And must the harp of Judah sleep again .-* 
 
 Shall I no more reanimate the lay ? 
 Oh ! thou who visitest the sons of men, 
 
 Thou who dost listen when the humble pray 
 
 One little space prolong my mournful day ! 
 One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 
 
 I am a youthful traveller in the way, 
 And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, 
 Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. 
 
 # 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 # 
 
 # 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 
 
 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 forever there. 
 Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone. 
 When science' self destroyed her favorite son ! 
 Yes ! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
 She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 
 
 * 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 dis- 
 ease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather tlian sub- 
 dued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the 
 liyehest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dig- 
 nified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume. 
 
 17* 
 
198 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 '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, 
 Viev/'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 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 Presented to me by his Brother, J. Neville White 
 
 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 dispossess'd ! 
 
 But thee Eternity clasps to her breast. 
 And in celestial splendor thrones thy claim. 
 
 II. 
 
 No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace 
 
 An imitative radiance :* 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. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 Bury, 11th Jan. 1807. 
 
 * Alluding to his penciled sketch of a head surrounded witli a glory. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 199 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. 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, forever 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. 
 
 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 can'st not inspire, 
 
 And 'in my breast th' 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 : 
 
200 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 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 honor 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 metj 
 
 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 reveal 'd, 
 
 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 favor'd urn. 
 
 When thy loved flower ' Spring's victory makes known,* 
 
 The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone : 
 
 Around thy urn the rosemary we'll spread, 
 
 Whose 'tender fragrance,' — emblem of the dead — 
 
 Shall ' teach the maid, whose bloom no longer lives,' 
 
 That ' Adrtue every perish'd grace survives.' 
 
 Farewell ! sweet Moralist ; heart-sickening grief 
 
 Tells me in duty's paths 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. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 201 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Supposed to have been written at the Grave of H. K. Wbite. 
 
 BY A LADY. 
 
 1. 
 
 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 favorite 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. 
 
 3. 
 
 Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude, 
 Oh 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. 
 
 4. 
 
 Ye falling dews, Oh ! ever leave 
 
 Your chrystal 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. 
 
 5. 
 
 Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams ; 
 For he was wont to pace the glade, 
 To watch in pale uncertain gleams, 
 
202 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 The crimson-zoned horizon fade — 
 Thy last, thy setting radiance pour, 
 Where he is set to rise no more. 
 
 ODE 
 
 ON THE LATE H. K. WHITE. 
 
 ? 
 
 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 wo, 
 
 Condemn 'd, alas ! awhile to stray. 
 
 Where bristly thorns, where briars grow, 
 He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, 
 
 Its heavenly music flow. 
 
 And oft he bade, by fame inspired, 
 Its wild notes seek th' ethereal plain, 
 
 Till angels by its music fired, 
 
 Have, listening, caught th' ecstatic strain, 
 
 Have wonder 'd, and admired. 
 
 But now secure on happier shores. 
 With choirs of sainted souls he sings ; 
 
 His harp th' 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 iEolian grieve. 
 
 JUVENIS. 
 B. Stoke. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 203 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 Occasioned by the Death of H. K. Wbite. 
 
 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 flowerets strew 
 The avenue, 
 Though fair, alas ! how fading, and how few. 
 
 And every hour comes arm'd 
 By sorrow, or by wo : 
 Conceal'd beneath its little wings, 
 A sithe the soft-shod pilferer brings. 
 To lay some comfort low : 
 Some tie V 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 scatter'd 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 th' 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 
 
20i COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 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 forever : 
 At death then why 
 Tremble or sigh ? 
 Oh ! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die ! 
 
 JOSIAH CONDER. 
 
 Dec. 5th, 1807. 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 On seeing another written to H. K. White, in September 1803, inserted in Lis ' Remains 
 by Robert Southey.' 
 
 BY ARTHUR OWEN. 
 
 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. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 205 
 
 Poor Henry's budding beauties — to a clime 
 Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray- 
 Forced their young vigor 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. 17th, 1807. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 IN MEMORY OP MB H. K. WHITE. 
 
 ' '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 wo : 
 Hush'd ill deep silence every gentle breeze ; 
 
 No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom ; 
 Cold, chilling dew-droops 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 ! 
 
 J. G. 
 
 REFLECTIONS, 
 
 On reading the Life of the late H. K. White. 
 
 BY WILLIAM HOLLO WAY, 
 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, forever lost. 
 What hopes, what prospects have been cross 'd 
 
 By Heaven's supreme decree .'' 
 18 
 
206 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 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 loorth 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 sTiall bloom ; 
 And those who now lament his doom 
 
 JMust bow to God's decree. 
 
 London, 27th Feb. 1808. 
 
gj/rk m.'&^-'i 
 
 OP H. K. WHITE. 207 
 
 ON READING THE POEM ON SOLITUDE, 
 
 In the second volume of H. K. White's 'Remains. 
 
 3uT 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 eay'st thou, thou art ' all alone .'' ' 
 
 JOSIAH CONDER. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. 
 
 BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M. 
 
 0, 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. 
 
208 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 209 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF H. K. WHITE. 
 
 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.* 
 '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 dew-drop, freed from earthly leaven, 
 That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven ! f 
 
 T. Park. 
 
 * See Clifton Grove, p. 16, ed. 1803. 
 
 t Young, I think, says of Narcissa, 'she sparkled, was exhaled, and went to 
 Heaven.' 
 
 END OF POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
PROSE REMAINS 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
COJ^fTE^WTS. 
 
 Letters . . , : 
 Remarks on the English Poets 
 Sternhold'and Hopkins 
 Remarks on the English Poets 
 Cursory Remarks on Tragedy 
 Melancholy Hours. No. I. 
 
 HI.' - 
 IV. 
 
 V. - 
 VI. 
 
 —344 
 
 Melancholy Hours, No. VII. 
 
 . 386 
 
 - 348 
 
 VIII. 
 
 390 
 
 350 
 
 IX. 
 
 - 395 
 
 - 353 
 
 X. 
 
 402 
 
 356 
 
 XI. 
 
 - 405 
 
 - 361 
 
 XII. 
 
 408 
 
 364 
 . 368 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 
 873 
 
 I, On Praver 
 
 - 414 
 
 . 377 
 
 II. .... 
 
 417 
 
 382 
 
 III. 
 
 . 420 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 # 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, September, 1799. 
 DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 In consequence of your repeated solicitations, I now 
 sit down to write to you, although I never received an 
 answer to the last letter which I wrote, nearly six 
 months ago ; but, as I never heard you mention it in 
 any of my mother's letters, I am induced to think it has 
 miscarried, or been mislaid in your office. 
 
 It is now nearly four months since I entered into Mr. 
 Coldham's office ; and it is with pleasure I can assure 
 you, that I never yet found anything disagreeable, but, 
 on the contrary, everything I do seems a pleasure to me, 
 and for a very obvious reason, — it is a business which I 
 like — a business which I chose before all others ; and I 
 have two good-tempered, easy masters, but who will, 
 nevertheless, see that their business is done in a neat 
 and proper manner. The study of the law is well 
 known to be a dry, difficult task, and requires a compre- 
 hensive, good understanding ; and I hope you will allow 
 me (without charging me with egotism) to have a tolera- 
 ble one ; and I trust with perseverance, and a very large 
 law library to refer to, I shall be able to accomplish the 
 study of so much of the laws of England, and our sys- 
 tem of jurisprudence, in less than five years, as to enable 
 me to be a country attorney ; and then, as I shall have 
 two more years to serve, I hope I shall attain so much 
 knowledge in all parts of the law, as to enable me, with, 
 a little study at the inns of court, to hold an argument 
 
214 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 on the nice points in the law with the best attorney in 
 the kingdom. A man that understands the law is sure 
 to have business ; and in case I have no thoughts, in 
 case that is, that I do not aspire to hold the honorable 
 place of a barrister, I shall feel sure of gaining a genteel 
 livelihood at the business to which I am articled. 
 
 I attend at the office at eight in the morning, and 
 le^e at eight in the evening ; then attend my Latin un- 
 til nine, which, you may be sure, is pretty close confine- 
 ment. ' 
 
 Mr. Coldham is clerk to the commercial commissioners, 
 which has occasioned us a deal of extraordinary work. 
 I worked all Sunday, and until twelve o'clock on Satur- 
 day night, when they were hurried to give in the cer- 
 tificates to the bank. We had also a very troublesome 
 cause last assizes. The Corporation versus Gee, which 
 we (the attorneys for the corporation) lost. It was 
 really a very fatiguing day, (I mean the day on which 
 \t was tried.) I never got anything to eat, from five in 
 he afternoon the preceding day, until twelve the next 
 light, when the trial ended. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, 26 June, 1800. 
 DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 ***** 
 
 My mother has allowed me a good deal lately for 
 Oooks, and I have a large assortment (a retailer's phrase.) 
 But I hope you do not suppose they consist of novels ; — 
 no — I have made a firm resolution never to spend above 
 one hour at this amusement. Though I have been 
 obliged to enter into this resolution in consequence of a 
 vitiated taste acquired by reading romances, I do not 
 intend to banish them entirely from my desk. After 
 long and fatiguing researches in Blackstone or Coke, 
 when the mind becomes weak, through intense appli- 
 cation, Tom Jones, or Robinson Crusoe, will afford a 
 pleasing and necessary relaxation. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 215 
 
 Apropos — now we are speaking of Robinson Crusoe, 
 I shall observe, that is allowed to be the best novel for 
 youth in the Eng-lish language. De Foe, the author, 
 was a singular character ; but as I make no doubt you 
 have read his life, I will not trouble you with any fur- 
 ther remarks. 
 
 The books which I now read with attention, are 
 Blackstone, Knox's Essays, Plutarch, Chesterfield's Let- 
 ters, four large volumes, Virgil, Homer, and Cicero, 
 and several others. Blackstone and Knox, Virgil and 
 Cicero, I have got ; the others I read out of Mr. Cold- 
 ham's library. I have finished Rollin's Ancient History, 
 Blair's Lectures, Smith's Wealth of Nations, Hume's 
 England, and British Nepos, lately. When I have read 
 Knox I will send it you, and recommend it to your at- 
 tentive perusal ; it is a most excellent work. I also read 
 now the British Classics, the common edition of which 
 I now take in ; it comes every fortnight ; I dare say you 
 have seen it ; itis Cooke's edition. I would recommend 
 you also to read these ; I will send them to you. I have 
 got the Citizen of the World, Idler, Goldsmith's Essays, 
 and part of the Hambler. I will send you soon the 
 fourth number of the Monthly Preceptor. I am noticed 
 as worthy of commendation, and as affording an en- 
 couraging prospect of future excellence.— You will laugh. 
 I have also turned poet, and have translated an Ode of 
 Horace into English verse, also for the Monthly Precep- 
 tor, but, unfortunately, when I sent it, I forgot the title, 
 so it wont be noticed. 
 
 I do not forsake the flowery paths of poesy, for that 
 is my chief delight ; I read the best poets. Mr. Cold- 
 ham has got Johnson's complete set, with their lives ; 
 these of course I read.. 
 
 With a little drudgery, I read Italian — Have got some 
 good Italian works, as Pastor Fido, &c. &c. I taught 
 myself, and have got a grammar. 
 
 I must now beg leave to return you my sincere thanks 
 for your kind present. I like ' La Bruyere the Less ' 
 very much ; I have read the original La Bruyere : I 
 think him like Rouchefoucault. Madame de Genlis is a 
 very able woman. 
 
216 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 But I must now attempt to excuse my neglect in not 
 writing to you. First, I have been very busy with these 
 essays and poems for the Monthly Preceptor. Second, 
 I was rather angry at your last letter — I can bear any- 
 thing but a sneer, and it was one continued grin from 
 beginning to end, as were all the notices you made of 
 me in my mother's letters, and I could not, nor can I 
 n'ow, brook it. I could say much more, but it is very 
 latCj and must beg leave to wish you good night. 
 I am, dear brother, 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 P. S. You may expect a regular correspondence from 
 me in future, but no sneers ; and shall be very obliged 
 by a long letter. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, 25lh June, 1800. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 ***** 
 
 You are inclined to flatter me when you compare my 
 application with yours ; in truth, I am not half so assidu- 
 ous as you, and I am conscious I waste a deal of time 
 unwittingly. But, in reading, I am upon the continual 
 search for improvement : I thirst after knowledge, and 
 though my disposition is naturally idle, I conquer it 
 when reading a useful book. The plan which I pursued, 
 in order to subdue my disinclination to dry books, was 
 this, to begin attentively to peruse it, and continue thus 
 one hour every day ; the book insensibly, by this means, 
 becomes pleasing to you ; and even when reading Black- 
 stone's Commentaries, which are very dry, I lay down 
 the book with regret. 
 
 With regard to the Monthly Preceptor, I certainly 
 shall be agreeable to your taking it in, as my only ob- 
 jection was the extreme impatience which I feel to see 
 whether my essays have been successful ; but this may 
 be obviated by your speedy perusal, and not neglecting 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 217 
 
 to forward it. But you must have the goodness not to 
 begin till August, as my bookseller cannot stop it this 
 month. 
 
 ***** 
 I had a ticket given me to the boxes, on Monday 
 night, for the benefit of Campbell, from Drury-Lane, 
 and there was such a riot as never was experienced here 
 before. He is a democrat, and the soldiers planned a 
 riot in conjunction with the mob. We heard the shout- 
 ing of the rabble in the street before the play was over ; 
 the moment the curtain dropped, an officer went into the 
 front box, and gave the word of command ; immediately 
 about sixty troopers started up, and six trumpeters in 
 the pit played 'God save the king.' The noise was 
 astonishing. The officers in the boxes then drew their 
 swords ; and at another signal the privates in the pit 
 drew their bludgeons, which they had hitherto conceal- 
 ed, and attacked all indiscriminately, that had not a uni- 
 form : the officers did the same with their swords, and 
 the house was one continued scene of confusion : one 
 pistol was fired j and the ladies were fainting in the lob- 
 by. The outer doors were shut to keep out the mob, 
 and the people jumped on the stage as a last resource. 
 One of these noble officers, seeing one man stand in the 
 pit with his hat on, jumped over the division, and cut 
 him with his sword, which the man instantly wrenched 
 from him, and broke, whilst the officer sneaked back in 
 disgrace. They then formed a troop, and having emp- 
 tied the play-house, they scour jsd the streets with their 
 swords, and returned home victorious. The players 
 are, in consequence, dismissed ; and we have informa- 
 tions in our office against the officers. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, Michaelmas-day, 1800. 
 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I CANNOT divine what, in an epistolary correspondence, 
 can have such charms (with people who write only com- 
 monplace occurrences) as to deta'^h a man from his 
 19 
 
218 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 usual affairs, and make him waste time and paper on 
 what cannot be of the least real benefit to his corres- 
 pondent. Amongst relatives, certainly there is always 
 an incitement ; we always feel an anxiety for their wel- 
 fare. But I have no friend so dear to me, as to cause 
 me to take the trouble of reading- his letters, if they only 
 contained an account of his health, and the mere noth- 
 ings of the day ; indeed, such an one would be unworthy 
 of friendship. What then is requisite to make one's 
 correspondence valuable .'' I answer, sound sense. Noth- 
 ing more is requisite ; as to the style, one may very 
 readily excuse its faults, if repaid by the sentiments. 
 You have better natural abilities than many youth, but it 
 is with regret I see that you will not give yourself the 
 trouble of writing a good letter. There is hardly any spe- 
 cies of composition (in my opinion) easier than the epis- 
 tolary; but, my friend, you never found any art, however 
 trivial, that did not require some application at first. For, 
 if an artist, instead of endeavouring to surmount the diffi- 
 culties which presented themselves, were to rest con- 
 tented with mediocrity, how could he possibly ever ar- 
 rive at excellence .'' Thus 'tis with you ; instead of 
 that indefatigable perseverance which, in other cases, 
 is a leading trait in your character, I hear you say, ' Ah, 
 my poor brains were never formed for letter-writing — 
 I shall never write a good letter,' or some such phrases ; 
 and thus by despairing of ever arriving at excellence, 
 you render yourself hardly tolerable. You may, per- 
 .haps, think this art beneath your notice, or unworthy 
 of your pains ; if so, you are assuredly mistaken, for 
 there is hardly anything which would contribute more 
 to the advancement of a young man, or which is more 
 engaging. 
 
 You read, I believe, a good deal ; nothing could be 
 more acceptable to me, or more improving to you, than 
 making a part of your letters to consist of your senti- 
 ments, and opinion of the books you peruse ; you have 
 no idea how beneficial this would be to yourself; and 
 that you are able to do it I am certain. One of the 
 greatest impediments to good writing, is the thinking 
 too much before you note down. This, I think, you are 
 not entirely free from. I hope, that by always writing 
 the first idea that presents itself, you will soon conquer 
 
OF H. K. WHITE, 219 
 
 it ; my letters are always the rough first draught, of course 
 there are many alterations ; these you will excuse. 
 
 I have written most of my letters to you in so negli- 
 gent a manner, that, if you would have the goodness to 
 return all you have preserved, sealed, I will peruse them, 
 and all sentences worth preserving I will extract, and 
 return. 
 
 You observe, in your last, that your letters are read 
 with contempt.^ — Do you speak as you think ? 
 
 You had better write again to Mr. . Between 
 
 friends, the common forms of the world in writing letter 
 for letter, need not be observed ; but never write three 
 without receiving one in return, because in that case 
 they must be thought unworthy of answer. 
 
 We have been so busy lately, I could not answer yours 
 sooner. — Once a month suppose we write to each other. 
 If you ever find that my correspondence is not worth 
 the trouble of carrying on, inform me of it, and it shall 
 
 cease. 
 
 ***** 
 
 P. S. If any expression in this be too harsh, excuse 
 it. — I am not in an ill humor, recollect. 
 
 TO fflS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, Uth April, 1801. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 On opening yours, I was highly pleased to find two 
 and a half sheets of paper, and nothing could exceed my 
 joy at so apparently a long letter, but upon finding it con- 
 sisted of sides filled after the rate of five words in a line, 
 and nine lines in a page, I could not conceal my chagrin ; 
 and I am sure I may very modestly say, that one of my 
 ordinary pages contains three of yours : if you knew half 
 the pleasure I feel in your correspondence, I am confi- 
 dent you would lengthen your letters. You tantalize me 
 with the hopes of a prolific harvest, and I find, alas ! a 
 thin crop, whose goodness only makes me lament its 
 scantiness. 
 
 » » « * * 
 
 I had almost forgot to tell you, that I have obtained 
 
220 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 the first prize (of a pair of Adams's twelve-inch globes, 
 value three guineas) in the first class of the Monthly- 
 Preceptor. The subject was an imaginary tour from 
 London to Edinburgh. It is printed consequently, and 
 shall send it to you the very first opportunity. The 
 proposals stated, that the essay was not to exceed three 
 pages when printed— mine takes seven ; therefore I am 
 astonished they gave me the first prize. There was 
 an extraordinary number of candidates ; and they said 
 they never had a greater number of excellent ones, and 
 they wished they could have given thirty prizes. You 
 
 will find it (in a letter) addressed to N , meaning 
 
 yourself. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Warton is a poet from whom I have derived the most 
 exquisite pleasure and gratification. He abounds in 
 sublimity and loftiness of thought, as well as expression. 
 His ' Pleasures of Melancholy' is truly a sublime poem. 
 The following passage I particularly admire : 
 
 ' Nor undelightful in the solemn noon 
 Of night, where, haply wakeful from my couch 
 I start, lo, all is motionless around ! n 
 
 Roars not the i ushing wind ; the sons of men, 
 ^ And every beast, in mute oblivion lie : 
 
 All Nature's hnsh'd in silence, and in sleep. 
 / Oh, then, liow fearful is it to reflect, 
 
 That through the still globe's awful solitude 
 No being wakes but me.' 
 
 How affecting are the latter lines ! it is impossible to 
 withstand the emotions which rise on its perusal, and I 
 envy not that man his insensibility who can read them 
 with apathy. Many of the pieces of the Bible are writ- 
 ten in this sublime manner : one psalm, I think the 18th, 
 is a perfect master-piece, and has been imitated by many 
 poets. Compare these, or the above quoted from War- 
 ton, with the finest piece in Pope, and then judge of the 
 rank which he holds as a poet. Another instance of the 
 sublime in poetry I will give you, from Akenside's admi- 
 rable 'Pleasures of Imagination,' where, speaking of the 
 soul he says, she 
 
 ' Rides on the voUied lightning througli the heavens, 
 And yoked with whiihvinds, and the northern blast. 
 Sweeps the long tract of day.' 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 221 
 
 Many of these instances of sublimity will occur to you in 
 Thomson. 
 
 James begs leave to present you with Bloomfield's 
 Farmer's Boy. Bloomfield has no grandeur or height ; 
 he is a pastoral poet, and the simply sweet is what you 
 are to expect from him ; nevertheless, his descriptions 
 are sometimes little inferior to Thomson. 
 ***** 
 
 How pleased should I be, Neville, to have you with 
 us at Nottingham ! Our fire-side would be delightful. — 
 I should profit by your sentiments and experience, and 
 you possibly might gain a little from my small bookish 
 knowledge. But I am afraid that time will never come ; 
 your time of apprenticeship is nearly expired, and, in all 
 appearance, the small residue that yet remains will be 
 passed in hated London. When you are emancipated, 
 you will have to mix in the bustle of the world, in all 
 probability, also, far from home ; so that when we have 
 just learned how happy we might mutually make our- 
 selves, we find scarcely a shadow of a probability of 
 ever having the opportunity. Well, well, it is in vain 
 to resist the immutable decrees of fate. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, April, 180]. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 As I know you will participate with me in the pleas- 
 ure I receive from literary distinctions, I hasten to inform 
 you, that my poetical Essay on Gratitude is printed in 
 this month's Preceptor ; that my remarks on Warton are 
 promised insertion in the next month's Mirror ; and that 
 my Essay on Truth is printed in the present (April) 
 Monthly Visitor. The Preceptor I shall not be able to 
 send you until the end of this month. The Visitor you 
 will herewith receive. The next month's Mirror I shall 
 consequently buy. I wish it were not quite so expen- 
 sive, as I think it a very good work. Benjamin Thom- 
 son, Capel LofTt, Esq., Robert Bloomfield, Thomas Der- 
 mody, Mr. Gilchrist, under the signature of Octavius, 
 19* 
 
222 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Mrs. Blore, a noted female writer, under the sig-hature 
 of Q. Z., are correspondents ; and the editors are not only 
 men of genius and taste, but of the greatest respectabili- 
 ty. As I shall now be a regular contributor to this Work, 
 and as I think it contains much good matter, I have 
 half an inclination to take it in, more especially as you 
 have got the prior volumes : but in the present state of 
 my finances it will not be prudent, unless you accede to 
 a proposal, which, I think, will be gratifying to yourself. 
 — It is, to take it in conjunction with me ; by which 
 means we shall both have the same enjoyment of it, with 
 half the expense. It is of little consequence who takes 
 them, only he must be expeditious in reading them. If 
 you have any the least objection to this scheme, do not 
 suppress it through any regard to punctilio. I have only 
 proposed it, and it is not very material whether you con- 
 cur or not ; only exercise your own discretion. 
 
 You say, (speaking of a passage concerning you in my 
 last,) ' this is compliment sufficient ; the rest must be 
 flattery.' — Do you seriously, Neville, think me capable 
 of flattery ? 
 
 As you well know I am a carping, critical little dog, 
 you will not be surprised at my observing that there 
 is one figure in your last that savors rather of the ludi- 
 crous, when you talk of a ' butterfly hopping from book 
 to book.' 
 
 As to the something that I am to find out, that is a 
 perpetual bar to your progress in knowledge, &c., I am 
 inclined to think, Doctor, it is inerely conceit. You fancy 
 that you cannot write a letter — you dread its idea ; you 
 conceive that a work of four volumes would require the 
 labors of a life to read through ; you persuade yourself 
 that you cannot retain what you read, and in despair do 
 not attempt to conquer these visionary impediments. 
 Confidence, Neville, in one's own abilities, is a sure fore- 
 •runner (in similar circumstances with the present) of 
 success. As an illustration of this, I beg leave to adduce 
 the example of Pope, who had so high a sense, in his 
 youth, or rather in his infancy, of his own capacity, that 
 there was nothing of which, when once set about, he 
 did not think himself capable ; and, as Dr. Johnson has 
 observed, the natural consequence of this minute percep- 
 tion of his own powers, was his arriving at as high a 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 223 
 
 pitch of perfection as it was possible for a man witli his 
 few natural endowments to attain. 
 
 ***** 
 
 When you wish to read Johnson's Lives o tne Poets, 
 send for them : I have lately purchased them. I have 
 now a large library. My mother allows me ten pounds 
 per annum for clothes. I always dress in a respectable 
 and even in a genteel manner, yet I can make much less 
 than this sum suffice. My father generally gives me 
 one coat in a year, and I make two serve. I then re- 
 ceive one guinea per annum for keeping my mother's 
 books ; one guinea per annum pocket-money : and by 
 other means I gain, perhaps, tv/o guineas more per an- 
 num : so that I have been able to buy pretty many ; and 
 when you come home, you will find me in my study 
 surrounded with books and papers. I am a perfect gar- 
 reteer : great part of my library, however, consists of 
 professional books. Have you read Burke on the Sub- 
 lime ? Knox's Winter Evening ? — Can lend them to 
 you, if you have not. 
 
 Really, Neville, were you fully sensible how much 
 my time is occupied, principally about my profession, as 
 a primary concern, and in the hours necessarily set 
 apart to relaxation, on polite literature, to which, as a 
 hobby-horse, I am very desirous of paying some atten- 
 tion, you would not be angry at my delay in writing, or 
 my short letters. It is alv/ays with joy that I devote a 
 leisure hour to you, as it affords you gratification ; and 
 rest assured, that I always participate in your pleasure, 
 and poignantly feel every adverse incident which causes 
 you pain. 
 
 Permit me, however, again to observe, that one of my 
 sheets is equal to two of yours ; and I cannot but con- 
 sider this is a kind of fallacious deception, for you 
 always think that your letters contain so much more 
 than mine because they occupy more room. If you 
 were to count the words, the difference would not be 
 so great. You must also take in account the unsealed 
 communications to periodical works, which I now reckon 
 a part of my letter ; and therefore you must excuse my 
 concluding on the first sheet, by assuring you that I still 
 remain Your friend and brother, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
224: COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 P. S. A postscript is a natural appendage to a let- 
 ter. — I only have to say, that positively you shall re- 
 ceive a six or eight sheet letter, and that written legibly, 
 ere long. 
 
 TO MR. BOOTH. 
 
 Nottingham, August 12th, 1801. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 I MUST beg leave to apologize for not having return- 
 ed my sincere acknowledgements to yourself and Mrs. 
 Booth, for your very acceptable presents, at an earlier 
 period. I now, however, acquit myself of the duty ; 
 and assure you, that from both of the works I have re- 
 ceived much gratification and edification, but more par- 
 ticularly from one on the Trinity,* a production which 
 displays much erudition, and a very laudable zeal for 
 the true interests of religion. Religious polemics, in- 
 deed, have seldom formed a part of my studies ; though, 
 whenever I happened accidentally to turn my thoughts 
 to the subject of the Protestant doctrine of the Godhead, 
 and compared it with Arian and Socinian, many doubts 
 interfered, and I even began to think that the more 
 nicely the subject was investigated, the more perplexed 
 it would appear, and was on the point of forming a reso- 
 lution to go to heaven in my own way, without meddling 
 or involving myself in the inextricable labyrinth of con- 
 troversial dispute, when I received and perused this ex- 
 cellent treatise, which finally cleared up the mists which 
 my ignorance had conjured around me, and clearly 
 pointed out the real truth. The intention of the author 
 precluded the possibility of his employing the ornaments 
 and graces of composition in his work ; for as it was 
 meant for all ranks, it must be suited to all capacities ; 
 but the arguments are drawn up and arranged in so 
 forcible and perspicuous a manner, and are written so 
 plainly, yet pleasingly, that I was absolutely charmed 
 with them. 
 
 The '.Evangelical Clergyman' is a very smart piece ; 
 
 * Jones on the Trinity. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. - 225 
 
 the author possesses a considerable portion of sarcastic 
 spirit, and no Uttle acrimony, perhaps not consistent 
 with the christian meekness which he wishes to incul- 
 cate. I consider, however, that London would not 
 have many graces, or attractions, if despoiled of all the 
 amusements to which, in one part of his pamphlet, he 
 objects. In theory, the destruction of these vicious 
 recreations is very fine : but in practice, I am afraid he 
 would find it quite different. * * * The other parts 
 of this piece- are very just, and such as every person 
 must subscribe to. Clergymen, in general, are not 
 
 what they ought to be ; and I think Mr. has 
 
 pointed out their duties very accurately. But I am 
 afraid I shall be deemed impertinent and tiresome, in 
 troubling you with ill-timed and obtrusive opinions, and 
 beg leave, therefore, to conclude, with respects to your- 
 self and Mrs. Booth, by assuring you that I am, accord- 
 ing to custom from time immemorial, and in due form, 
 Dear sir, your obliged humble servant, 
 
 HENRY K. WHITE. 
 
 TO MR. CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 Nottingham, 1802. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 I AM sure you will excuse me for not having immedi- 
 ately answered your letter, when I relate the cause. — I 
 was preparing, at that moment when I received yours, 
 a volume of poems for the press, which I shall shortly 
 see published. I finished and sent them off for London 
 last night ; and I now hasten to acknowledge your 
 letter. 
 
 I am very happy that any poem of mine should meet 
 with your approbation. I prefer the cool and dispassion- 
 ate praise of the discriminate /eio, to the boisterous ap- 
 plause of the crowd. 
 
 Our professions neither of them leave much leisure 
 for the study of polite literature, I myself have, however, 
 coined time, if you will allow the metaphor ; and while I 
 have made such a proficiency in the law, as has ensured 
 me the regard of my governors, I have paid my secret 
 
226 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 devoirs to the ladies of Helicon. My draughts at the 
 'fountain Arethuse,' it is true, have been principally 
 made at the hour of midnight, when even the guardian 
 nymphs of the well may be supposed to have slept ; they 
 are, consequently, stolen and forced. I do not see any- 
 thing in the confinement of our situations, in the mean- 
 time, which should separate congenial minds, i A litera- 
 ry acquaintance is, to me, always valuable ; and a friend^ 
 whether lettered or unlettered, is highly worth cultiva- 
 tion. I hope we shall both of us have enough leisure to 
 keep up an intimacy which began very agreeably for 
 me, and has been suffered to decay with regret. 
 
 I am not able to do justice to your unfortunate friend 
 Gill ; I knew him only superficially, and yet I saw enough 
 of his unassuming modesty, and simplicity of manners, 
 to feel a conviction that he had a valuable heart. The 
 verses on the other side are perhaps beneath mediocrity ; 
 they are, sincerely, the work of thirty minutes this 
 morning, and I send them to you with all their imper- 
 fections on their head. 
 
 Perhaps they will have sufficient merit for the Not- 
 tingham paper ; at least their locality will shield them a 
 little in that situation, and give them an interest they 
 do not otherwise possess. 
 
 Do you think calling the Naiads of the fountains 
 ' Nymphs of Peeon' is an allowable liberty ? The allu- 
 sion is to their healthy and bracing qualities. 
 
 The last line of the seventh stanza contains an appar- 
 ent pleonasm, to say no worse of it, and yet it was not 
 written as such. The idea was from the shriek of Death 
 (personified) and the scream of the dying man. 
 ***** 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 Occasioned by the Death of Mr. Gill who was drowned in the River Trent, while bathing, 
 9th August, 1802. 
 
 1. 
 
 He sunk — tU' impetuous river roll'd along, 
 
 The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath ; 
 And rising sad the rustling sedge among. 
 
 The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death. 
 
 2. 
 
 Nymph of the Trent ! why didst not thou appear 
 To snatch the victim from thy felon wave ! 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 227 
 
 Alas ! too late thou cam'st to embalm his bier. 
 And deck with water-flags his early grave. 
 
 3. 
 
 Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey, 
 
 Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride ; 
 While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay. 
 
 And ask die swoln corse from the murdering tide. 
 
 4. 
 
 The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye. 
 
 The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, 
 I mark them rise — I mark the general sigh ; 
 
 Unliappy youth! and wert thou so beloved 1 
 
 On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink. 
 When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade; 
 
 On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink 
 To hold mysterious converse with thy shade. 
 
 6. 
 
 Of thee, as early I, witli vagrant feet. 
 
 Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale, 
 
 Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet. 
 And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale. 
 
 7. 
 And, oh ! ye nymphs of Pseon ! who preside 
 
 O'er running rill and salutary stream. 
 Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide 
 
 From the rude Death-shriek and tlie dying scream. 
 
 TO MR. M. HARRIS. 
 
 Nottingham, 28th March, 1802. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 I WAS greatly surprised at your letter of the twenty- 
 seventh, for I had m reality given you up for lost. I 
 should long since have written to you, in answer to your 
 note about the Lexicon, but was perfectly ignorant of 
 the place of your abode. For anything I knew to the 
 contrary, you might have been quaffing the juice of the 
 cocoa-nut under the broad bananas of the Indies, breath- 
 ing the invigorating air of liberty in the broad savan- 
 nas of America, or sweltering beneath the line. I had, 
 however, even then, some sort of a presentiment that 
 you were not quite so far removed from our foggy atmos- 
 phere, but not enough to prevent me from being aston- 
 ished at finding you so near us as Leicester. You tell 
 
228 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 me I must not ask you what you are doing- ; I am, never- 
 theless, very anxious to know ; not so much, I flatter 
 myself, from any inquisitiveness of spirit, as from a de- 
 sire to hear of your welfare. Why, my friend, did you 
 leave us ? possessing-, as you did, if not exactly the otium 
 cum dignitate^ something very like it ; having every com- 
 fort and enjoyment at your call, which the philosophical 
 mind can find pleasure in ; and, above all, blessed with 
 that easy competence, that 'sweet independence, which 
 renders the fatigues of employment supportable, and 
 even agreeable. 
 
 Quod satis est, cui contingit, nihil amplius optet. 
 Certainly, to a man of your disposition, no situation 
 could have more charms than yours at the Trent-Bridge. 
 I regard those hours which I spent with you there, 
 while the moon-beam was trembling on the waters, and 
 the harp of Eolus was giving us its divine swells and 
 dying falls, as the most sweetly tranquil of my life. 
 
 ^ * * * itii 
 
 I have applied myself rather more to Latin than to 
 Greek since you left us. I make use of Schrevelius' 
 Lexicon, but shall be obliged to you to buy me the Park- 
 hurst, at any decent price, if possible. Can you tell me 
 any mode of joining the letters in writing in the Greek 
 character .'' I find it difficult enough. The following is 
 my manner ; is it right .'' 
 
 ***** 
 
 I can hardly flatter myself that you will give yourself 
 the trouble of corresponding with me, as all the advan- 
 tage would be on my side, without anything to compen- 
 sate for it on yours ; but — but in fact I do not know what 
 to say further, — only, that whenever you shall think me 
 worthy of a letter, I shall be highly gratified. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, 30th February, 1803. 
 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 Now with regard to the subscription, I shall certainly 
 agree to this mode of publication, and I am very much 
 
OF II. K. WHITE. 229 
 
 obliged to you for what you say regarding it. But we 
 must wait (except among your private friends) until we 
 get Lady Derby's answer, and Proposals are printed. 
 I think we shall readily raise 350, though Nottingham 
 is the worst place imaginable for anything of that kind. 
 Even envy will interfere. I shall send proposals to 
 Chesterfield, to my uncle ; to Sheffield, to Miss Gales', 
 (booksellers,) whom I saw at Chesterfield, and who have 
 lately sent me a pressing invitation to S , accompa- 
 nied with a desire of Montgomery (the Poet Paul Positive) 
 to see me ; to Newark — Allen and Wright, my friends 
 there, (the latter a bookseller ; ) and I think if they were 
 stitched up with all the Monthly Mirrors, it would pro- 
 mote the subscription. You are not to take any money ; 
 that would be absolute begging : the subscribers put 
 down their names, and pay the bookseller of whom they 
 get the copy. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE, 
 
 Nottingham, 10th March, 1803. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I AM cured of patronage hunting ; I will not expose 
 myself to any more similar mortifications, but shall 
 thank you to send the manuscripts to Mr. Hill, with a 
 note, stating that I had written to the Dutchess, and re- 
 ceiving no answer, you had called, and been informed 
 by a servant, that in all probability she never read the 
 letter, as she desired to know ^vhat the book ivas left there 
 for ; that you had in consequence, come away with the 
 manuscripts, under a conviction that your brother v/ould 
 give Her Grace no further trouble. State also, that you 
 have received a letter from me, expressing a desire that 
 the publication might be proceeded on without any fur- 
 ther solicitation or delay. 
 
 A name of eminence was, nevertheless, a most de- 
 sirable thing to me in Nottingham, as it would attach 
 more respectability to the subscription ; but I see all fur- 
 ther efforts will only be productive of procrastination., 
 20 
 
230 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 ***** 
 
 I think you may as well begin to obtain subscribers 
 amongst friends now, though the proposals may not be 
 issued at present. 
 
 I have got twenty-three, without making the aflfair 
 publie at all, among my immediate acquaintance : and 
 mind, I neither solicit nor draw the conversation to the 
 subject, but a rumor has got abroad, and has been re- 
 ceived more favorably than I expected. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, 2d May, 1803. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I HAVE just gained a piece of intelligence which much 
 vexes me. Robinson, the bookseller, knows that I have 
 written to the Dutchess of Devonshire, and he took the 
 liberty (certainly an unwarrantable one) to mention it 
 to * * *, whose * * * ^as inscribed to Her 
 Grace. Mr. * * * said, that unless I had got a friend 
 to deliver the poems, personally, into the hands of Her 
 Grace, it was a hundred to one that they ever reached 
 her ; that the porter at the lodge burns scores of letters 
 and packets a day, and particularly all letters by the two- 
 penny post are consigned to the fire. The rest, if they 
 are not particularly excepted, as inscribed with a pass 
 name on the back, are thrown into a closet, to be reclaim- 
 ed at leisure. He said, the way he proceeded was this: 
 — He left his card at her door, and the next day called, 
 and was admitted. Her Grace then gave him permis- 
 sion, with this proviso, that the dedication was as short 
 as possible, and contained no compliments, as the Duke 
 had taken offence at some such compliments. 
 • Now, as my letter was delivered by you at the door, 
 I have scarcely a doubt that it is classed with the pen- 
 ny-post letters, and burnt. If my manuscripts are 
 destroyed, I am ruined, but I hope it is otherwise. 
 However, I think you had better call immediately, and 
 ask for -a parcel of Mr. H. White, of Nottingham. They 
 will, of course, say they have no such parcel ; and then, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 231 
 
 perhaps, you may have an opportunity of asking" whether 
 a packet, left in the manner you left mine, had any pro- 
 bability of reaching the Dutchess. If you obtain no sat- 
 isfaction, there remains no way of re-obtaining my vol- 
 ume but this (and I fear you will never agree to put in 
 execution ;) to leave a card, with your name inscribed, 
 (Mr. J= N. White,) and call the next day. If you are 
 admitted, you will state to Her Grace the purport of your 
 errand, ask for a volume of poems in manuscript, sent 
 by your brother a fortnight ago, with a letter, (say from 
 Nottingham, as a reason why I do not wait on her,) re- 
 questing permission of dedication to her ; and that as you 
 found Her Grace had not received them, you had taken 
 the liberty, after manj^ inquiries at her door, to request 
 to see her in person. 
 
 I hope your diffidence will not be put to this test ; 
 I hope you will get the poems without trouble : as for 
 begging patronage, I am tired to the soul of it, and 
 shall give it up. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, 1803. 
 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I WRITE you, with intelligence of a very important 
 nature. You some time ago had an intimation of my 
 wish to enter the church, in case my deafness was not 
 removed. — About a week ago I became acquainted with 
 
 the Rev. ■ , late of St. John's College, Cambridge, 
 
 and in consequence of what he has said, I have finally 
 determined to enter myself of Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge, with the approbation of all my friends. 
 
 Mr. — says that it is a shame to keep me away 
 
 from the university, and that circumstances are of no 
 importance. He says, that if I am entered of Trinity, 
 where they are all select men, I must necessarily, with my 
 abilities, arrive at preferment. He says he will be an- 
 swerable that the first year I shall obtain a scholarship, 
 or an exhibition adequate to my support. That by the 
 time I have been of five years' standing, I shall of course 
 
232 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 become a Fellow (2001. a-year ;) that with the Fellow- 
 ship I may hold a Professorship, (5001. per annum,) and 
 a living or curacy, until better preferments occur. He 
 says, that there is no uncertainty in the church to a truly 
 pious man, and a man of abilities and eloquence. That 
 those who are unprovided for, are generally men who, 
 having no interest, are idle drones, or dissolute debau- 
 chees, and therefore ought not to expect advancement. 
 That a poet, in particular, has the means of patronage 
 in his pen : and that, in one word, no young man can 
 enter the church (except he be of family) with better 
 prospects than myself. On the other hand, Mr. Enfield 
 has himself often observed, that my deafness will be an 
 insuperable obstacle to me as an attorney, and has said 
 how unfortunate a thing it was for me not to have known 
 of the growing defect, in my organs of hearing, before 
 I articled myself. Under these circumstances, I con- 
 ceive I should be culpable did I let go so good an oppor- 
 tunity as now occurs. Mr. will write to all his 
 
 university friends, and he says there is so much liberali- 
 ty there, that they will never let a young man of talents 
 be turned from his studies by want of cash. 
 
 Yesterday I spoke to Mr. Enfield, and he, with unex- 
 ampled generosity, said that he saw clearly what an ad- 
 vantageous thing it would be for me ; that I must be 
 sensible what a great loss he and Mr. Coldham would 
 suffer ; but that he was certain neither he, nor Mr, 
 
 C , could oppose themselves to anything which 
 
 was so much to my advantage. When Mr. C re- 
 turns from London, the matter will be settled with ray 
 mother. 
 
 All my mother's friends seem to think this an excel- 
 lent thing for me, and will do all in their power to for- 
 ward me. 
 
 Now we come to a very important part of the busi- 
 ness — the means. I shall go with my friend Robert, in 
 the capacity of Sizer^ to whom the expense is not more 
 than 601. per annum. Towards this sum my mother 
 will contribute 201., being what she allows me now for 
 clothes ; (by this means she will save my board :) and, 
 for the .residue, I must trust to getting a Scholarship, or 
 Chapel Clerk's post. But, in order to make this residue 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 233 
 
 certain, I shall, at the expiration of twelve months, pub- 
 lish a second volume of poems by subscription. 
 * * * * * 
 
 My friend, Mr. says, that so far as his means 
 
 will go, I shall never ask assistance in vain. He has 
 but a small income, though of great family. He has 
 just lost two rectories by scruples of conscience, and 
 
 now preaches at for 801. a-year. The following 
 
 letter he put into my hand as I was leaving him, after 
 having breakfasted with him yesterday. He put it into 
 my hand, and requested me not to read it until I got 
 home. It is a breach of trust letting you see it, but I 
 wish you to know his character. 
 ' My dear Sir, 
 
 ' I sincerely wish I had it in my power to render you 
 any essential service, to facilitate your passing through 
 College : believe me, I have the will, but not the means. 
 Should the enclosed be of any service, either to purchase 
 books, or for other pocket expenses, I request your ac- 
 ceptance of it ; but must entreat you not to notice it, 
 either to myself, or any living creature. I pray God that 
 you may employ those talents that he has given you to 
 his glory, and to the benefit of his people. I have great 
 fears for you ; the temptations of College are great. 
 Believe me very sincerely yours, 
 
 The enclosure was 21. 2s. I could not refuse what 
 was so delicately offered, though I was sorry to take it : 
 he is truly an amiable character. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, 1803. 
 
 DEAK NEVILLE, 
 
 You may conceive with what emotions I read your 
 brotherly letter ; I feel a very great degree of aversion 
 to burdening my family any more than I have done, and 
 now do ; but an offer so delicate and affectionate I can 
 
 20* 
 
234 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 not refuse, and if I should need pecuniary assistance, 
 which I am in hopes I shall not, at least after the first year, 
 I shall without a moment's hesitation apply to my 
 brother Neville. 
 
 My college schemes yet remain in a considerable de- 
 gree of uncertainty ; I am very uneasy thereabouts. I 
 have not heard from Cambridge yet, and it is very 
 doubtful whether there be a vacant Sizership in Trinity : 
 so that I can write you no further information on this 
 
 head. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I suppose you have seen my review in this month's 
 Mirror, and that I need not comment upon it ; such a 
 review I neither expected, nor in fact deserve. 
 
 I shall not send up the Mirror, this month, on this ac- 
 count, as it is policy to keep it ; and you have, no doubt, 
 received one from Mr. Hill. 
 
 The errors in the Greek quotation I perceived the 
 moment I got down the first copies, and altered them, 
 in most, with the pen ; they are very unlucky ; I have 
 sent up the copies for the reviewiS myself, in order that 
 I might make the correction in them. 
 
 I have got now to write letters to all the reviewers, 
 and hope you will excuse my abrupt conclusion of this 
 letter on that score. 
 
 I am, dear Neville, affectionately yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 I shall write to Mr. Hill now the first thing ; I owe 
 much to him. 
 
 TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 
 
 Nottingham, 
 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 ***** 
 
 And now, my dear Ben, I must confess your letter 
 gave me much pain ; there is a tone of despondence in 
 it which 1 must condemn, inasmuch as it is occasioned 
 by circumstances which do not involve your own exer- 
 tions, but which are utterly independent of yourself: if 
 
' OF H. K. WHITE. 235 
 
 you do your duty, why lament that it is not productive ? 
 In whatever situation we may be placed, there is a duty 
 we owe to God and relig-ion : it is resignation ; — nay, I 
 may say, contentment. All things are in the hands of 
 God ; and shall we mortals (if we do not absolutely re- 
 pine at his dispensations) be fretful under them .'' I do 
 beseech you, my dear Ben, summon up the Christian 
 within you, and steeled with holy fortitude go on your 
 Way rejoicing ! There is a species of morbid sensibility 
 to which I myself have often been a victim, which preys 
 upon my heart, and, without giving birth to one actively 
 useful or benevolent feeling, does but brood on selfish 
 sorrows, and magnify its own misfortunes. The evils 
 of such a sensibility, I pray to God you may never feel ^^ 
 but I would have you beware, for it grows on persons 
 of a certain disposition before they are aware of it. 
 
 I am sorry my letter gave you pain, and I trust my 
 suspicions were without foundation. Time, my dear 
 Ben, is the discoverer of hearts, and I feel a sweet con- 
 iidence that he will knit ours yet more closely together. 
 
 I believe my lot in life is nearly fixed ; a month will 
 tell me whether I am to be a minister of Christ, in the 
 established church, or out. One of the two, I am now 
 finally resolved, if it please God, to be. I know my own 
 unworthiness : I feel deeply that I am far from being 
 that pure and undefiled temple of the Holy Ghost that a 
 minister of the word of life ought to be, yet still I have 
 an unaccountable hope that the Lord will sanctify my 
 efforts, that he will purify me, and that I shall become 
 his devoted servant. 
 
 I am at present under afflictions and contentions of 
 spirit, heavier than I have yet ever experienced. I 
 think, at times, I am mad, and destitute of religion. My 
 pride is not yet subdued : the unfavorable review (in the 
 ' Monthly ') of my unhappy work, has cut deeper than 
 you could have thought ; not in a literary point of view, 
 but as it affects my respectability. It represents me ac- 
 tually as a beggar, going about gathering money to put 
 myself at College, when my book is v/orthless ; and this 
 with every appearance of candor. They have been sadly 
 misinformed respecting me : this Review goes before me 
 wherever I turn my steps ; it haunts me incessantly, and 
 I am persuaded it is an instrument in the hands of Satan 
 
236 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 to drive me to distraction. I must leave Nottingham. 
 If the answer of the Elland Society be unfavorable, I 
 purpose writing to the Marquis of Wellesley, to offer my- 
 self as a student at the academy he has instituted at 
 Fort William, in Bengal, and at the proper age to take 
 orders there. The missionaries at that place have done 
 wonders already, and I should, I hope, be a valuable 
 laborer in the vineyard. If the Marquis take no notice 
 of my application, or do not accede to my proposal, I 
 shall place myself in some other way of making a meet 
 preparation for the holy office, either in the Calvinistic 
 Academy, or in one of the Scotch Universities, where I 
 shall be able to live at scarcely any expense. 
 
 TO MR. R. A- 
 
 Nottingham, 18th April, 1804. 
 MY DEAR ROBERT, 
 
 I HAVE just received your letter. Most fervently do I 
 return thanks to God for this providential opening ; it 
 has breathed new animation into me, and my breast 
 expands with the prospect of becoming the minister of 
 Christ where I most desired it ; but where I almost fear- 
 ed all probability of success was nearly at an end. In- 
 deed, I had begun to turn my thoughts to the dissenters, 
 as people of whom I was destined, not by choice, bat 
 necessity, to become the pastor. Still, although I knew 
 I should be happy anywhere, so that I were a profitable 
 laborer in the vineyard, I did, by no means, feel that 
 calm, that indescribable satisfaction which I do, when I 
 look toward that church, which I think, in the main, 
 formed on the apostolic model, and from which I am 
 decidedly of opinion there is no positive grounds for dis- 
 sent. I return thanks to God for keeping me so long in 
 suspense, for I know it has been beneficial to my soul, 
 and I feel a considerable trust that the way is now about 
 to be made clear, and that my doubts and fears on this 
 head will, in due time, be removed. 
 
 Could I be admitted to St. John's, I conclude, from 
 what I have heard, that my provision would be adequate » 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 237 
 
 not otherwise. From my mother I could depend on 15 
 or 201. a-year, if she live, toward college expenses, and 
 I could spend the long vacation at home. The 201. per 
 annum from my brother would suffice for clothes, &c. ; 
 so that if I could procure 201. a-year more, as you seem 
 to think I may, by the kindness of Mr. Martyn, I con- 
 ceive I might, with economy, be supported at College ; 
 of this, however, you are the best judge. 
 
 You may conceive how much I feel obliged by Mr. 
 Martyn on this head, as well as to you, for your un- 
 wearying exertions. Truly, friends have risen up to 
 me in quarters where I could not have expected them, 
 and they have been raised, as it were, by the finger of 
 God. I have reason, above all men, to be grateful to 
 the Father of all mercies for his loving-kindness towards 
 me ; surely no one can have had more experience of the 
 fatherly concern with which God watches over, protects, 
 and succours his chosen seed, than I have had ; and 
 surely none could have less expected such a manifesta- 
 tion of his grace, and none could have less merited its 
 continuance. 
 
 In pursuance of your injunction, I shall lay aside Gro- 
 tius, and take up Cicero and Livy, or Tacitus. In Greek 
 I must rest contented for the ensuing fourteen days with 
 the Testament ; I shall then have conquered the Gospels, 
 and, if things go on smoothly, the Acts. I shall then 
 read Homer, and perhaps Plato's Phajdon, which I late- 
 ly picked up at a stall. My classical knowledge is very 
 superficial ; it has very little depth or solidity ; but I 
 have really so small a portion of leisure, that I wonder 
 at the progress 1 do make. I believe I must copy the 
 old divines, in rising at four o'clock : for my evenings 
 are so much taken up with visiting the sick, and with 
 young men who come for religious conversation, that 
 there is but little time for study. 
 
COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 
 
 Nottingham, 24th April, 1804^ 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 Truly I am grieved, that whenever I undertake to be 
 the messenger of glad tidings, I should frustrate my own 
 design, and communicate to my good intelligence a tint 
 of sadness, as it were by contagion. Most joyfully did 
 I sit down to write my last, as I knew I had wherewith 
 to administer comfort to you ; and yet, after all, I find 
 that, by gloomy anticipations, I have converted my bal- 
 sam into bitterness, and have by no means imparted 
 that unmixed pleasure which I wished to do. 
 
 Forebodings and dismal calculations are, I am con- 
 vinced, very useless, and I think very pernicious specu- 
 lations — ' Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.' — And 
 yet how apt are we, when imminent trials molest us, to 
 increase the burden by melancholy ruminations on fu- 
 ture evils ! — evils which exist only in our own imagina- 
 tions — and v/hich, should they be realized, will certainly 
 arrive in time to oppress us sufficiently without our ad- 
 ding to their existence by previous apprehension, and 
 thus voluntarily incurring the penalty of misfortunes yet 
 in perspective, and trials yet unborn. Let us guard, 
 then, I beseech you, against these ungrateful divinations 
 into the womb of futurity — we know our affairs are in 
 the hands of one who has wisdom to do for us beyond 
 our narrow prudence, and we cannot, by taking thought, 
 avoid any afflictive dispensation which God's providence 
 may have in store for us. Let us therefore enjoy with 
 thankfulness the present sunshine, without adverting to 
 the coming storm. Few and transitory are the inter- 
 vals of calm and settled day with which we are cheered 
 in the tempestuous voyage of life ; we ought therefore 
 to enjoy them, while they last, with unmixed delight, 
 and not turn the blessing into a curse by lamenting that 
 it cannot endure without interruption. We, my beloved 
 friend, are united in our affections by no common bands 
 — bands which, I trust, are too strong to be easily dis- 
 severed^ — yet we know not what God may intend with 
 respect to us, nor have we any business to inquire — we 
 should rely on the mercy of our Father, who is in hea- 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 239 
 
 ven — and if we are to anticipate, we should hope the 
 best, i stand self-accused therefore for my prurient, 
 and, I may say, irreligious fears. A prudent foresight, 
 as it may guard us from many impending dangers, is 
 laudable ; but a morbid propensity to seize and brood 
 over future ills, is agonizing, while it is utterly useless, 
 and therefore ought to be repressed. 
 
 I have received intelligence, since writing the above, 
 which nearly settles my future destination. A in- 
 forms me that Mr. Martyn, a Fellow of St. John's, has 
 about 201. a-year to dispose of towards keeping a reli- 
 gious man at College — and he seems convinced that if 
 my mother allows me 201. a-year more, I may live at St. 
 Johri's provided I could gain admittance, which, at that 
 college, is difficult, unless you have previously stood in 
 the list for a year. Mr. Martyn thinks, if I propose my- 
 self immediately, I shall get upon the foundation, and 
 by this day's post I have transmitted testimonials of my 
 classical acquirements. In a few days, therefore, I hope 
 to hear that I am on the boards of St. John's. 
 
 Mr. Dashwood has informed me, that he also has re- 
 ceived a letter from a gentleman, a magistrate near 
 Cambridge, offering me all the assistance in his power 
 towards getting through the College, so as there be no 
 obligation. My way therefore is now pretty clear. 
 
 I have just risen from my knees, returning thanks to 
 our heavenly Father for this providential opening — my 
 heart is quite full. Help me to be grateful to him, and 
 pray that I may be a faithful minister of his word. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham 
 MY DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I SIT down with unfeigned pleasure to write, in com- 
 pliance with your request, that I would explain to you 
 the real doctrines of the Church of England, or, what 
 is the same thing, of the Bible. The subject is most 
 important, inasmuch as it affects that part of man which 
 is incorruptible, and which must exist forever — his soul. 
 
240 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 When God made the brute creation, he merely embodi- 
 ed the dust of the earth, and gave it the power of loco- 
 motion, or of moving about, and of existing in a certain 
 sphere. In order to afford mute animals a rule of ac- 
 tion, by which they might be kept alive, he implanted 
 in them certain instincts, from which they can never 
 depart. Such is that of self-preservation, and the selec- 
 tion of proper food. But he not only endued man with 
 these powers, but he gave him mind, or spirit — a fac- 
 ulty which enables him to ruminate on the objects which 
 he does not see — to compare impressions — to invent — and 
 to feel pleasure and pain, when their causes are either 
 gone or past, or lie in the future. This is what consti- 
 tutes the human soul. It is an immaterial essence — no 
 one knows what it consists of, or where it resides ; the 
 brain and the heart are the organs which it most seems 
 to affect ; but it would be absurd to infer therefrom, that 
 the material organs of the heart and the brain consti- 
 tute the soul, seeing that the impressions of the mind 
 sometimes affect one organ and sometimes the other. 
 Thus, when any of the passions — love, hope, fear, pleas- 
 ure, or pain, are excited, we feel them at our heart. 
 When we discuss a topic of cool reasoning, the process 
 is carried on in the brain ; yet both parts are in a great- 
 er or less degree acted upon on all occasions, and we 
 may therefore conclude, that the soul resides in neither 
 individually, but is an immaterial spirit, which occasion- 
 ally impresses the one, and occasionally the other. That 
 the soul is immaterial, has been proved to a mathemati- 
 cal demonstration. When we strike, we lift up our arm 
 — when we walk, we protrude our legs alternately — but 
 when we think, we move no organ : the reason depends 
 on no action of matter, but seems as it were to hover 
 over us, to regulate the machine of our bodies, and to 
 meditate and speculate on things abstract as well as sim- 
 ple, extraneous as well as connected with our individu- 
 al welfare, without having any bond which can unite it 
 with our gross corporal bodies. The flesh is like the 
 temporary tabernacle which the soul inhabits, governs, 
 and regulates ; but as it does not consist in any organi- 
 zation jof matter, our bodies may die, and return to the 
 dust from whence they were taken, while our souls — in- 
 corporal essences — are incapable of death and annihila- 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 241 
 
 tion. The spirit is that portion of God's own immortal 
 nature, which he breathed into our clay at our birth, 
 and which therefore cannot be destroyed, but will con- 
 tinue to exist when its earthly habitation is mingled 
 with its parent dust. We must admit, therefore, what 
 all ages and nations, savage as well as civilized, have 
 acknowledged, that we have souls, and that, as they 
 are incorporal, they do not die with our bodies, but are 
 necessarily immortal. The question then naturally aris- 
 es, what becomes of them after death ? Here man of 
 his own wisdom must stop : — but God has thought fit, 
 in his mercy, to reveal to us in a great measure the se- 
 cret of our natures, and in the Holy Scriptures we find 
 a plain and intelligible account of the purposes of our 
 existence, and the things we have to expect in the world 
 to come. And here I shall just remark, that the authen- 
 ticity and divine inspiration of Moses are established be- 
 yond a doubt, and that no learned man can possibly deny 
 their authority. Over all nations, even among the 
 savages of America, cut out as it were from the eastern 
 world, there are traditions extant of the flood, of Noah, 
 Moses, and other patriarchs, by names which come so 
 near the proper ones, as to remove all doubt of their 
 identity. You know mankind is continually increasing 
 in number ; and consequently, if you make a calculation 
 backwards, the numbers must continue lessening and 
 lessening, until you come to a point where there was 
 only one man. Well, according to the most probable 
 calculation, this point will be found to be about 5,800 
 years back, viz. the time of the creation, making allow- 
 ance for the flood. Moreover, there are appearances 
 upon the surface of the globe, which denote the manner 
 in which it was founded, and the process thus developed 
 will be found to agree very exactly with the figurative 
 account of Moses. — (Of this I shall treat in a subsequent 
 letter.) — Admitting then, that the books of the Penta- 
 teuch were written by divine inspiration, we see laid 
 before us the whole history of our race, and, including 
 the Prophets, and the New Testament, the whole scheme 
 of our future existence : we learn, in the first place, that 
 God created man in a state of perfect happiness, that he 
 was placed in the midst of everything that could delight 
 the eye, or fascinate the mind, and that he had only 
 21 
 
242 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 one command imposed upon him, which he was to keep 
 under the penalty of death. This command God has 
 been pleased to cover to our eyes with impenetrable 
 obscurity. Moses, in the figurative language of the 
 East, calls it eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge 
 of Good and Evil. But this we can understand, that 
 man rebelled against the command of his Maker, and 
 plunged himself by that crime from a state of bliss to a 
 state of sorrow, and in the end, of death. — By death 
 bere is meant, the exclusion of the soul from future hap- 
 piness. It follovv'^ed, that if Adam fell from bliss, his 
 posterity must fall, for the fruit must be like the parent 
 stock ; and a man made as it were dead, must likewise 
 bring forth children under the same curse. — Evil cannot 
 beget good. 
 
 But the benign Father of the universe had pity upon 
 Adam and his posterity, and, knowing the frailty of our 
 nature, he did not wish to assume the whole terrors of 
 bis just vengeance. Still God is a being who is infinitely 
 just, as well as infinitely merciful, and therefore his de* 
 crees are not to be dispensed with, and his offended jus- 
 tice must have expiation. The case of mankind was 
 deplorable ; — myriads yet unborn were implicated by the 
 crime of their common progenitor in general ruin. But 
 the mercy of God prevailed, and Jesus Christ, the Mea- 
 sias, of whom all ages talked before he came down 
 amongst men, offered himself up as an atonement for 
 man's crimes. — The Son of God himself, infinite in mer- 
 cy, offered to take up the human form, to undergo the 
 severest pains of human life, and the severest pangs of 
 death ; he offered to lie under the power of the grave 
 for a certain period, and, in a word, to sustain all the 
 punishment of our primitive disobedience in the stead 
 of man. The atonement was infinite ; because God's 
 justice was infinite ; and nothing but such an atonement 
 could have saved the fallen race. 
 
 The death of Christ then takes away the stain of 
 original sin, and gives man at least the power of attaining 
 eternal bliss. Still our salvation is conditional, and we 
 have certain requisitions to comply with ere we can be 
 secure of heaven. — The next, question then is. What are 
 the conditions on which we are to be saved .'' The wor4 
 of God here comes in again in elucidation of our duty : 
 
, OF H. K. WHITE. 243 
 
 the chief point insisted upon is, that we should keep 
 God's Law contained in the Ten Commandments ; but 
 as the omission or breach of one article of the twelve ta- 
 bles is a crime just of as great magnitude as the original 
 sin, and entails the penalty on us as much as if we had 
 infringed the whole, God, seeing our frailty, provided a 
 means of effecting our salvation, in which nothing should 
 be required of us bat reliance on his truth. — God sent 
 the Saviour to bear the weight of our sins ; he, there- 
 fore, requires us to believe implicitly, that through his 
 blood we shall be accepted. This is the succedaneum 
 which he imposed in lieu of the observance of the moral 
 law. Faith ! Believe, and ye shall be saved. — He 
 requires from us to throw ourselves upon the Redeemer, 
 to look for acceptance through him alone, to regard our- 
 selves as depraved, debased, fallen creatures, who can 
 do nothing worthy in his sight, and who only hope for 
 mercy through the Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. 
 Faith is the foundation-stone ; Faith is the superstruct- 
 ure ; Faith is all in all. — ' By Faith are ye saved ; by 
 Faith are ye justified.' 
 
 How easy, my dear Neville, are the conditions God 
 imposes upon us ! He only commands us to feel the tie 
 of common gratitude, to trust in the mediation of his 
 Son, and all shall be forgiven us. And shall our pride, 
 our deluded imaginations, our false philosophy, interfere 
 to blind our eyes to the beauties of so benevolent, so 
 benign a system ? — Or shall earthly pleasures engross 
 all our thoughts, nor leave space for a care for our 
 souls ? — God forbid. As for Faith, if our hearts are 
 hardened, and we cannot feel that implicit, that fervent 
 belief, which the Scripture requires, let us pray to God, 
 that he will send his Holy Spirit down upon us, that he 
 will enlighten our understanding with the knowledge of 
 that truth which is too vast, too sublime for human un- 
 derstandings, unassisted by Divine Grace, to compre- 
 hend. 
 
 I have here drawn a hasty outline of the gospel-plan 
 of salvation. In a future letter I shall endeavour to fill 
 it up. At present I shall only say, think on these things ! 
 — They are of moment inconceivable. — Read your Bible, 
 in order to confirm yourself in these sublime truths, and 
 pray to God to sanctify to you the instructions it contains. 
 
244 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 At present I would turn your attention, exclusively, to 
 the New Testament. Read also the book which accom- 
 panies this letter ; — ^it is by the great Locke, and will 
 serve to show you what so illustrious a philosopher 
 thought of Revelation. 
 
 TO MR. R. A- 
 
 Nottingham, May 7th, 1804. 
 DEAR ROBERT, 
 
 You don't know how I long to hear how your decla- 
 mation was received, and ' all about it,' as we say in 
 these parts. I hope to see it, when I see its author and 
 pronouncer. Themistocles, no doubt, received due praise 
 from you for his valor and subtlety; but I trust you pour- 
 ed down a torrent of eloquent indignation upon the ruling 
 principles of his actions and the motive of his conduct, 
 while you exalted the mild and unassuming virtues of 
 his more amiable rival. The object of Themistocles 
 was the aggrandizement of himself, that of Aristides the 
 welfare and prosperity of the state. The one endeav- 
 oured to swell the glory of his country ; the other to 
 promote its security, external and internal, foreign and 
 domestic. While you estimated the services which The- 
 mistocles rendered to the state, in opposition to those of 
 Aristides, you of course remembered that the former had 
 the largest scope for action, and that he influenced his 
 countrymen to fall into all his plans, while they banished 
 his competitor, not by his superior wisdom or goodness, 
 but by those intrigues and factious artifices which Aristi- 
 des would have disdained. Themistocles certainly did 
 u,se bad means to a desirable end : and if we may assume 
 it as an axiom, that Providence will forward the designs 
 of a good sooner than those of a bad man ; whatever in- 
 equality of abilities there may be between the two char- 
 acters, it will follow that, had Athens remained under 
 the guidance of Aristides, it would have been better for 
 her. The difference between Themistocles and Aristides 
 seems to me to be this : That the former was a wise and 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 245 
 
 a fortunate man ; and that the latter, though he had equal 
 wisdom, had not equal good fortune. We may admire 
 the heroic qualities and the crafty policy of the one, but 
 to the temperate and disinterested patriotism, the good 
 and virtuous dispositions of the other, we can alone give 
 the meed of heart-felt praise. 
 
 I only mean by this, that we must not infer Themis- 
 tocles to have been the better or the greater man, because 
 he rendered more essential services to the state than 
 Aristides, nor even that his system was the most judi- 
 cious, — but only, that, by decision of character, and by 
 good fortune, his measures succeeded best. 
 ***** 
 
 The rules of composition are, in my opinion, very few. 
 If we have a mature acquaintance with our subject, 
 there is little fear of our expressing it as we ought, pro- 
 vided we have had some little experience in writing. The 
 first thing to be aimed at is perspicuity. That is the 
 great point, which, once attained, will make all other 
 obstacles smooth, to us. In order to write perspicuously, 
 we should have a perfect knowledge of the topic on which 
 we are about to treat, in all its bearings and dependen- 
 cies. We should think well beforehand what will be 
 the clearest method of conveying the drift of our design. 
 This is similar to what the painters call the massing, or 
 getting the effect of the more prominent lights and shades 
 by broad dashes of the pencil. When our thesis is well 
 arranged in our mind, and we have predisposed our ar- 
 guments, reasonings, and illustrations, so as they shall 
 all conduce to the object in view, in regular sequence 
 and gradation, we may sit down and express our ideas 
 in as clear a manner as we can, always using such words 
 as are most suited to our purpose ; and when two modes 
 of expression, equally luminous, present themselves, se- 
 lecting that which is the most harmonious and elegant. 
 
 It sometimes happens that writers, in aiming at per- 
 spicuity, overreach themselves, by employing too many 
 words, and perplex the mind l3y a multiplicity of illus- 
 trations. This is a very fatal error. Circumlocution 
 seldom conduces to plainness ; and you may take it as a 
 maxim, that, when once an idea is clearly expressed^ every 
 additional stroke will only confuse the mind, and dimin- 
 ish the effect. 
 
 21* 
 
246 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 When you have once learned to express yourself with 
 clearness and propriety, you will soon arrive at elegance. 
 Everything else, in fact, will follow as of course. But 
 I warn you not to invert the order of things, and be pay- 
 ing your addresses to the Graces, when you ought to be 
 studying perspicuity. Young writers, in general, are too 
 solicitous to round off their periods, and regulate the ca- 
 dences of their style. Hence the feeble pleonasms and 
 idle repetitions which deform their pages. If yon would 
 have your compositions vigorous, and masculine in their 
 tone, let every word tell ; and when you detect your- 
 self polishing off a sentence with expletives, regard 
 yourself in exactly the same predicament with a poet 
 who should eke out the measure of his verses with ti- 
 turn, titom, tee, sir." 
 
 So much for style 
 
 TO MR. R. A- 
 
 Nottingham, 9th May, 1804. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 * * * * 
 
 I HAVE not spoken as yet to Messrs. Coldham and En- 
 field. Your injunction to suspend so doing, has left me 
 in a state of mind, which, I think, I am blamable for 
 indulging, but which is indescribably painful. I had no 
 sleep last night, partly from anxiety, and partly from 
 the effects of a low fever, which has preyed on my 
 nerves for the last six or seven days. I am afraid, 
 Robert, my religion is very superficial. I ought not to 
 feel this distrust of God's providence. Should I now be 
 prevented from going to College, I shall regard it as a 
 just punishment for my want of faith. 
 , I conclude Mr. Martyn has failed in procuring the aid 
 he expected ? Is it so .'' 
 
 ***** 
 
 On these contingencies, Robert, you must know from 
 my peculiar situation, I shall never be able to get to col- 
 lege. My mother, at all times averse, has lately been 
 pressed by one of the deacons of Castlegate Meeting, to 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 247 
 
 prevail on me to go to Dr. Williams. This idea now 
 fills her head, and she would feel no small degree of 
 pleasure in the failure of my resources for College. Be- 
 sides this, her natural anxiety for my welfare will never 
 allow her to permit me to go to the university depending 
 almost entirely on herself, knowing not only the inade- 
 qvuicy, but the great uncertainty, of her aid. Coldham 
 and Enfield must likewise be satisfied that my way is 
 clear : I tremble, I almost despair. A variety of con- 
 tending emotions, which I cannot particularize, agitate 
 my mind. I tremble lest I should have mistaken my 
 call : these are solemn warnings : — but no — I cannot en- 
 tertain the thought. To the ministry I am devoted I 
 believe, by God ; in what way must be left to his provi- 
 dence. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, June, 1804. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 In answer to your question, whether the Sizers have 
 any duties to perform, I answer, No. , Somebody, per- 
 haps, has been hinting that there are servile offices to 
 be performed by Sizers. It is a common opinion, but 
 perfectly erroneous. The Otford servitors, I believe, 
 have many unpleasant duties ; but the Sizers at Cam- 
 bridge only differ from the rest in name. 
 
 TO MR. B. HADDOCK. 
 
 Nottingham, June, 15th, 1804. 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 I DO not sit down to write you a long letter, for I have 
 been too much exhausted with mathematics to have 
 much vigor of mind left ; my lines will therefore be 
 wider than they are wont to be, and I shall, for once, 
 be obliged to diffuse a little matter over a broad surface 
 
248 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 For a consolatory letter I trust yon have little need, as 
 by this time you have no doubt learned to meet with 
 calmness, those temporary privations and inconvenien- 
 ces which, in this life, we must expect, and therefore 
 should be prepared to encounter. 
 
 ***** 
 
 This is true — this is Christian philosophy : it is a phi- 
 losophy in which we must all, sooner or later, be insti- 
 tuted, and which, if you steadfastly persist in seeking, I 
 am sure God will assist you to your manifest comfort 
 and peace. 
 
 There are sorrows, and there are misfortunes which 
 bow down the spirit beyond the aid of all human com- 
 fort. Of these, I know, my dear Ben, you have had 
 more than common experience ; but while the cup of 
 life does overflow with draughts of such extreme asperi- 
 ty, we ought to fortify ourselves against lesser evils, as 
 unimportant to man, who has much heavier woes to 
 expect, and to the Christian, whose joys are laid be- 
 yond the verge of mortal existence. There are afflic- 
 tions, there are privations, where death and hopes irre- 
 coverably blasted leave no prospect of retrieval ; when 
 I would no more say to the mourner, ' Man, wherefore 
 weepest thou .'' ' than I would ask the winds why they 
 blew, or the tempest why it raged. Sorrows like these 
 are sacred ; but the inferior troubles of partial separation, 
 vexatious occupation, and opposing current of human 
 affairs are such as ought not, at least immoderately, to 
 affect a Christian, but rather ought to be contemplated 
 £is the necessa,ry accidents of life, and disregarded while 
 their pains are more sensibly felt. 
 
 Do not think, I beseech you, my dear Ben, that I wish 
 to represent your sorrows as light or trivial ; I know 
 they are not light ; I know they are not trivial ; but I 
 wish to induce you to summon up the man within you ; 
 and while those unhappy troubles, which you cannot 
 alleviate, must continue to torment you, I would exhort 
 you to rise superior to the crosses of life, and show 
 yourself a genuine disciple of Jesus Christ, in the endu- 
 rance of evil without repining, or unavailable lamenta- 
 tions. 
 
 Blessed as you are with the good testimony of approv- 
 ing conscience, and happy in an intimate communion 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 249 
 
 with the all-pure and all-merciful God, these trifling 
 concerns ought not to molest you; nay, were the tide 
 of adversity to turn strong against you, even were your 
 friends to forsake you, and abject poverty to stare you 
 in the face, you ought to be abundantly thankful to God 
 for his mercies to you ; you ought to consider yourself 
 still as rich, yea, to look around you, and say, I am far 
 happier than the sons of men. 
 
 This is a system of philosophy which, for myself, I 
 shall not only preach, but practise. We are here for 
 nobler purposes than to waste the fleeting moments of 
 our lives in lamentations and wailings over troubles, 
 which, in their widest extent, do but affect the present 
 state, and which, perhaps, only regard our personal ease 
 and prosperity. Make me an outcast — a beggar ; place 
 me a bare-footed pilgrim on the top of the Alps or the 
 Pyrenes, and I should have wherewithal to sustain the 
 spirit within me, in the reflection that all this was but 
 as for a moment, and that a period would come when 
 wrong, and injury, and trouble should be no more. Are 
 we to be so utterly enslaved by habit and association, 
 that we shall spend our lives in anxiety and bitter care, 
 only that we may find a covering for our bodies, or the 
 means of assuaging hunger ? for what else is an anxiety 
 after the world ? Or are even the followers of Christ 
 themselves to be infected with the inane, the childish 
 desire of heaping together wealth .'' Were a man, in the 
 way of making a large fortune, to take up his hat and 
 stick, and say, ' I am useless here, and unhappy ; I will 
 go and abide with the Gentoo or the Paraguay, where I 
 shall be happy and useful,' he would be laughed at ; but 
 I say he would prove himself a more reasonable and 
 virtuous man, than him who binds himself down to a 
 business which he dislikes, because it would be account- 
 ed strange, or foolish, to abandon so good a concern, 
 and who heaps up wealth, for which he has little relish, 
 because the world accounts it policy. 
 
 I will refrain from pursuing this tone of reasoning. I 
 know the weakness of hum.an nature, and I know that 
 we may argue with a deal of force, to show the folly of 
 grief, when we ourselves are its passive victims. But 
 whether strength of mind prevail with you, or whether 
 you still indulge in melancholy bodings and repinings, 
 
250 - COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 I am still your friend, nay, your sympathizing friend. 
 Hard and callous, and ' unfeeling ' as I may seem, I have 
 a heart for my ever dear Benjamin. 
 
 HENRY K. WHITE. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Wilford, near Nottingham, , 1804. 
 
 , DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I NOW write to you from a little cottage at Wilford, 
 where I have taken a room for a fortnight, as well for 
 the benefit of my health, as for the advantage of unin- 
 terrupted study. I live in a homely house, in a homely 
 style, but am well occupied, and perfectly at my ease. 
 
 And now, my dear brother, I must sincerely beg par- 
 don for all those manifold neglects of which I cannot 
 but accuse myself towards you. When I recollect in- 
 numerable requests in your letters, which I have not 
 noticed, and many inquiries I have not satisfied, I almost 
 feel afraid that you will imagine I no longer regard your 
 letters with brotherly fondness, and that you will cease 
 to exercise towards me your wonted confidence and 
 friendship. Indeed, you may take my word, they have 
 arisen from my peculiar circumstances, and not from 
 any unconcern or disregard of your wishes. I am now 
 bringing my affairs (laugh not at the word) into some 
 regularity, after all the hurry and confusion in which 
 they have been plunged, by the distraction of mind at- 
 tending my publication, and the projected change of my 
 destination in life. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Wilford, near Nottingham, , 1804. 
 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I HAVE run very much on the wrong side of the post 
 here ; for having sent copies round to such persons as 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 251 
 
 had given me in their names, as subscribers, with com- 
 pliments, they have placed them to the account of pres- 
 ents ! 
 
 » * * » » 
 And, now my dear Neville, I must give you the most in- 
 genious specimen of the invention of petty envy you 
 perhaps ever heard of. When Addison produced ' Cato,' 
 it was currently received, that he had bought it of a vi- 
 car for 401. The Nottingham gentry, knowing me too 
 poor to buy my poems, thought they could do no better 
 than place it to the account of family affection, and, lo ! 
 Mrs. Smith is become the sole author, who has made 
 use of her brother's name as a feint ! I heard of this 
 report first covertly : it was said that Mrs. Smith was 
 the principal writer : next it was said that I was the 
 author of one of the inferior smaller pieces only, (' My 
 Study ;') and, lastly, on mentioning the circumstances to 
 
 Mr. A , he confessed that he had heard several 
 
 times that my ' sister was the sole quill-driver of the 
 family, and that master Henry, in particular, was rather 
 shallow,' but that he had refrained from telling me, be- 
 cause he thought it would vex me. Now, as to the 
 vexing me, it only has afforded me a hearty laugh. I 
 sent my compliments to one great lady, whom I heard 
 propagating this ridiculous report, and congratulated her 
 on her ingenuity, telling her, as a great secret, that 
 neither my sister or myself had any claim to any of the 
 poems, for the right author was the Great Mogul's 
 cousin-german. The best part of the story is, that my 
 good friend, Benj Maddock, found means to get me to 
 write verses extempore, to prove whether I could tag 
 rhymes or not, which, it seems he doubted. 
 
 VERSES REFERRED TO IN THE FOREGOING LETTER. 
 
 Thou base repiner at another's joy, 
 
 Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, 
 Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, 
 And find on meaner climes a fitter throne. 
 Away, away, it shall not be, 
 
 Thou shalt not dare defile our plains ; 
 The truly generous heart disdains 
 Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he 
 Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity. 
 
252 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Triumphant monster ! though thy schemes succeed— 
 
 Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night. 
 Yet, but a Httle while, and nobly freed. 
 
 Thy happy victim will emerge to light ; 
 When o'er his head in silence that reposes, 
 
 Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear ; 
 Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses. 
 
 Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe j 
 Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all 
 Will curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall. 
 
 Yet, ah ! thy arrows are too keen, too sure : 
 
 Coiildst thou not pitch upon another prey 1 
 Alas ! in I'obbing him thou robb'st the poor, 
 
 Who only boast what thou wouldst take away ; 
 See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting. 
 
 O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp ; 
 While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting, 
 
 Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. 
 Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd ; 
 
 Does jocund Health in thought's still mansion live 1 
 Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest. 
 
 That short quick sigh — their sad responses give. 
 
 And canst thou rob a Poet of his song ; 
 
 Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise 1 
 Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long ; 
 
 Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays 
 While yet he lives — for to his merits just, 
 
 Though futm-e ages join, his fame to raise, 
 Will the loud trump awake his cold unlieeding dust % 
 
 TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 
 
 Nottingham, 7tli July, 1804. 
 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 The real wants of life are few ; the support of the 
 body, simply, is no expensive matter ; and as we are not 
 made upon silks and satins, the covering of it will not 
 be more costly. The only superfluity I should covet 
 would be books, but I have learned how to abridge that 
 pleasure ; and having sold the flower of my library for 
 the amazing sum of Six Guineas, I mean to try whether 
 meditation will not supply the place of general reading, 
 and probably, by the time I am poor and needy, I shall 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 253 
 
 look upon a large library like a fashionable wardrobe, 
 goodly and pleasant, but as to the real utility, indifferent. 
 
 So much for Stoicism, and now for Monachism — I shall 
 never, never marry ! it cannot, must not be. As to af- 
 fections, mine are already engaged as much as they will 
 ever be, and this is one reason why I believe my life 
 will be a life of celibacy. I pray to God that it may be 
 so, and that I may be happy in that state. I love too 
 ardently to make love innocent, and therefore I say 
 farewell to it. Besides, I have another inducement, I 
 cannot introduce a woman into poverty for my love's 
 sake, nor could I well bear to see such a one as I must 
 marry struggling with narrow circumstances, and sigh- 
 ing for the fortunes of her children. No, I say, forbear ! 
 and may the example of St. Gregory of Naz. and St. 
 Basil, support me. 
 
 All friends are well, except your humble scribe, who 
 has got a little too much into his old way since your de- 
 parture. Studying and musing, and dreaming of every- 
 thing but his health ; still amid all his studying, musings, 
 and dreams, 
 
 VTour true friend and brother, 
 
 H. K. WHITE 
 
 TO THE EDITOR. 
 
 Nottingham, July 9th, 1804, 
 ***** 
 
 I CAN noiv inform yon, that I have reason to believe 
 my way through college is clear before me. From what 
 source I know not ; but through the hands of Mr. Sime- 
 on I am provided with 301. per annum ; and while things 
 go on so prosperously as they do now, I can command 
 201. or 301. more from my friends, and this, in all proba- 
 bility, until I take my degree. The friends to whom I 
 allude are my mother and brother. 
 
 My mother has, for these five years past, kept a 
 boarding school in Nottingham : and, so long as her 
 school continues in its present state, she can supply me 
 with 151. or 201. per annum, without inconvenience ; but 
 should she die, (and her health is, I fear, but infirm,) 
 22 
 
254 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 that resource will altogether fail. Still, I think, my 
 prospect is so good as to preclude any anxiety on my 
 part ; and perhaps my income will be more than adequate 
 to my wants, as I shall be a Sizer of St. John's where 
 the college emoluments are more than commonly large. 
 
 In this situation of my affairs, you will perhaps agree 
 with me in thinking that a subscription for a volume of 
 poems will not be necessary ; and, certainly, that meas- 
 ure is one which will be better avoided, if it may be. I 
 have lately looked over what poems I have by me in 
 manuscript, and find them more numerous than I expect- 
 ed ; but many of them would perhaps be styled mopish 
 and mawkish, and even misanthropic, in the language of 
 the world ; though, from the latter sentiment, I am sure 
 I can say, no one is more opposite than I am. These 
 poems, therefore, will never see the light, as, frorA a 
 teacher of that word which gives all strength to the fee- 
 ble, more fortitude and christian philosophy may, with 
 justice, be expected than they display. The remainder 
 of my verses would not possess any great interest : mere* 
 description is often mere nonsense : and I have acquired 
 a strange habit, whenever I do point out a train of mor- 
 al sentiment from the contemplation of a picture, to give 
 it a gloomy and querulous cast, when there is nothing 
 in the occasion but what ought to inspire joy and grati- 
 tude. I have one poem, however, of some length, which 
 I shall preserve ; and I have another of considerable 
 magnitude in design, but of which only a part is written, 
 which I am fairly at a loss whether to commit to the 
 flames, or at some future opportunity to finish. The 
 subject is the death of Christ. I have no friend whose 
 opinion is at all to be relied on, to whom I could submit 
 it, and, perhaps, after all, it may be g,bsolutely worth- 
 less. 
 
 With regard to that part of my provision which is de-^ 
 rived from my unknown friend, it is of course conditional : 
 aiid as it is not a provision for a poet, but for a candidate 
 for orders, I believe it is expected, and indeed it has been 
 hinted as a thing advisable, that I should barter the 
 Muses for mathematics, and abstain from writing verses 
 at least until I take my degree. If I find that all my 
 time will be requisite, in order to prepare for the impor- 
 tant office I am destined to fill, I shall certainly do my 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 256 
 
 duty, however severely it may cost me : but if I find I 
 may lawfully and conscientiously relax myself at inter- 
 vals, with those delightful reveries which have hitherto 
 formed the chief pleasure of my life, I shall, without 
 scruple, indulge myself in them. 
 
 I know the pursuit of Truth is a much more important 
 business than the exercise of the imagination ; and amid 
 all the quaintness and stiff method of the mathemati- 
 cians, I can even discover a source of chaste and exalted 
 pleasure. To their severe but salutary discipline, I must 
 now ' subdue the vivid shapings of my youth ;' and 
 though I shall cast many a fond lingering look to Fancy's 
 more alluring paths, yet I shall be repaid by the antici- 
 pation of days, when I may enjoy the sweet satisfaction 
 of being useful, in no ordinary degree, to my fellow- 
 n^ortals. 
 
 TO MR. SERJEANT ROUGH. 
 
 Nottingham, 24th July, 1804. 
 
 DEAR BIR, 
 
 I THINK Mr. Moore's love poems are infamous, because 
 they subvert the first great object of poetry — the en- 
 couragement of the virtuous and the noble, and meta- 
 morphose nutritious aliment into poison. I think the 
 Muses are degraded when they are made the handmaids 
 of sensuality, and the bawds of a brothel. 
 
 Perhaps it may be the opinion of a young man, but I 
 think too, the old'system of heroic attachment, with all 
 its attendant notions of honor and spotlessness, was, in 
 the end, calculated to promote the interests of the hu- 
 man race ; for though it produced a temporary alienation 
 of mind, perhaps bordering on insanity, yet with the 
 very extravagance and madness of the sentiments, there 
 were inwoven certain imperious principles of virtue and 
 generosity, which would probably remain after time had 
 evaporated the heat of passion, and sobered the luxuri- 
 ance of a romantic imagination. I think, therefore, a 
 man of song is rendering the community a service when 
 
256 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 he displays the ardor of manly affection in a pleasing 
 light ; but certainly we need no incentives to the irregu-^ 
 lar gratijfication of our appetites, and I should think it a 
 proper punishment for the poet who holds forth the al- 
 lurements of illicit pleasures in amiable and seductive 
 colors, should his wife, his sister, or his child fall a 
 victim to the licentiousness he has been instrumental in 
 diffusinff. 
 
 TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 
 
 Winteringham, August 3, 1804. 
 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 I AM all anxiety to learn the issue of your proposal to 
 your father. Surely it will proceed ; surely a plan laid 
 out with such fair prospects of happiness to you, as well 
 as nie, will not be frustrated. Write to me the moment 
 you have any information on the subject. 
 
 I think we shall be happy together at Cambridge ; and 
 in the ardent pursuit of Christian knowledge, and Chris- 
 tian virtue, we shall be doubly united. We were before 
 friends ; now, I hope, likely to be still more emphatically 
 so. But I must not anticipate. 
 
 I left Nottingham without seeing my brother Neville, 
 who arrived there two days after me. This is a circum- 
 stance which I much regret ; but I hope he will come 
 this way when he goes, according to his intention, to a 
 watering place. Neville has been a good brother to me, 
 and there are not many things which would give me 
 more pleasure than, after so long a separation, to see 
 him again. I dare not hope that I shall meet you and 
 him together in October, at Nottingham. 
 , My days flow on here in an even tenor. They are, 
 indeed, studious days, for my studies seem to multiply 
 on my hands, and I am so much occupied with them, 
 that I am becoming a mere bookworm, running over the 
 rules of Greek versification in my walks, instead of ex- 
 patiating on the beauties of the surrounding scenery. 
 Winteringham, is, indeed, now a delightful place : the 
 trees are in full verdure, the crops are browning the 
 
' OF H. K. WHITE. 257 
 
 fields, and my former walks are become dry under foot, 
 which I have never known them to be before. The 
 opening vista, from cur churchyard over the Humber, 
 to the hills, and receding vales of Yorkshire, assumes a 
 thousand new aspects. I sometimes watch it at eve- 
 ning, when the sun is just gilding the summits of the 
 hills, and the lowlands are beginning to take a browner 
 hue. The showers partially falling in the distance, while 
 all is serene above me ; the swelling sail rapidly falling 
 down the river ; and, not least of all, the villages, woods, 
 and villas on the opposite bank, sometimes render this 
 scene quite enchanting to me ; and it is no contempti- 
 ble relaxation, after a man has been puzzling his brains 
 over the intricacies of Greek choruses all the day, to 
 come out and unbend his mind with careless thought 
 and negligent fancies, while he refreshes his body with 
 the fresh air of the country. 
 
 I wish you to have a taste of these pleasures with me ; 
 and if ever I should live to be blessed with a quiet par- 
 sonage, and that great object of my ambition, a garden, 
 I have no doubt but we shall be, for some short inter- 
 vals, at least, two quiet, contented bodies. These will 
 be our relaxations ; our business will be of a nobler kind. 
 Let us vigilantly fortify ourselves against the exigences 
 of the serious appointment we are, with God's blessing, 
 to fulfil ; and if we go into the church prepared to do 
 our duty, there is every reasonable prospect that our 
 labors will be blessed, and that we shall be blessed in 
 them. As your habits generally have been averse to 
 what is called close application, it will be too much for 
 your strength,' as well as unadvisable in other points of 
 view, to study very intensely ; but regularly you may, 
 and must read ; and depend upon it, a man will work 
 more wonders by stated and constant application, than 
 by unnatural and forced endeavours. 
 
 22* 
 
258 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 TO MR. B. MADDOCK. > 
 
 Nottingham, September, 1804. 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 By the time you will open this letter, we shall have 
 parted, God only knows whether ever to meet again. 
 The chances and casualties of human life are such as to 
 render it always questionable whether three months 
 may not separate us forever from an absent friend. 
 
 For my part, I shall feel a vacuum when you are 
 gone, which will not easily be filled up. I shall miss 
 my only intimate friend — the companion of my walks — 
 the interrupter of my evening studies. I shall return, 
 in a great measure, to my old solitary habits. I cannot 
 associate with * * nor yet with * * * has no place in my 
 affections, though he has in my esteem. It was to you 
 alone I looked as my adopted brother, and (although, 
 for reasons you may hereafter learn, I have not made 
 you my perfect conjEidant) my comforter. — Heumihi amice^ 
 Vale, longum Vale ! I hope you will sometimes think 
 of me, and give me a portion in your prayers. 
 
 Perhaps it may be that I am not formed for friendship, 
 that I expect more than can ever be found. Time will 
 tutor me ; I am a singular being under a common outside : 
 I am a profound dissembler of my inward feelings, and 
 necessity has taught me the art. I am long before I 
 can unbosom to a friend, yet, I think, I am sincere in 
 my friendship : you must not attribute this to any sus- 
 piciousness of nature, but must consider that I lived sev- 
 enteen years my own confidant, my own friend, fall of 
 projects and strange thoughts, and confiding them to no 
 one. I am habitually reserved, and habitually cautious 
 in letting it be seen that I hide anything. Towards you 
 I would fain conquer these habits, and this is one step 
 towards eflJecting the conquest. 
 
 I am not well, Ben, to-night, as my hand-writing and 
 style will show ; I have rambled on, however, to some 
 length' ; my letter may serve to beguile a few moments 
 on your way. I must say good-by to you, and may 
 God bless you, and preserve you, and be your guide and 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 259 
 
 director forever ! Remember he is always witli you ; 
 remember that in him you have a comforter in every 
 gloom. In your wakeful nights, when you have not 
 me to talk to, his ear will be bent down on your pillow ; 
 what better bosom friend has a man than the merciful 
 and benignant Father of all ? Happy, thrice happy, 
 are you in the privilege of his grace and acceptance. 
 Dear Ben, I am your true friend, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 TO MR. K. SWANN. 
 
 High Pavement, October 4tli, 1804. 
 
 DEAR KIRKE, 
 
 For your kind and very valuable present, I know 
 not how to thank you. The Archbishop* has long been 
 one of my most favorite divines ; and a complete set of 
 his sermons really '■sets me up.'' I hope I am able to ap- 
 preciate the merits of such a collection, and I shall al- 
 ways value them apart from their merit, as a memento 
 of friendship. 
 
 I hope that, when our correspondence begins, it will 
 neither be lax nor uninteresting ; and that, on both sides, 
 it may be productive of something more than mere 
 amusement. 
 
 While we each strive to become wiser in those things 
 wherein true wisdom is alone to be found, we may mu- 
 tually contribute to each other's success, by the commu- 
 nication of our thoughts : and that we may both become 
 proficients in that amiable philosophy which makes us 
 happier by rendering us better ; that philosophy which 
 alone makes us wise unto salvation, is the prayer of, 
 Dear Kirke, your sincere friend, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 * Tillotson. 
 
260 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 TO MR. JOHN CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 ' i 
 
 Winteringham, 1804- 
 
 AMICE DILECTE,* 
 
 PuDERET me infrequentisB nostrarum literarum, nisi 
 hoc ex te pendere sentirem. Epistolas a te missas non 
 prius accepi quam kaleudis Decembris — res mihi acerba, 
 nihilominus ad ferendum levior, dum me non tibi ex ani- 
 mo prorsus excidisse satis exploratum est. 
 
 Gavisus sum, e litteris tuis, amico Roberto dicatis, 
 cum audirem te operam et dedisse et daturum ad Grss- 
 cam linguam etiamnum excolendam cum viro omni doc- 
 trina erudito. — Satis scio te, illo duce, virum doctissi- 
 mum et in optimarum artium studiis exquisitissimum 
 futurum esse : baud tamen his facultatibus contentum, 
 sed altiora petentem, nempe salutem humani generis 
 et sancta verbi divini arcana. 
 
 Vix jam, amice ! recreor e morbo, a quo graviter 
 segrotavi : vix jam incipio membra languore confecta in 
 diem apertam trahere. Tactus arida manu febris, spa- 
 tiosas trivi noctes lacrymis et gemitu. Vidi, cum in 
 conspectu mortis collocatus fuerim, vidi omnia clariora 
 facta, intellexi me non fidem Christi satis servasse, non, 
 ut famulum Dei, fideliter vitam egisse. iEgritudp mul- 
 ta prius celata patefacit. Hoc ipse sensi et omnes, sint 
 sane religiosi, sint boni, idem sentient. Sed ego prsBci- 
 pue causam habui cur me afflixerim et summisso animo 
 ad pedem crucis abjecerim. Imo vero et lacrymas 
 copiose efFudi et interdum consolatio Sancti Spiritus tur- 
 binem animi placavit. Utinam vestigium hujus periculi 
 semper in animo retineam ! 
 
 Non dubito quin tibi gratum erit audire de moribus et 
 studiis nostris. Prssceptor nobis, nomine Grainger, non 
 e collegio educatus fuit, attamen doctrina baud mediocris 
 est, pietate eximius. Hypodidascalus fuit in schola viri 
 istius docti et admodum venerandi Josephi Milner, qui 
 eum dilexit atque honoravit. Mores jucundi et faciles 
 sunt, urbanitate ac lepore suaviter conditi, quanquam 
 interdum in vultu tristis severitas inest. Erga bonos 
 mansuetus, malis se durior gerit. — iEque fere est Pastor 
 
 * This Letter was written when our author was but commencing his Classical 
 Studies, and must therefore not be considered as a specimen of his Latinity. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 261 
 
 (liligens, vir egregius, et preeceptor bonus. Cum isthoe 
 legimus apud Greecos, Homerum et Domosthenem et 
 Sanctas Scripturas, apud Latinos, Virgilium, Ciceronem 
 et aliquando in ludo Terentium. Scribimus etiam La- 
 tine, et constructionis et elegantise gratia ; nihilominus 
 (hac epistola teste) non opus est dicendi tibi quam pau- 
 lulum ego ipse proficio. In scribendo Latine, prseter con- 
 suetuc^nem in lingua Anglicana, sum lentus, piger, in- 
 eptus. Verba stillant heu quam otiose, et quum tandem 
 visa sint quam inelegantia ! Spero tamen usu atque an- 
 imo diligenter adhibendo deinde Latinis sermonibus ali- 
 quam adipisci facilitatem, nunc fere oportet me contentum 
 esse cupire et laborare, paululum potiundo, magna moli- 
 endo. 
 
 Intelligis, procul dubio, nos vicum incolere Wintering- 
 hamiensis, ripis situm Humberi fluminis, sed nondum 
 forsan sentias locum esse agrestem, fluviis, coUibus, ar- 
 vis, omni decore pervenustum. Domus nostra Templo 
 Dei adjacet ; a tergo sunt dulces horti et terrenus agger 
 arboribus crebre septus, quo deambulare solemus. Cir- 
 cumcirca sunt rurales pagi quibus ssepe cum otium aga- 
 mus, post prandium imus. Est villa, nomine Whittonia, 
 ubi a celsa rupe videre potes flumen Trentii vasto Hum- 
 bero influens, et paulo altiiis Oosem flumen. 
 
 Infra sub opaca saxa fons est, cui potestas inest in 
 lapidem materias alienas convertendi ; ab altissima rupe 
 labitur in littus, museum, conchas et fragiliores ramos 
 arborum in lapidem transmutans. In prospectu domus 
 montes Eboracenses surgunt trans Humberum siti, sylvis 
 et villis stipati, nunc solis radiis ridentes, nunc horridi 
 nimbis ac procellis. Vela navium ventis impleta ante 
 fenestras satis longo intervallo prolabuntur : dum supra 
 in acre procelso greges anserum vastse longo clamore vo- 
 litant. Sasp in animo revolvo verba ista Homeri : 
 
 (octt' OQviSwv TTtTEJ/i'tov c6vca 7io?.Xa 
 X»;v(oi' 1} yiquviav, t] xvxrtav 8ovXi)rodiiQcav, 
 jiaiio sv Xsiuutvi KavoTQiov a^i(fi qic&qci, 
 Ei4a y.tti cy6a noruivrai ayaX.Xo^iivai nreQvyiOat, 
 JCXayyTjSov TTQoxa&iLoiTun', ouaQayrt ft te aeiucuv 
 Sig 'tuyv s&via noXXa vetav ano xai y.Xiatawv 
 Eg TttSiov 7t^o](torT0 S y.a^iavSQiov etc. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Vale. Dum vitales auras carpam, 
 
 Tuus, H. K. WHITE. 
 
262 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 TO MR. K. SWANN. 
 
 Winteringham, 30th Oct. 1804. 
 DEAR KIRKE, , 
 
 We are safely arrived, and comfortably settled, in the 
 parsonage of Winteringham. The house is most delight- 
 fully situated close by the church, at a distance from the 
 village, and with delightful gardens behind, and the 
 Humber before. The family is very agreeable, and the 
 style in which we live is very superior. Our tutor is 
 not only a learned man, but the best pastor, and most 
 pleasing domestic man, I ever met with. You will be 
 glad to hear we are thus charmingly situated. I have 
 reason to thank God for his goodness in leading me to 
 : SO peaceful and happy a situation. 
 
 The year which now lies before me, I shall, with the 
 blessing of God, if 1 am spared, employ in very impor- 
 tant pursuits ; and I trust that I shall come away not 
 only a wiser, but a better man. I have here nothing to 
 interrupt me — no noise — no society to disturb, or avoca- 
 tions to call me off, and if I do not make considerable 
 improvements, I do not know when I shall. 
 
 We have each our several duties to perform ; and 
 though God has been pleased to place us in very differ- 
 ent walks of life, yet we may mutually assist each other 
 by counsel, by admonition, and by prayer. My calling 
 is of a nature the most arduous and awful ; / need every 
 assistance from above, and from my companions in the 
 flesh ; and no advice will ever be esteemed lightly by 
 me, which proceeds from a servant of God, however 
 trifling, or however ill expressed. If your immediate 
 avocations be less momentous, and less connected with 
 the world to come, your duty is not the less certain, op 
 the more lightly to be attended to — you are placed in a 
 situation wherein God expects from you according to 
 your powers, as well as from me in mine : and there are 
 various dark and occult temptations, of which you are 
 little aware, but into which you may easily and imper- 
 ceptibly fall, unless upheld by the arm of Almighty God. 
 You atand in need, therefore, to exercise a constant re- 
 liance on the Holy Spirit, and its influences, and to 
 watch narrowly your own heart, that it conceive no se- 
 
OP II. K. WHITE. 263 
 
 cret sin : for although your situation be not so danger- 
 ous, nor your duties so difficult, yet, as the masks which 
 Satan assumes are various, you may still find cause for 
 spiritual fear and sorrow, and occasion for trembling, 
 lest you should not have exercised your talents in pro- 
 portion to their extent. It is a valuable observation, 
 that there is no resting-place in the spiritual progress — 
 we must either go backward or forward, and when we 
 are at a loss to know whether our motion be onward or 
 retrograde, we may rest assured, that there is some- 
 thing wanting which must be supplied — some evil yet 
 lurking in the heart, or some duty slightly performed. 
 
 You remember I heard Mr. * *, on the night previous- 
 to my departure ; I did not say much on his manner, but 
 I thought it neat, and the sermon far better than I ex- 
 pected : but I must not be understood to approve al- 
 together of Mr. * *'s preaching. I think, in particular, 
 he has one great fault, that is elegance — he is not suffi- 
 ciently 2)lain. Remember, we do not mount the pulpit to 
 say fine things, or eloquent things ; we have there to 
 proclaim the good tidings of salvation to fallen man ; to 
 point out the way of eternal life : to exhort, to cheer, 
 and to support the suffering sinner : these are the glori- 
 ous topics upon which we have to enlarge — and will 
 these permit the tricks of oratory, or the studied beau- 
 ties of eloquence ? Shall truths and counsels like these 
 be couched in terms which the poor and ignorant can- 
 not comprehend ? — Let all eloquent preachers beware, 
 lest they fill any man's ear with sounding words, when 
 they should be feeding his soul with the bread of ever- 
 lasting life ! Let them fear, lest, instead of honoring 
 God, they honor themselves ! If any man ascend the 
 pulpit with the intention of uttering a fine things he is 
 committing a deadly sin. Remember, however, that 
 there is a medium, and that vulgarity and meanness are 
 cautiously to be shunned ; but while we speak with pro- 
 priety and chastity, we cannot be too familiar or too 
 plain. I do not intend to apply these remarks to Mr. * * 
 individually, but to the manner of preaching here allud- 
 ed to. If his manner be such as I have here described, 
 the observations will also fit ; but, if it be otherwise, the 
 remarks refer not to him, but to the style reprobated. 
 
264 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 I recommend to you, always before you begin to study, 
 to pray to God to enlighten your understanding, and 
 give you grace to behold all things through the medium 
 of religion. This was always the practice in the old 
 universities, and, I believe, is the only way to profit by 
 learning. 
 
 I can now only say a few words to you, since our 
 regular hour of retiring fast approaches. I hope you 
 are making progress in spiritual things, proportionably 
 to your opportunities, and that you are sedulously en- 
 deavouring, not only to secure your own acceptation, 
 but to impart the light of truth to those around you who 
 still remain in darki^ess. 
 
 Pray let me hear from you at your convenience, and 
 my brother will forward the letter ; and believe me, 
 
 My dear Kirke, your friend, and fellow-traveller 
 in the tearful sojourn of life, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. ; 
 
 Winteringhara, Dec. 16th, 1804. 
 MY DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 Since I wrote to you last I have been rather ill, 
 having caught cold, which brought on a slight fever. 
 Thanks to excellent nursing, I am now pretty much 
 recovered, and only want strength to be perfectly re- 
 established. Mr. Grainger is himself a very good phy- 
 sician, but when I grew worse, he deemed it necessary 
 to send for a medical gentleman from Barton ; so that, 
 in addition to my illness, I expect an apothecary's bill. 
 This, however, will not be a very long one, as Mr. 
 Grainger has chiefly supplied me with drugs. It is 
 judged absolutely necessary that I should take wine, and 
 that I should ride. It is with very great reluctance that 
 I agree to incur these additional expenses, and I shall 
 endeavour to cut them off as f^oon as possible. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Grainger have behaved like parents to me since I 
 have been ill : four and five times in the night has Mr. G. 
 come to see me ; and had I been at home, I could not 
 have been treated with more tenderness and care. Mrs. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 265 
 
 Grainger has insisted on my drinking- their wine, and 
 was very angry when I made scruples ; but I cannot let 
 them be at all this additional expense — in some way or 
 other I must pay them, as the sum I now give, consid- 
 ering the mode in which we are accommodated, is very 
 trifling. Mr. Grainger does not keep a horse, so that I 
 shall be obliged to hire one ; but there will be no occa- 
 sion for this for any length of time, as my strength seems 
 to return as rapidly as it was rapidly reduced. Don't 
 make yourself in the least uneasy about this, I pray, as 
 I am quite recovered, and not at all apprehensive of any 
 consequences. I have no cough, nor any symptom 
 which might indicate an affection of the lungs. I read 
 very little at present. 
 
 I thought it necessary to write to you on this subject 
 now, as I feared you might have an exaggerated account 
 from Mr. Almond's friends, and alarm yourself. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Winteringliam, Dec. 27, 1804. 
 
 MY DEAS. BROTHEK, 
 
 I HAVE been very much distressed at the receipt of 
 your letter, accompanied with one from my mother, one 
 from my sister, and from Mr. Dashwood, and Kirke 
 Swann, all on the same subject ; and greatly as I feel 
 for all the kindness and affection which has prompted 
 these remonstrances, I am quite harassed with the idea 
 that you should not have taken my letter as a plain ac- 
 count of my illness, without any wish to hide from you 
 that I had been ill somewhat seriously, but that I was 
 indeed better. 
 
 I can now assure you, that I am perfectly recovered, 
 and am as well as I have been for some time past. My 
 sickness was merely a slight fever, rather of a nervous 
 kind, brought on by a cold, and soon yielded to the prop- 
 er treatment. I do assure you, simply and plainly, that 
 I am now as well as ever. 
 
 With regard to study, I do assure you that Mr. Grain- 
 ger will not suffer us to study at all hard ; our work at 
 23 
 
f66 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 present is mere play. I am always in bed at ten o'clock, 
 and take two walks in the day, besides riding, when the 
 weather will permit. 
 
 Under these circumstances, my dear brother may set 
 his mind perfectly at ease. Even change of air some- 
 times occasions violent attacks, but they leave the pa- 
 tient better than they found him. 
 
 I still continue to drink wine, though I am convinced 
 there is no necessity for it. My appetite is amazingly 
 large — much larger than when at Nottingham. 
 
 I shall come to an arrangement with Mr. Grainger 
 immediately, and I hope you will not write to him about 
 it. If Mr. Eddy, the surgeon, thinks it at all necessary 
 for me to do this constantly, I declare to you that I will ; 
 but remember, if I should form a habit of this now, it 
 may be a disadvantage to me when possibly circumstan- 
 ces may render it inconvenient — as when I am at col-; 
 lege. 
 
 My spirits are completely knocked up by the receipt 
 of all the letters I have at one moment received. My 
 mother got a gentleman to mention it to Mr. Dash wood, 
 and still representing that my illness was occasioned by 
 study — a thing than which nothing can be more remote 
 from the truth, as I have, from conscientious motives, 
 given up hard study until I shall find my health better. 
 
 I cannot write more, as I have the other letters to 
 answer. I am going to write to Barton, expressly to 
 get advantage of the post for this day, in order that you 
 may no longer give yourself a moment's uneasiness, 
 v/here there is in reality no occasion. 
 
 Give my affectionate love to James, and believe me, 
 my dear Neville, your truly affectionate brother, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 One thing I had forgot — you mention my pecuniary 
 matters — you make me blush when you do so. You may 
 rest assured that I have no wants of that kind, nor am 
 likely to have at present. Your brotherly love and anx- 
 iety towards me have sunk deep into my heart ; and you 
 may satisfy yourself with this, that whatever is necessa- 
 ry for my health shall not be spared, and that when I 
 want the means of procuring these, I shall think it my 
 duty to tell you so. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 267 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER JAMES. 
 
 Midway between Winteringham and Hull, Jan. 11 th, 1805. 
 DEAR JAMES, 
 
 You will not be surprised at the style of this letter, 
 when I tell you it is written in the Winteringham Packet, 
 on a heap of flour bags surrounded by a drove of 14 pigs, 
 who raise the most hideous roar every time the boat 
 rolls. I write with a silver pen, and with a good deal 
 of shaking, so you may expect very bad scribbling. I 
 am now going to Hull, where I have a parcel to send to 
 my mother, and I would not lose the opportunity of 
 writing. 
 
 I am extremely glad that you are attentive to matters 
 of such moment as are those of rehgion ; and I hope you 
 do not relax in your seriousness, but continue to pray 
 that Go^d will enable you to walk in the paths of right- 
 eousness, which alone lead to peace. He alone, my 
 dear James, is able to give you a heart to delight in his 
 service, and to set at nought the temptations of the 
 world. It may seem to you, in the first beginning of 
 your christian progress, that religion wears a very un- 
 promising aspect, and that the gayeties, of the world are 
 indeed very delicious ; but I assure you, from what I 
 have myself experienced, that the pleasures of piety are 
 infinitely more exquisite than those of fashion and of 
 sensual pursuits. It is true, they are not so violent, or 
 so intoxicating, (for they consist in one even tenor of 
 mind, a lightness of heart, and sober cheerfulness, which 
 none but those who have experienced can conceive ;) 
 but they leave no sting behind them ; they give pleasure 
 on reflection, and will soothe the mind in the distant 
 prospect. And who can say this of the world, or its en- 
 joyments ? 
 
 Even those who seem to enter with the most spirit 
 into the riotous and gaudy diversions of the world, are 
 often known to confess that there is no real satisfaction 
 in them ; that their gayety is often forced, when their 
 hearts are heavy ; and that they envy those who have 
 chosen the more humble but pleasant paths of religion 
 and virtue. 
 
 I am not at all particular as to the place of worship 
 
368 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 you may attend, so as it be under a serious preacher, 
 and so as you attend reg-ularly. I should think it a very 
 good exercise for you, if you were to get a blank paper 
 book, and were to write down in it anything which may 
 strike you in the sermons you hear on a Sunday ; this 
 would improve your style of writing, and teach you to 
 think on what you hear. Pray endeavour to carry this 
 plan into execution : I am sure you will find it worth the 
 trouble. You attend the church now and then, I con- 
 clude, and if you do, I should wish to direct your atten- 
 tion to our admirable liturgy, and avoid, if possible, 
 remarking what may seem absurd in the manner it is 
 repeated. 
 
 I must not conceal from you that I am very sorry you 
 do not attend some eminent minister in the church, such 
 as Mr. Cecil, or Mr. Pratt, or Mr. Crowther, in prefer- 
 ence to the meeting : since I am convinced a man runs 
 less danger of being misled, or of building on false foun- 
 dations, in the establishment, than out, and this too for 
 plain reasons : — Dissenters are apt to think they are 
 religious, because they are dissenters — ' for,' argue they, 
 ' if we had not a regard for religion, why should we 
 leave the establishment at all ? The very act of leaving 
 it shows we have a regard for religion, because we mani- 
 fest an aversion to its abuses.' Besides this, at the 
 meeting-house you are not likely to hear plain and un- 
 welcome truths so honestly told as in the church, where 
 the minister is not so dependent on his flock, and the 
 prayers are so properly selected, that you will meet with 
 petitions calculated for all your wants, bodily and spirit- 
 ual, without being left at the mercy of the minister to 
 pray for what and in what manner he likes. Remember 
 these are not offered as reasons why you should always 
 attend the church, but to put you in mind that there 
 are advantages there which you should avail yourself 
 of, instead of making invidious comparisons between the 
 two institutions. 
 
 . '^x . 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 269 
 
 TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 
 
 Winteringham, Jan. 31st, 1805. 
 DEAR BEN, 
 
 I HAVE long been convinced of the truth of what you 
 say, respecting the effects of close reading on a man's 
 mind, in a religious point of view, and I am more and 
 ,more convinced that literature is very rarely the source 
 of satisfaction of mind to a Christian. I would wish 
 you to steer clear of too abstracted and subtile a mode 
 of thinking and reasoning, and you will so be happier 
 than your friend. A relish for books will be a sweet 
 source of amusement, and a salutary relaxation to you 
 throughout life ; but let it not be more than a relish, if 
 you value your own peace. I think, however, that you 
 ought to strengthen your mind a little with logic, and 
 for this purpose I would advise you to go through Euclid 
 with sedulous and serious attention, and likewise to 
 read Duncan through. You are too desultory a reader, 
 and regard amusement too much : if you wish your read- 
 ing in good earnest to amuse yoU when you are old, as 
 well as now in your youth, you will take care to form a 
 taste for substantial and sound authors, and will not be 
 the less eager to study a work because it requires a lit- 
 tle labor to understand it. 
 
 After you have read Euclid, and amused yourself 
 with Locke's sublime speculations, you will derive much 
 pleasure from Butler's Analogy, without exception the 
 most unanswerable demonstration of the folly of infideli- 
 ty that the world ever saw. 
 
 Books like these will give you more strength of mind, 
 and consistent firmness, than either you or I now pos- 
 sess ; while on the other hand, the effeminate Panada 
 of Magazines, Tales, and the tribe of penny-catching 
 pamphlets, of which desultory readers are so fond, only 
 tend to enervate the mind, and incapacitate it for every 
 species of manly exertion. 
 
 I continue to be better in health, although the weath- 
 er is a great obstacle to my taking a proper proportion 
 of exercise. I have had a trip to Hull of late, and saw 
 
 the famous painter R there, with whom I had a 
 
 23% 
 
270 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 good deal of talk. He is a pious man, and a great as- 
 tronomer ; but in manners and appearance, a complete 
 artist. I rather think he is inclined to Hutchin onian 
 principles, and entertains no great reverence for Sii> 
 Isaac Newton. 
 
 TO MR. B. HADDOCK 
 
 Winteringham, 1st March, 1805. 
 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 I HOPE and trust that you have at length arrived at 
 that happy temperament of disposition, that although 
 you have much cause of sadness within, you are yet 
 willing to be amused with the variegated scenes around 
 you, and to join, when occasions present themselves, in 
 innocent mirth. Thus, in the course of your peregrina- 
 tions, occurrences must continually arise, which, to a 
 mind willing to make the best of everything, will afford 
 amusement of the chastest kind. Men and manners are 
 a never-failing source of wonder and surprise, as they 
 present themselves in their various phases. We may 
 Yerj innocently laugh at the brogue of a Somerset peas- 
 ant — and I should think that person both cynical and 
 surly, who could pass by a group of laughing children, 
 without participating in their delight, and joining in their 
 laugh. It is a truth most undeniable, and most melan- 
 choly, that there is too much in human life which extorts 
 tears and groans, rather than smiles. This, however, 
 is equally certain, that our giving way to unremitting 
 sadness on these accounts, so far from ameliorating the 
 condition of mortality, only adds to the aggregate of hu- 
 man misery, and throws a gloom over those moments 
 when a ray of light is permitted to visit the dark valley 
 of life, and the heart ought to be making the best of its 
 fleeting happiness. Landscape, too, ought to be a source 
 of delight to you ; fine buildings, objects of nature, and 
 a thousand things which it would be tedious to name. 
 I should call the man, who could survey such things as 
 these without being affected with pleasure, either a very 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 271 
 
 weak-minded and foolish person, or one of no mind at 
 all. To be always sad, and always pondering on inter- 
 nal griefs, is what I call utter selfishness : I would not 
 give two-pence for a being who is locked up in his own 
 sufferings, and whose heart cannot respond to the exhil- 
 arating cry of nature, or rejoice because he sees others 
 rejoice. The loud and unanimous chirping of the birds 
 on a fine sunny morning pleases me, because I see they 
 are happy ; and I should be very selfish, did I not partici- 
 pate in their seeming joy. Do not, however, suppose 
 that I mean to exclude a man's own sorrows from his 
 thoughts, since that is an impossibility, and, were it 
 possible, would be prejudicial to the human heart. I 
 only mean that the whole mind is not to be incessantly 
 engrossed with its cares, but with cheerful elasticity to 
 bend itself occasionally to circumstances, and give way 
 without hesitation to pleasing emotions. To be pleased 
 with little, is one of the greatest blessings. 
 
 Sadness is itself sometimes infinitely more pleasing 
 than joy ; but this sadness must be of the expansive and 
 generous kind, rather referring to mankind at large, 
 than the individual ; and this is a feeling not incompati- 
 ble with cheerfulness and a contented spirit. There is 
 difficulty, however, in setting bounds to a pensive dispo- 
 sition ; I have felt it, and I have felt that I am not al- 
 ways adequate to the task. I sailed from Hull to Bar- 
 ton the day before yesterday, on a rough and windy 
 day, in a vessel filled with a marching regiment of sol- 
 diers ; the band played finely, and I was enjoying the 
 many pleasing emotions, which the water, sky, winds, 
 and musical instruments excited, when my thoughts 
 were suddenly called away to more melancholy subjects. 
 A girl, genteelly dressed, and with a countenance \\'hich, 
 for its loveliness, a painter might have copied for Hebe, 
 with a loud laugh seized me by the great coat, and ask- 
 ed me to lend it her : she was one of those unhappy 
 creatures who depend on the brutal and licentious for a 
 bitter livelihood, and was now following in the train of one 
 of the officers. I was greatly affected by her appearance 
 and situation, and more so by that of another female 
 who was with her, and who, with less beauty, had a 
 wild sorrowfulness in her face, which showed she knew 
 her situation. This incident, apparently trifling, induced 
 
272 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 a train of reflections, which occupied me fully during a 
 walk of six or seven miles to our parsonage. At first I 
 wished that I had fortune to erect an asylum for all the 
 miserable and destitute : — and there was a soldier's wife 
 with a wan and haggard face, and a little infant in her 
 arms, whom I would also have wished to place in it : — I 
 then grew out of humor with the world, because it was 
 so unfeeling and so miserable, and because there was no 
 cure for its miseries ; and I wished for a lodging in the 
 wilderness where I might hear no more of wrongs, af- 
 fliction, or vice : but, after all my speculations, I found 
 there was a reason for these things in the Gospel of Je- 
 sus Christ, and that to those who sought it there was 
 also a cure. So I banished my vain meditations, and, 
 knowing that God's providence is better able to direct 
 the affairs of men than our wisdom, I leave them in his 
 hands. 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 Winteringham, 5th Feb. 1805. 
 
 DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 The spectacles for my father are, I hope, such as will 
 enable him to read with ease, although they are not set in 
 silver. If they hurt him through stiffness, I think the 
 better way will be to wear them with the tivo end joints 
 shut to, and with a piece of ribbon to go round the back of 
 the head, &c. The Romaine's Sermons, and the Cheap 
 Tracts, are books which I thought might be useful. You 
 may think I am not privileged to make presents, since 
 they will in the end come out of your pocket ; but I am 
 not in want of cash at present, and have reason to be- 
 lieve, from my own calculations, I shall not have occa- 
 sion to call upon you for what I know you can so ill spare. 
 I was quite vexed afterwards that I did not send you all 
 the volumes of the Cheap Repository, as the others, 
 which are the general tracts, and such as are more enter- 
 taining, would have been well adapted to your library. 
 When I next go to Hull, I purpose buying the remaining 
 
OF II. K. WHITE. 273 
 
 volumes ; and when I next have occasion to send a par- 
 cel, yoa will receive them. The volume you have got 
 contains all the Sunday reading tracts, and on that ac- 
 count I send it separately. As I have many things to 
 remind me of my sister Smith, I thought (though we 
 neither of us need such mementos) that she would not 
 be averse to receive the sermons of the great and good, 
 though in some respects singular, Romaine, at my 
 hands, as what old-fashioned people call a token of a 
 brother^s love, but what in more courtly phrase is denomi- 
 nated a memento of affection. 
 
 TO MR. SERJEANT ROUGH. 
 
 Winteringham. 17th Feb. 1805. 
 MY DEAB, SIR, 
 
 I BLUSH when I look back to the date of your too long 
 unanswered letter, and were I not satisfied that the con- 
 tents of my sheet of post must always be too unimpor- 
 tant to need apology, I should now make one. 
 
 The fine and spirited song (song in the noblest sense 
 of the word) which you sent me, on the projected inva- 
 sion, demands my best thanks. The fervid patriotism 
 which animates it would, I think, find an echo in every 
 bosom in England ; and I hope and trust the world has 
 not been deprived of so appropriate an exhortettion. I 
 perceive, however, one thing, which is, that your fire has 
 been cramped by the ' crambo ' of the rhyme, at all times 
 a grievous shackle to poets, and yet capable of such 
 sweet and expressive modulation, as makes us hug our 
 chains, and exult in the hard servitude. My poor neg- 
 lected muse has lain absolutely unnoticed by me for the 
 last four months, during which period I have been dig- 
 ging in the mines of Scapula for Greek roots ; and instead 
 of drinking, with eager delight, the beauties of Virgil, 
 have been cutting and drying his phrases for future use. 
 The place where I live is on the banks of the Humber : 
 here no Sicilian river, but rough with cold winds, and 
 bordered with killing swamps. What with neglect, and 
 what with the climate, so congenial to rural meditation, I 
 fear my good Genius, who was wont to visit me with 
 
274 COMPLETE WORKS ' 
 
 nightly visions ' in woods and brakes, and by the river's 
 marge,' is now dying of a fen-ague ; and I shall thus 
 probably emerge from my retreat, not a hair-brained son 
 of imagination, but a sedate black-lettered book-worm, 
 with a head like an etymologicon magnum. 
 
 Forgive me this flippancy, in which I am not very apt 
 to indulge, and let me offer my best wishes that it is not 
 with your muse as with mine. Eloquence has always 
 been thought akin to poetry : though her efforts are not 
 so effectually perpetuated, she is not the less honored, or 
 her memory the less carefully preserved. Many very 
 plausible hypotheses are contradicted by facts, yet I 
 should imagine that the genius which prompted your 
 ^Conspiracy' would be no common basis on which to 
 erect a superstructure of oratorical fame. ' Est enim 
 oratori finitimus Poeta, numeris adstrictior paulo, ver- 
 borura autem licentia liberior, multis vero ornandi gene- 
 ribus socius, ac pene par,' &c. You no doubt, are well 
 acquainted with this passage, in the 1st Dial, de Orat. so 
 I shall not go on with it ; but I encourage a hope, that I 
 shall one day see a living proof of the truth of this posi- 
 tion in you. Do not quite exclude me from a kind of 
 fellow-feeling with you in your oratorical pursuits, for 
 you know I must make myself a fit herald for the impor- 
 tant message I am ordained to deliver, and I shall be- 
 stow some pains to this end. No inducement whatever 
 should prevail on me to enter into orders, if I were not 
 thoroughly convinced of the truth of the religion I pro- 
 fess, as contained in the New Testament ; and I hope 
 that whatever I know to be the truth, I shall not hesitate 
 to proclaim, however much it may be disliked or despised. 
 The discovery of Truth, it is notorious, ought to be the 
 object of all true philosophy ; and the attainment of this 
 end must, to a philosopher, be the greatest of all possi- 
 ble blessings. If then a man be satisfied that he has 
 , arrived at the fountain-head of pure Truth, and yet, be- 
 cause the generality of men hold different sentiments, 
 dares not avow it, but tacitly gives assent to falsehood, 
 he withholds from men what, according to his principles, 
 it is for their good to know — he prefers his personal good 
 to Truth — and he proves that, whatever he may profess, 
 he is not imbued with the spirit of true philosophy. 
 
 I have some intention of becoming- a candidate for Sir 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 276 
 
 William Brown's medals this year; and if I should, it 
 would be a great satisfaction to me to subject my attempts 
 to so good a classic as I understand you to be. In the 
 mean time, you will confer a real favor on me, if you will 
 transcribe some of your Latin verses for me, as I am anx- 
 ious to see the general character of modern Latin as it is 
 received at Cambridge : and elegant verses always give 
 me great pleasure, in whatever language I read them. 
 Such I know yours will be. 
 
 ***** 
 
 In this remote corner of the world, where we have 
 neither books nor booksellers, I am as ignorant of the 
 affairs of the literary world as an inhabitant of Siberia. 
 Sometimes the newspaper gives me some scanty hints ; 
 but, as I do not see a review, I cannot be said to hold 
 converse with the Republic. Pray, is the voice of the 
 Muses quite suspended in the clang of arms, or do they 
 yet sing, though unheeded ? ^11 literary information 
 will be to me quite new and interesting ; but do not sup- 
 pose I hope to intrude on your more valuable time with 
 these things. When you shall have leisure, I hope to 
 hear from you ; and whatever you say, coming from you, 
 it cannot fail to interest. 
 
 Believe me, dear sir. very sincerely yours. 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 TO MR. K. SWANN. 
 
 VVinteringham, 16th March, 1805, 
 
 DEAR KIRKE, 
 
 I WAS affected by the death of young B . He once 
 
 called upon me with Mr. H— ^ — , when I was very ill, and 
 
 on that occasion Mr. H said to us both, ^ Young men, 
 
 I would have you both pack off to Lisbon, for you loont last long 
 
 if you stay here.'' Mr. H was then about to set out 
 
 for Hamburgh ; and he told me afterwards that he never 
 expected to see me again, for that he thought I was more 
 
 desperately gone in consumption than B . Yet you 
 
 see how the erood providence of God has spared me, and 
 
276 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 I am yet living, as I trust, to serve him with all my 
 strength. Had I died then, I should have perished for- 
 ever ; but I have now hope, through the Lord Jesus, that 
 I shall see the day of death with joy, and possibly be the 
 means of rescuing others from a similar situation. I cer- 
 tainly thought of the ministry at first with improper mo- 
 tives, and my views of Christianity were for a long time 
 very obscure ; but I have, I trust, gradually been grow- 
 ing out of darkness into light, and I feel a well grounded 
 hope, that God has sanctified my heart for great and valu- 
 able purposes. Wo unto me if I frustrate his designs ! 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Winteringham, April, 1805. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 * * » * * 
 
 You wrote me a long sheet this last time, and I have 
 every reason to be satisfied with it, yet I sometimes wish 
 I could make you write closer and smaller. Since your 
 mind must necessarily be now much taken up with other 
 things, I dare not press my former inquiries on subjects 
 of reading. When your leisure season comes, I shall be 
 happy to hear from you on these topics. 
 
 It is a remark of an ancient philosophical poet, 
 (Horace,) that every man thinks his neighbour's condi- 
 tion happier than his own ; and, indeed, common expe- 
 rience shows, that we are too apt to entertain romantic 
 notions of absent, and to think meanly of present things ; 
 to extol what we have had no experience of, and to be 
 discontented with what we possess. The man of busi- 
 ness sighs for the sweets of leisure : the person who, 
 with a taste for reading, has few opportunities for it, 
 thinks that man's life the sum of bliss, who has nothing 
 to do but to study. Yet it often happens that the condi- 
 tion of the envier is happier than that of the envied."^ 
 You have read Dr. Johnson's tale of the poor Tallow- 
 chandler, who, after sighing for the quiet of country 
 life, at length scraped money enough to retire, but found 
 his long-sought-for leisure so insupportable, that he 
 
OP H. K. WHITE., 27t 
 
 made a voluntary offer to his successor to come up to 
 town every Friday, and melt tallow for him gratis. It 
 would be so with half the men of business, who sigh so 
 earnestly for the sweets of retirement ; and you may re- 
 ceive it as one of the maturest observations I have been 
 abte to make on human life, that there is no condition 
 so happy as that of him who leads a life of full and con- 
 stant employment. Hi« amusements have a zest which 
 men of pleasure would gladly undergo all his drudgery 
 to- 'experience : and the regular succession of jkinsiness, 
 provided his! situation be not too anxious, drivs away 
 from Ms 'braih those harassing speculations which are 
 corttinually assaulting the man of leisure, and the man 
 of reading. The studious man, though his pleasures are 
 of the most refined species, finds cares and disturbing 
 thoughts in study. To think much and deeply will soon 
 make a man sad. His thoughts, ever on the wing, often 
 carry him where he shudders to be even in imagination. 
 He is like a toan in sleep — sometimes his dreams are 
 pleasing, but atothers, horror itself takes possession of 
 his imagination ; and this inequality of mind is almost 
 inseparable from much- meditation and mental exercise. 
 From this cause it often happens, that lettered and phi- 
 losophical men are peevish in their tempers, and austere 
 in their manners. The inference I would draw from 
 these remarks is generally this, that although every man 
 carries about him the seeds of happiness or misery in his 
 Own 'bosom, yet it is a truth not liable to many excep- 
 tions, that men are more equally free from anxiety and 
 care, in proportion as they recede from the more refined 
 and mental, to the grosser and bodily employments and 
 modes of life, but that the happiest condition is placed 
 in the middle, between the extremes of both. Thus a 
 person with a moderate love of reading, and few oppor- 
 tunities of indulging it, would be inclined to envy one 
 in my situation, because such a one has nothing to do 
 but to read : but I could tell him, that though my studi- 
 ous pleasures are more comprehensive than his, they 
 are not more exquisite, and that an occasional banquet 
 gives more delight than a continual feast. Reading 
 should be dearer to you than to me, because I always 
 read, and you but seldom. 
 24 
 
578 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Almond and I took a small boat on Monday, and set 
 out for Hull, a distance of thirteen miles, as some com- 
 pute it, though others make it less. We went very 
 merrily with a good pair of oars, until we came within 
 four miles of Hull, when, owing to some hard working, 
 we were quite exhausted ; 'but as the tide was nearly 
 down, and the shore soft, we could not get to any villa- 
 ges on the banks. At length we made Hull, and just 
 arrived in time to be grounded in the middle of the har- 
 bour, without any possible means of getting ashore till 
 the flux or flood. As we were half famished, I deter- 
 mined to wade ashore for provisions, and had the satis- 
 faction of getting above the knees in mud almost every 
 step I made. When I got ashore, I recollected I had 
 given Almond all my cash. This was a terrible dilemma 
 — to return back was too laborious, and I expected the 
 tide flowing every minute. At last I determined to go 
 to the inn where we usually dine when we go to Hull, 
 and try how much credit I possessed there, and I hap- 
 pily found no difficulty in procuring refreshments, which 
 I carried off" in triumph to the boat. Here new difficul- 
 ties occurred ; for the tide had ffowed in considerably 
 during my absence, although not sufficiently to move the 
 boat, so that my wade was much worse back than it 
 had been before. On our return, a most placid and 
 calm day was converted into a cloudy one, and we had 
 a brisk gale in our teeth. Knowing we were quite safe, 
 we struck across from Hull to Barton ; and when we 
 were off" Hazel Whelps, a place which is always rough, 
 we had some tremendous swells, which we weathered 
 admirably, and (bating our getting on the wrong side of 
 a bank, owing to the deceitful appearance of the coast) 
 we had a prosperous voyage home, having rowed twenty- 
 six miles in less than five hours. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 279 
 
 TO MR. K. SWANN. 
 
 Winteringham, April 6th, 1805. ' 
 
 HT DEAK KIRKE, 
 
 Your complaint of the lukewarmness of your affections 
 towards spiritual things, is a very common one with 
 Christians. We all feel it ; and if it be attended with an 
 earnest desire to acquit ourselves in this respect, and to 
 recover our wonted fervor, it is a complaint indicative 
 of our faithfulness. In cases of Christian experience, I 
 submit my own opinion to any body's, and have too se- 
 rious a distrust of it myself, to offer it as a rule or maxim 
 of unquestionable authority ; but I have found, and think, 
 that the best remedy against lukewarmness, is an obsti- 
 nate persisting in prayer, until our affections be moved ; 
 and a regular habit of going to religious duties with a 
 prepared and meek heart, thinking more of obtaining 
 communion with God, than of spending so many minutes 
 in seeking it. Thus, when we pray, we must not kneel 
 down with the idea that we are to spend so many min- 
 utes in supplication, and after the usual time has elapsed, 
 go about our regular business ; we must remind ourselves 
 that we have an object in prayer, and that until that ob- 
 ject be attained, that is, until we are satisfied that our 
 Father hears us, we are not to conceive that our duty is 
 performed, although we may be in the posture of prayer 
 for an hour. 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 Winteringham, 12th April, 1805. 
 
 MY DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 I HAVE constructed a planetarium, or orrery, of a very 
 simple kind, which cannot fail to give even children an 
 idea of the order and course of the heavenly bodies. I 
 shall write a few plain and simple lectures upon it, with 
 lessons to be got off by heart by the children, so that you 
 
280 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 will be able, without any difficulty, to teach them the 
 rudiments of astronomy. The machine, simple as it may 
 'Seem, is such that you cannot fail to understand the plan- 
 etary system by it ; and were it not that I cannot afford 
 the additional expense, I could make it much more com- 
 plete and interesting, Yoii must not expect anything 
 striking in the instrument itself, as it only consists of an 
 index-plate, with rods and balls.— It will explain the situ- 
 ation of the planets, their courses, the motion of the earth 
 and moon, the causes of the seasons, the different lengths 
 of day and night, the reason of eclipses, transits, &c. 
 When you have seen it, and read the explanatory lecr 
 tures, you will be able to judge of its plainness ; and if 
 you find you understand it, you may teach geography 
 scholars its use. Should it fail in other ^nts of view, it 
 will be useful to JMaria and Catharine. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Remember to keep up the plan of family worship on 
 Sundays with strictness until I come, and it will probably 
 pave the way for still further improvements, which I may, 
 perhaps, have an opportunity of making while I stay with 
 you. Let Maria and Catharine be more particularly 
 taught to regard Sunday as a day set apart from all world- 
 ly occupations. — Let them have everything prepared for 
 the Sabbath on the preceding day ; and be carefully 
 warned, on that day in particular, to avoid paying too 
 great an attention to dress. I know how important 
 habits like these will be to their future happiness even in 
 this world, and I therefore press this with earnestness. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Winteringhatn, 20th May, 1805. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 ***** 
 
 My first business must be to thartk you for the * * * *^ 
 which I received by Mr. K. Swann ; you must not sup- 
 pose that I feel reluctance to lie under obligations to so 
 affectionate a brother, when I say, that I have felt un- 
 easv ever since on more accounts than one. I am con- 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 281 
 
 vinced, in the first place, that you have little to spare ; 
 and I fear, in the second, that I shall prove a hinderance 
 to a measure which I know to be necessary for your 
 health : I mean your going to some watering-place for the 
 benefit of sea-bathing. I am aware of the nature of in- 
 juries received at the joints, especially the knee ; and I 
 am sure nothing will strengthen your knee more for the 
 present, and prevent the recurrence of disease in it for 
 the future. I would have you, therefore, if by any means 
 you can be spared in London, go to one of the neigh- 
 bouring coasts, and take sufficient time to recover your 
 strength. You may pitch upon some pleasant place, 
 where there will be sufficient company to amuse you, 
 and not so much as to create bustle, and make a toil of 
 reflection, and turn retirement into riot. Since you 
 must be as seiisible as I am, that this is necessary for 
 your health, I shall feel assured, if you do not go, that I 
 am the cause, a consideration I would gladly spare my- 
 self. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, June, 1805. 
 MY DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 I WROTE you a long letter from Winteringham some 
 time ago, which I now apprehend you have never re- 
 ceived, or, if you have, some more important concerns 
 have occupied your time than writing to me on general 
 subjects. Feeling, however, rather weary to-night, I 
 have determined to send this sheet to you, as a proof 
 that, if I am not a punctual, I am certainly far from a 
 ceremonious correspondent. 
 
 Our adventure on the Humber you should have learn- 
 ed from K. Swann, who, with much minuteness, filled 
 up three sides of a letter to his friend with the account. 
 The matter was simply this : He, Almond, and myself, 
 made an excursion about twelve or fourteen miles up 
 the Humber ; on our return ran aground, were left by 
 the tide on a sand-bank, and were obliged to remain six 
 hours in an open boat exposed to a heavy rain, high 
 24* 
 
2S2 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 wind, and piercing cold, until the tide rose, when two 
 men brought a boat to our assistance. We got home 
 about twelve o'clock at night : no evil consequences 
 ensued, owing to our using every exertion we could 
 think of to keep warmth in our bodies. 
 
 TO MR. JOHN CHARLES WORTH. 
 
 Nottingham, 27th June 1805. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 It is sometime since I wrote to you, and still longer 
 since I heard from you ; but you are acqralinted with my 
 unceremonious disposition, and will, I hope, pardon me 
 for obtruding an unbidden guest on your notice. I have 
 a question to ask of you in the first place, and I shall 
 then fill up my letter with all the familiarity of a man 
 talking by your side, and saying anything, rather than 
 be accused of saying nothing. My leisure will scarcely 
 permit me to write to you again while I am here, and I 
 shall therefore make the best use of the present occa- 
 sion. 
 
 ***** 
 
 We have been fagging through Rollin's Ancient His- 
 tory, and some other historical books, as I believe, to no 
 great purpose. Rollin is a valuable .and truly pious 
 writer, but so crammed and garnished with reflections, 
 that you lose the thread of the story, while the poor man 
 is prosing about the morality of it ; whjen, too, after all, 
 the moral is so obvious as not to heed insisting upon. 
 You may give my compliments to your good friends 
 Galen, Hippocrates, and Paracelsus, and tell them I 
 had much rather pay them my devoirs at a distance, 
 than come into close contact with them or their cathar- 
 tics. Medical Greek, and Medical Latin, would act as a 
 sudorific upon any man, who should hear their tremen- 
 dous technicals pronounced with the true ore rotundo of 
 a Scotch physician. - 
 
 And' now, my dear sir, we will cry a truce to flippan- 
 cy — I have neither time nor inclination to indulge in it 
 to excess. You and I have been sometime asunder in 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. ^9$ 
 
 the pursuit of our several studies ; you to the lively and 
 busy seat of gayety, fashion, and folly ; — I to the retired 
 haunts of a secluded village, and the studious walls of a 
 silent and ancient parsonage. At first sight one would 
 think that my lot had been most profitable, as undoubt- 
 edly it is most secure ; but when we come to consider 
 the present state of things in the capital, the boundless 
 opportunities of spiritual improvement which offer them- 
 selves, and the very superior society which every seri- 
 ous man may there join with, the tables seem turned in 
 your favor. I hope and trust this is really the case, and 
 that, with philosophical strength of mind, you have turn- 
 ed an unregarding ear to the voice of folly, and contin- 
 ued fixed upon the serener and far "more exquisite occu- 
 pations of a religious life. I have been cultivating in 
 retirement by slow and imperceptible degrees, a closer 
 communion with God ; but you have been led, as it were, 
 in triumph by the energetic discourses of the many good 
 men whom you have had the opportunity of hearing, to 
 heights of religious satisfaction, which I can at present 
 only sigh for at a distance. I appeal to you whether 
 the grace of God is not the source of exquisite enjoy- 
 ments ? What can be more delightful than that sweet 
 and placid calm which it casts over one's mind ; or than 
 the tenderness it sheds abroad in our hearts, both with 
 regard to God, and our poor fellow-laborers .'' Even 
 worldly-minded men confess that this life is, at best, but 
 a scene of anxiety, and disappointment, and distress. 
 How absurd then, and inconsistent must be their con- 
 duct, when, in spite of this so general and confirmed an 
 experience, they neglect what can alone alleviate the 
 sorrows of this life, and provide for the happiness of the 
 next ? How much more is he to be envied, who can 
 exclaim with St. Paul, ^ The world is crucified unto me^and 
 I unto the world. ' ' / have learned^ in tohatever state I am, 
 thej^ewith to be content.^ '■^The world passeih away and the lust 
 thereof; but he that doeth the ivill of God abideth for ever.'' 
 There is, in truth, an indescribable satisfaction in the 
 service of God ; his grace imparts such composure in 
 time of trouble, and such fortitude in the anticipation of 
 it, at the same time that it increases our pleasures by 
 making them innocent, that the Christian, viewed either 
 as militant in this troublesome scene, or as a traveller 
 
284 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 who is hastening, by a difficult, but short journey, to a 
 better country, is a most enviable and happy character. 
 The man who lives without God in the world, on the 
 other hand, has neither rest here, nor certainty or hope 
 for the future. His reflections must, at all times, be 
 dubious and dark, not to say distressing ; and his most 
 exquisite enjoyments must have a sting of fear and ap- 
 prehension in them, which is felt when the gay hour is 
 over, and its joys no more remembered. Many wicked 
 and dissipated men sigh in secret for the state of the 
 righteous, but they conceive there are insuperable 
 obstacles in the way of religion, and that they must 
 amend their lives before they can hope for acceptance, 
 or even dare to seek acceptance with God. But what a 
 miserable delusion is this ! If this were truly the case, 
 how awful would be the condition of the sinner ! for we 
 know that our hearts are so depraved, and so obstinate- 
 ly addicted to sin, that they cannot forsake it without 
 some more than mortal power to cut asunder the bonds 
 of innate corruption, and loosen the affections from this 
 sinful bondage. I was talking a few days ago with a 
 young surgeon who is just returned from the East-Indies, 
 and was expostulating with him on his dissolute habits : 
 ' Sir,' said he, ' I know you are happy, and I would 
 give worlds to be able to subdue my passions ; but it is 
 impossible, it never can be done : I have made resolution 
 upon resolution, and the only eflTect has been that I have 
 plunged the deeper into vice than ever.' What could be 
 a stronger illustration of the Scripture truth. That man's 
 heart is naturally corrupt, and desperately wicked .'' 
 Since wickedness is misery, can we conceive that an all- 
 good and benevolent God would hay e originally created 
 man with such a disposition .'' It is sin which hath made 
 the world a vale of tears. It is the power of the cross 
 of Jesus Christ alone that can redeem us from our natu- 
 ral depravity : — Yes, my friend, ' We know on lohom we 
 have believed ; and we are persuaded that he is able to 
 keep that which we have committed unto him against 
 the great day.' When I occasionally reflect on the his- 
 tory of the times when the great Redeemer appeared, 
 behold' God preparing his way before him, uniting all 
 the civilized world in one language, (Greek,) for the 
 speedier disseminating of the blessed Gospel ] and then. 
 
OT H. K. WHITE. 
 
 when I compare his precepts with those of the most 
 famous of ancient sages, and meditate on his life, his 
 manners, his sufferings, and cruel death, I am lost in 
 wonder, love, and gratitude. Such a host of evidence 
 attended him, as no power but that of the devil could 
 withstand. His doctrines, compared with the morality 
 of the then world, seem indeed to have dropped down 
 from heaven. His meekness, his divine compassion and 
 pity for, and forgiveness of, his bitterest enemies, con- 
 vinces me that he was indeed the Word ; that he was 
 what he professed to be, God, in his Son, reconciling 
 the world to himself. These thoughts -open my eyes to 
 my own wretched ingratitude and disregard of so merci- 
 ful and compassionate a master ; under such impressions, 
 I could ardently long to be separated altogether from 
 the affairs of this life, and live alone to my Redeemer. 
 But, alas ! this does not last long — the pleasing outside 
 of the delusive world entices my heart away ; beauty 
 smiles me into a disgust of religion, and the fear of sin- 
 gularity frowns me into the concealment of it. How 
 artfully does the arch-deceiver insinuate himself into 
 our hearts ! He tells us, that there is a deal of unneces- 
 sary moroseness in religion, a deal too many humiliat- 
 ing conditions in the Gospel, and many ignorant absur- 
 dities in its professors ; while, on the other hand, the 
 polite world is so cheerful and pleasing, so full of 
 harmless gayety and refined elegance, that we cannot 
 but love it. This is an insidious species of reasoning. 
 Could we but see things in their true colors, were but 
 the false varnish off, the society of the Gospel would seem 
 an assembly of angels, and that of the world a congrega- 
 tion of devils : but it is the best way not to reason with 
 the Tempter. I have a Talisman, which at once puts 
 to flight all his arguments ; it is the name of my Saviour, 
 and against that the gates of hell shall not prevail. That 
 is my -anchor and my confidence ; ! can go with that to 
 the bed of death, and lift up the eyes of the dying and 
 despairing wretch to the great Intercessor ; I can go 
 with this into the society of the cheerful, and come 
 away with lightness of heart and entertainment of spirit. 
 In every circumstance of life I can join with Job, who, 
 above fourteen hundred years before Jesus Christ, ex- 
 clain^, in the fervor of holy anticipation, ' I know that 
 
286 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the 
 latter day upon the earth : and though after my skin 
 worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see 
 God.' 
 
 The power of the Gospel was never more strongly il- 
 lustrated than in the late mission to Greenland. These 
 poor and unlettered tribes, who inhabit nearly the ex- 
 tremest verge of animal existence, heard the discourses 
 of the Danish missionaries on the being of a God with 
 stupid unconcern, expressed their assent to everything 
 that was proposed to them, and then hoped to extort 
 some present for their complacency. For ten years did 
 a very learned and pious man labor among them with- 
 out the conversion of a single soul. He thought that he 
 must prove to them the existence of a God, and the 
 original stain of our natures, before he could preach the 
 peculiar doctrines of the Gospel, and he could never get 
 over this first step ; for they either could not understand 
 ,it, or would not, and when no presents were to be Had, 
 turned away in disgust. At length he saw his error, 
 and the plan of operations was altered. Jesus Christ 
 was preached in simplicity, without any preparation. 
 The Greenlanders seemed thoughtful, amazed, and con- 
 founded ; their eyes were opened to their depraved and 
 lost state. The Gospel was received everywhere with 
 ardent attention. The flame spread like wildfire over 
 the icy wastes of Greenland ; numbers came from the re- 
 motest recesses of the Northern Ocean to hear the word 
 of life ; and the greater part of the population of that 
 extensive country has in time been baptized in the name 
 of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. 
 
 I have now filled my sheet. — Pardon my prolixity, and 
 believe me, my prayers are offered up, frequently, for 
 your continuance of the path you have chosen. For 
 myself, I need your prayers — may we be a mutual as- 
 sistance to each other, and to all our fellow laborers in 
 the Lord Jesus. 
 
 Believe me your sincere friend, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 287 
 
 TO MR. JOHN CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 Nottingham, 6th July, 1805. 
 DEAR CHARLESWORTH, 
 
 ***** 
 
 I BEG you will admire the elegance of texture and 
 shape of the sheet on which I have the honor to write 
 to you, and beware lest, in drawing your conclusions, 
 you conceive that I am turned exciseman ; — for I assure 
 you I write altogether in character ; — a poor Cambridge 
 scholar, with a patrimony of a few old books, an ink- 
 horn, and some sundry quires of paper, manufactured 
 as the envelopes of pounds of tea, but converted into 
 repositories of learning and taste. 
 
 The classics are certainly in disrepute. The ladies 
 have no more reverence for Greek and Latin, than they 
 have for an old peruke, or the ruffies of Queen Anne. 
 I verily believe that they would hear Homer's Greek 
 without evidencing one mark of terror and awe, even 
 though spouted by a university orator, or a Westmin- 
 ster Stentor. tempora ! o mores ! the rural elegance of 
 the twanging French horn^ and the vile squeak of the 
 Italian fiddle are more preferred than all the energy, and 
 all the sublimity of all the Greek and Roman orators, 
 historians, poets, and philosophers, put together. Now, 
 sir, as a classic, I cannot bear to have the honorable 
 fame of the ancients thus despised and contemned, and 
 therefore I have a controversy with all the beaux and 
 belles, Frenchmen and Italians. When they tell me 
 that I walk by rule and compass, that I balance my body 
 with strict regard to the centre of gravity, and that I 
 have more Greek in my pate than grace in my limbs, I 
 can bear it all in sullen silence, for you know it must be 
 a libel, since I am no mathematician, and therefore can- 
 not have learned to walk ill by system. As for grace, 
 I do believe, since I read Xenophon, I am become a very 
 elegant man, and in due time shall be able to spout 
 Pindar, dancing in due gradation the advancing, ret- 
 rograde, and medium steps, according to the regular pro- 
 gress of the strophe, antistrophe, and epode. You and. 
 I will be very fashionable men, after the manner of the 
 Greeks : we will institute an orchestra for the exercise of 
 
COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 the ars saltandi, and will recline at our meals on the legiti- 
 mate Triclinium of the ancients — only banish all modern 
 beaux and belles, to whom I am a professed and declared 
 enemy. 
 
 So much for flippancy — ' 
 
 Vale! S. R. V. B. E. E. Q. V. 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 TO MR. SERJEANT ROUGH. 
 
 Brigg, near Winteringham, July, 1805. 
 MY. DEAR, sm,, 
 
 I HAVE jyst missed you at Lincoln, where I had some 
 expectations oT seeing you, and had not circumstances 
 prevehted, I had 'certainly waited there till to-morrow 
 morning for- that 'pufpSsS. This letter, which I wrote 
 at Brig-g, I shall convey to you-ai^ Eirton, by some per- 
 i^bn going to the sessioti ; mtiiiy of whom, I have no 
 do'tibt, are to be'found m thi^-litigious little town. 
 
 iToUT mi^-directed epistle', to- my great sorrow, never 
 reached hiy hands. As I^as very anxious to get it, I 
 made many* mquiries at the post-offices round ; but they 
 were all 'in vain. I consider this as a real loss, and I 
 hope you will regard me as still under the pressure of 
 vexation, until' I receive some substitute from your 
 hands. 
 
 Had I any certain expectation of hearing you address 
 the Court or .Tury sivorn at Kirton, no circumstances should 
 prevent me from being present ; so do I long to mark the 
 dawnings of that eloquence which will one day ring 
 through every court in the Midland Circuit. I think the 
 noise of * * *, the overbearing petulance of ^ * *, and 
 the decent assurance of * * *, will readily yield to that 
 pure, chaste, and manly eloquence, which, I have no 
 doubt, you chiefly cultivate. It seems to me, who am 
 certainly no very competent judge, that there is a uniform 
 mode, or art, of pleading in our courts, which is in itself 
 faulty, and is, moreover, a bar to the higher excellences. 
 You know, before a barrister begins, in what manner he 
 will treat the subject ; you anticipate his positiveness, his 
 complete confidence in the stability of his case, his con- 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 289 
 
 tempt of his opponent, his voluble exaggeration, and the 
 vehemence of4iis indignation. All these are as of course. 
 It is no matter what sort of a face the business assume : 
 if Mr. be all impetuosity, astonishment, and indig- 
 nation on one side, we know he would not have been a 
 whit less impetuous, less astonished, or less indignant, 
 on the other, had he happened to have been retained. 
 It is true, this assurance of success, this contempt of an 
 opponent, and dictatorial decision in speaking, are calcu- 
 lated to have effect on the minds of a jury ; and if it be 
 the business of a counsel to obtain his ends by any means, 
 he is right to adopt them ; but the misfortune is, that all 
 these things are mechanical, and as much in the power 
 of the opposite counsel as in your own ; so that it is not 
 so much who argues best, as who speaks last, loudest, 
 or longest. True eloquence, on the other hand, is 
 confident only where there is real ground for confidence, 
 trusts more to reason and facts than to imposing decla- 
 mation, and seeks rather to convince than dazzle. The 
 obstreperous rant of a pleader may, for a while, intimi- 
 date a jury ; but plain and manly argument, delivered in 
 a candid and ingenuous manner, will more effectually 
 work upon their understandings, and will make an im- 
 pression on which the froth of declamation will be lost. 
 1 think a man who would plead in this manner, would 
 gain the confidence of a jury, and would find the avenues 
 of their hearts much more open, than a man of more as- 
 surance, who, by too much confidence where there is 
 much doubt, and too much vehemence where there is 
 greater need of coolness, puts his hearers continually in 
 mind that he is pleading for hire. There seems to me 
 so much beauty in truth, that I could wish our barristers 
 would make a distinction between cases, in their opinion 
 well or ill-founded, embarking their whole heart and 
 soul in the one, and contenting themselves with a per 
 spicuous and forcible statement of their client's case in 
 the other. 
 
 Pardon my rambling. The cacoethes scribendi can only 
 be used by indulgence, and we have all a propensity to 
 talk about things we do not understand. 
 
 25 
 
290 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 Winteringham, August 20tli, 1805. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 ***** 
 
 I AM very sensible of all your affection, in your anxie- 
 ty that I should not diminish my books ; but I am by no 
 means relieved from the anxiety virhich, on more ac- 
 counts than one, I am under, as to my present situation, 
 so great a burden to the family, when I ought to be a 
 support. My father made some heavy complaints when 
 I was at home ; and though I am induced to believe that 
 he is enough harassed to render it very excusable, yet I 
 cannot but feel strongly the peculiarity of my situation ; 
 and, at my age, feel ashamed that I should add to his 
 burdens. At present I have my hands completely tied 
 behind me. When I get to college, I hope to have more 
 opportunities of advantage, and, if I am fortunate, I shall 
 probably relieve my father and mother from the weight 
 which I now lay upon them. I wish you, if you read 
 this letter to my mother, to omit this part. 
 
 TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 
 
 Winteringham, Sept. 10th, 1805. 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 Your letter has at length reached me at this place, 
 where I have been for the last ten months employed in 
 classical reading with Mr. Grainger. It gives me plea- 
 sure to hear of you, and of poetry : for, since I came 
 here, I have not only been utterly shut out from all in- 
 tercourse with the lettered world, but have totally laid 
 aside the pen of inspiration. I have been actuated to 
 this by a sense of duty ; for I wish to prove that I have 
 not coveted the ministerial office through the desire of 
 learned leisure, but with an ardent wish to do my duty 
 as a teacher of the truth. I should blush to present 
 myself as a candidate for that office in an unqualified 
 and unprepared state ; and as I have placed my idea 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 291 
 
 of the necessary qualifications very high, all the time 
 between now and my taking my degree will be little 
 enough for these purposes alone. I often, however, cast 
 a look of fond regret to the darling occupations of my 
 younger hours, and the tears rush into my eyes, as I 
 fancy I see the few wild flowers of poetic genius, with 
 which I have been blessed, withering with neglect. 
 Poetry has been to me something more than amuse- 
 ment ; it has been a cheerful companion when I have 
 had no other to fly to, and a delightful solace when con- 
 solation has been in some measure needful. I cannot, 
 therefore, discard so old and faithful a friend without 
 deep regret, especially when I reflect that, stung by my 
 Ingratitude, he may desert me forever ! 
 
 With regard to your intended publication, you do me 
 too much honor by inserting my puerilities along with 
 such good company as I know I shall meet there. I 
 wish I could present you with some sonnets worthy of 
 your work. I have looked back amongst my old papers, 
 and find a few verses under that name, which were 
 written between the time when ' Clifton Grove ' was 
 sent to the press, and its final appearance. The look- 
 ing over these papers has recalled a little of my old 
 warmth, and I have scribbled some lines, which, as they 
 owe their rise to your letter, I may fairly (if I have 
 room) present you. I cannot read the sonnets which I 
 have found amongst my papers with pleasure, and there- 
 fore I shall not presume to show them to you. I shall 
 anxiously expect the publication of your work. 
 
 I shall be in Cambridge next month, being admitted a 
 ■Sizer at St. John's. Trinity would have suited my 
 plans better, but the expenses of that college are greater. 
 
 With thanks for your kind remembrance of me, I 
 remain, dear sir, very respectfully and thankfully yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, vvander'd far 
 From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy ! 
 And many a flower, which in the passing time 
 My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill 
 Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. 
 Heart-soothing Poesy ! — Though thou hast ceased 
 To hover o'er the many-voiced strings 
 Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still 
 
2Q2 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Call the warm tear from its thrice-hallow'd cell, 
 
 And with recalled images of bliss 
 
 Warm my reluctant heart. — Yes, I would throw, 
 
 Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand 
 
 O'er tlie responding chords. — It hath not ceased — ■ 
 
 It cannot, will not cease ; the heavenly warmth 
 
 Flays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; 
 
 >Still, though unbidden, j.' .ys.— Fair Poesy! 
 
 The summer and the spring, the wind and rain. 
 
 Sunshine, and storm, with various interchange. 
 
 Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month) 
 
 Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, 
 
 Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. — Sorceress! 
 
 I cannot burst thy bonds ! — It is but lift 
 
 1 hy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault. 
 
 Wreath thy enchanted tresses round thine ana, 
 
 A.nd mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, 
 
 And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, 
 
 Up to the regions of tlu'ice-chastened fire. 
 
 Or in the caverns of the ocean flood, 
 
 'I'hrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. 
 
 Yet other duties call me, and mine ear 
 
 Must turn away fi-om the high minstrelsy 
 
 Of tliy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly 
 
 Must turn away ; there are severer strains, 
 
 (And surely they are sweet as ever smote 
 
 The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil 
 
 Released and disembodied,) tiiere are strains. 
 
 Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought. 
 
 Through the probation of revolving years. 
 
 And mighty converse with the spirit of truth. 
 
 Have purged and purified. — To these my soul 
 
 Aspireth ; and to this sublimer end 
 
 I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep 
 
 With patient expectation. — ^Yea, sometimes 
 
 Foretaste of bliss rewards me ; and sometimes 
 
 Spirits unseen upon niy footsteps wait, 
 
 And minister strange music, %vhich doth seem 
 
 Now near, now distant, now on high, now low, 
 
 Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete. 
 
 And full fruition filling all the soul. 
 
 Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe 
 
 The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude 
 
 Of toil ; and but that my fond heart 
 
 Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, 
 
 When by clear fountain, or embowered brake, ' 
 
 1 lay a listless muser, prizing, far 
 
 Above all other lore, the poet's theme ; 
 
 But for such recollections I could brace 
 
 My stubborn spirit for the arduous path 
 
 Of science unregretting ; eye afar 
 
 Philosophy upon her steepest height. 
 
 And with bold step, and resolute attempt. 
 
 Pursue her to the innermost recess. 
 
 Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. 
 
 These verses form nearly the only poetical effort of 
 this year. Pardon their imperfections. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 293 
 
 TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 
 
 St. John's, Oct. 18th 1805. 
 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 I AM at length finally settled in my rooms, and, accor- 
 ding to my promise, I write to you to tell you so. I did 
 not feel quite comfortable at first here ; but I now begin 
 to feel at home, and relish my silent and thoughtful cup 
 of tea more than ever. Amongst our various occupations, 
 that of attending chapel is to me not the least irksome, 
 for the service is read in general below the span of my 
 auditory nerve ; but when they chant, I am quite charm- 
 ed, for our organ is fine, and the voices are good. This 
 is, however, only on high days and festivals, in which 
 number the present day is to be reckoned (St. Luke's.) 
 
 My mathematical studies do not agree with me, and 
 you may satisfy yourself I shall never be a senior wrang- 
 ler. Many men come up with knowledge enough for the 
 highest honors, and how can a man be expected to keep 
 up with them who starts without any previous fund .'' 
 Our lectures begin on Monday, and then I shall know 
 more of college difficulties. 
 
 My rooms are in the top story of the farthest court of 
 St. John's (which you perhaps remember) near the clois- 
 ters. They are light, and tolerably pleasant ; though, as 
 there was no furniture in them, and I have not yet bought 
 many necessary articles, they look very bare. Your phiz 
 over the chimney-piece has been recognised by two of my 
 fellow students ; the one recollected its likeness to Mr. 
 Maddock of Magdalene ; and the other said it was like a 
 young man whom he had seen with Mr. Maddock, and 
 whom he supposed to be his brother. 
 
 Of my new acquaintances, I have become intimate with 
 a Mr. * * *, who, I hope, will be senior wrangler. He 
 is a very serious and friendly man, and a man of no com- 
 mon mathematical talents. He lives in the same court 
 with me. Besides him, I know of none whose friendship 
 I should value ; and including him, no one whose hand I 
 would take in preference to that of my old friend, so long 
 as I see my old friend with his old face. When you have 
 learned to be other than what you are, I shall not regret 
 '25* 
 
294 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 that B. M. is no longer my friend, but tnat my former 
 friend is now no more. 
 
 I walked through Magdalene the other day, and I 
 could not help anticipating the time when I should come 
 to drink your tea, and swallow your bread and butter, 
 within the sacred walls. You must know our college was 
 originally a convent for Black Friars ; and if a man of 
 the reign of Henry the Sixth were to peep out of his 
 grave, in the adjoining church-yard, and look into our 
 portals, judging by our dress and appearance, he might 
 deem us a convent of Black Friars still. Some of our 
 brethren, it is true, would seem of very unsightly bulk ; 
 but many of them, with eyes sunk into their heads, from 
 poring over the mathematics, might pass very well for 
 the fasting and mortified shadows of penitent monks. 
 
 With regard to the expenses of our college, I can now 
 speak decisively ; and I can tell you, that I shall be here 
 an independent man. I am a Senior Size'r, under very 
 favorable circumstances, and, I believe, the profits of my 
 situation will nearly equal the actual expenses of the 
 college. But this is no rule for other colleges. I am 
 on the best side (there are two divisions) of St. John's, 
 and the expenses here are less than anywhere else in 
 the university. 
 
 I have this week written some very elaborate verses 
 for a college prize, and I have at length learned that I 
 am not qualified for a competitor, not being a Lady Mar- 
 garet's scholar : so that I have lost my labor. — Compar- 
 ed with the other men of this large college, I find I am 
 a respectable classic, and if I had time to give to the 
 languages, I think I should ultimately succeed in them 
 in no small degree ; but the fates forbid ; mathematics I 
 must read, and in mathematics I know I never shall ex- 
 cel. These are harassing reflections for a poor young 
 man gaping for a fellowship ! 
 
 If I chose I could find a good deal of religious society 
 here, but I must not indulge myself with it too much. 
 Mr. Simeon's preaching strikes me much. 
 ***** 
 
 I beg you will answer a thousand such questions as 
 these without my asking them. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 295 
 
 This is a letter of intelligence : — next shall be senti- 
 ment, (or Gothic arch, for they are synonymous ac- 
 cording to Mr. M.) 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 St. John's, October 26th, 1805. 
 
 DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 You seem to repose so little confidence in what I say 
 with regard to my college expenses, that I am not en- 
 couraged to hope you will give me much credit for what 
 I am about to say, namely, that had I no money at all, 
 either from my friends or Mr. Simeon, I could manage 
 to live here. My situation is so very favorable, and the 
 necessary expenses so very few, that I shall want very 
 little more than will suffice for clothes and books. I 
 have got the bills of Mr. * *, a Sizer of this college, now 
 before me, and from them, and his own account, I will 
 give you a statement of what my college bills will 
 amount to. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Thus my college expenses will not be more than 121. 
 or 15/. a year at the most. I shall not have any occa- 
 sion for the whole sum I have a claim upon Mr. Simeon 
 for ; and if things go well, I shall be able to live without 
 being dependent on any one. The Mr. * *, whose bills I 
 have borrowed, has been at college three years. He 
 came over from * *, with 101. in his pocket, and has no 
 friends, or any income or emolument whatever, except 
 what he receives for his Sizership ; yet he does support 
 himself, and that, too, very genteelly. It is only men's 
 extravagance that makes college life so expensive. There 
 are Sizers at St. John's who spend 150Z. a-year : but 
 they are gay, dissipated men, who choose to be Sizers 
 in order that they may have more money to lavish on 
 their pleasures. Our dinners and suppers cost us noth- 
 ing ; and if a man choose to eat milk-breakfasts, and go 
 without tea, he may live absolutely for nothing ; for his 
 college emoluments will cover the rest of his expenses. 
 Tea is indeed almost superfluous, since we do not rise 
 
296 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 from dinner till half past three, and the supper bell rings 
 a quarter before nine. Our mode of living is not to be 
 complained of, for the table is covered with all possible 
 variety ; and on feast-days, which our fellows take care 
 are pretty frequent, we have wine. 
 
 You will now, I trust, feel satisfied on this subject, 
 and will no longer give yourself unnecessary uneasiness 
 on my account. 
 
 ***** '5 
 
 I was unfortunate enough to be put into unfurnished ^ 
 rooms, so that my furniture will cost me a little more 
 than I expected; I suppose about 151., or perhaps not 
 quite so much. I sleep on a hair mattrass, which I find 
 just as comfortable as abed ; it only cost me 41., along 
 with blankets, counterpane, and pillows, &c. I have 
 three rooms — a sitting-room, a bed-room, and a kind of 
 scullery or pantry. My sitting-room is very light and 
 pleasant, and what does not often happen, the walls are 
 in good case, having been lately stained green. 
 
 I must commission my sister to make me a pair of 
 letter racks, but they must not be fine, because my 
 furniture is not very fine. I think the old shape (or 
 octagons, one upon another) is the neatest, and white 
 the best color. I wish Maria would paint vignettes in 
 the squares, because then I should see how her draw- 
 ing proceeds. You must know that these are not intend- 
 ed as mere matters of show, but are intended to answer 
 some purpose ; there are so many particular places to 
 attend on particular days, that unless a man is very 
 cautious, he has nothing else to do than to pay forfeits 
 for non-attendance. A few cards, and a little rack, will 
 be a short way of helping the memory. 
 
 I think I must get a supply of sugar from London ; for 
 if I buy it here, it will cost me Is. 6d. per pound, which 
 is rather too much. I have got tea enough to last the 
 
 term out. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Although you may be quite easy on the subject of my 
 future support, yet you must not form splendid ideas of 
 my success at the university, for the lecturers all speak 
 so low,, and we sit at such a distance, that I cannot hear 
 a syllable. I have, therefore, no more advantage than 
 if I were studying at home. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 297 
 
 I beg we may have no more doubts and fears, at least 
 on my score. I think I am now very near being off 
 your hands ; and, since my education at the university 
 is quite secure, you need not entertain gloomy appre- 
 hensions for the future ; my maintenance will, at all 
 events, be decent and respectable : and you must not 
 grieve yourself because I cannot be as rich as an alder- 
 man. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Do not show this letter to all comers, nor leave it about, 
 for people will have a very mean idea of university edu- 
 cation, when they find it costs so little ; but if they are 
 saucy on the subject, tell them — I have a lord just un- 
 der me. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN DASHWOOD. 
 
 St. John's, Oct. 26th, 1805. 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 It is now many months since I wrote to you, and 
 I have not received any answer. I should not have 
 troubled you with this letter, but that, considering how 
 much I owe to you, I thought the rules and observances 
 of strict etiquette might with moral propriety be dispen- 
 sed with. 
 
 Suffer me therefore to tell you, that I am quietly and 
 comfortably settled at St. John's, silently conforming my- 
 self to the habits of college life, and pursuing my studies 
 with such moderation as I think necessary for my health. 
 I feel very much at home, and tolerably happy ; although 
 the peculiar advantages of university education will in 
 a great measure be lost to me, since there is not one of 
 the lecturers whom I am able to hear. 
 
 My literary ambition is, I think, now fast subsiding, 
 and a better emulation springing up in its room. I con- 
 ceive that, considering the disadvantages under which I 
 labor, very little can be expected from me in the Senate 
 House. I shall not, however, remit my exertions, but 
 shall at least strive to acquit myself with credit, though 
 I cannot hope for the more splendid honors. 
 
2i98 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 With regard to my college expenses, I have the pleas- 
 ure to inform you, that my situation is so favorable, that 
 I shall be obliged, in strict rectitude, to wave the offers 
 of many of my friends. I shall not even need the sum 
 Mr. Simeon mentioned, after the first year ; and it is not 
 impossible that I may be able to live without any assist- 
 ance at all. I confess I feel pleasure in the thought of 
 this, not through any vain pride of independence, but 
 because I shall then give a more unbiassed testimony to 
 the Truth, than if I were supposed to be bound to it by 
 any ties of obligation or gratitude. I shall always feel 
 as much indebted for intended^ as for actually afforded 
 assistance ; and though I should never think a sense of 
 thankfulness an oppressive burden, yet I shall be happy 
 to evince it, when, in the eyes of the world, the obligation 
 to it has been discharged. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I hope you will ere long relieve me from the painful 
 thought that I lie under your displeasure ; and believe 
 me, dear sir, most sincerely and affectionately yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 TO MR. CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 Cum diutius a te frustra litteras expectassem memet, 
 in animum tuum revocare aut iterum otio obtrudere n,o- 
 lebam. 
 
 Penes te erat aut nobiscum denuo per litter-as colloqui 
 aut familiaritatem et necessitatem nostram silentio dim- 
 ittere. Hoc te prastulisse jam diu putaveram, cum epis- 
 tola tua mihi in manus venit. 
 
 Has litteras scribebam intra sanctos Sanctissimi Johan- 
 nis Collegii muros, in celeberrima hac nostra academia 
 Cantab rigise. 
 
 Hie tranquillitate denique litterarum propria, summa 
 cum voluptate conjuncta fruor. Hie omnes discendi 
 vias, omnes scientise rationes indago et perseqnor : nes- 
 cio quid tandem evasurus. Certe si parum proficio, mi- 
 hi culpee jure datum erit ; modo valetudo me sinat. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 299 
 
 Haud tamen vereor, si verum dicere cogor, ut satis 
 proficiam : quanquam infirmis auribus aliorum lecturas 
 vix unquam audire queam. In Mathematicis parum 
 adhuc profeci : iitpote qui perarduum certamen cum 
 eruditissimis quibusque in veterum Unguis et moribus 
 versatis jamjam sim initurus. 
 
 His in studiis pro mea perbrevi sane et tanquam hes- 
 terna consuetudine haud mediocriter sum versatus. 
 
 Latine minus eleganter scribere videor quam Grssce : 
 neque vero eadem voluptate scriptores Latinos lectito 
 quam Graecos : cum autem omnem industrise mese vim 
 Romanis litteris contulej:im, haud dubito quin faciles 
 mihi et propitias eas faciara. 
 
 Te etiam revocatum velim ad haec elegantia delicias- 
 que litterarum. Quid enim accommodatius videri potest 
 aut ad animum quotidianis curis laboribusque oppressum 
 reficiendum et recreandum, aut ad mentem et facultates 
 ingenii acuendas, quam exquisita et expolita summaque 
 vi et acumine ingenii elaborata veterum scriptorum 
 opera ? 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER JAMES. 
 
 St. John's, Nov. 1805. 
 MY DEAR JA]p:S, ,, 
 
 You do not know how anxious I am to hear how you 
 go on in all things ; and whether you still persist in 
 steadfastness and seriousness. I know, my dear lad, 
 that your heart is too good to run into actual vice, yet I 
 fear the example of gay and wicked persons may lead 
 you to think lightly of religion, and then who knows 
 where it may end .'' Neville, however, will always be 
 your director, and I trust you conceal none, even of 
 your very thoughts, from him. Continue, James, to 
 solicit the fatherly superintendence of your Maker, night 
 and morning. I shall not fear for you, while I am as- 
 sured you do this fervently, and not in a hurried or 
 slovenly manner. With constant prayer, we have noth- 
 ing to fear from the temptations of the world, the flesh, 
 and the devil : God will brinff us throus-h it, and will 
 
300 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 save us in the midst of peril. If we consider the com- 
 mon condition of man's life, and the evils and misfor- 
 tunes to which we are daily exposed, we have need to 
 bless God every moment for sparing us, and to beg of 
 him, that when the day of misfortune comes, (and 
 come it must, sooner or later, to all,) we may be pre- 
 pared with christian fortitude to endure the shock. 
 What a treasure does the religious man possess in this, 
 that when everything else fails, he has God for his 
 refuge ; and can look to a world where he is sure, through 
 Christ Jesus, that he will not be disappointed ! 
 
 I do not much heed to what glace of worship you may 
 go, so as you are but a serious and regular attendant. 
 Permit me, however, to explain the true nature of the 
 question with regard to the church liturgy, in order that 
 you may be the better able to judge. 
 
 You know from the epistles of St. Paul, that soon after 
 the death of Jesus Christ, there were regular churches 
 established in various places, as at Corinth, Galatia, 
 Thessalonica, &c., &c. Now, we are not certain that 
 they used forms of prayer ft all in these churches, much 
 more that any part of ours was used in their time ; but 
 it is certain, that in the year of our Lord 286 there was 
 a general liturgy in use throughout all the churches of 
 Christ. Now, if in that early time, when Christians 
 were much more like the apostles than they are now, 
 they used a form of prayer in the churches, it is fair to 
 conclude that the practice was not unsci^ptural ; besides, 
 at this very time, St. John the Evangelist had not been 
 dead above 100 years, and one of his disciples, though at 
 a very great age, was actually living. St. Chrysostom, 
 who lived above 354 years after Christ, wrote some of 
 our prayers, and the greater part of them have been in 
 general use for a thousand years. About the year 286, 
 about one thousand five hundred years ago, immense 
 multitudes of savages, the Goths and Vandals, being 
 enticed, by the fertility of the Italian country, and the 
 riches of its possessors, came down from Germany, 
 Hungary, and all the northern parts of Europe, upon 
 the Roman empire, then enfeebled with luxury, and 
 endeavoured to gain possession of the south. They 
 were at first repulsed ; but as fast as they were defeated 
 or slain, new hordes, allured by the accounts which 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. W'V 
 
 their countrymen gave of its opulence and abundance, 
 succeeded in their stead, till the forces of the Romans 
 grew unequal to the contest, and gradually gave way to 
 the invaders, who, wherever they came, reduced every- 
 thing to a state of barbarism. The Christians, about 
 this time, were beginning to prevail i'n the Roman terri- 
 tories, and under the emperor Constantine, who was 
 the first christian king, were giving the blow to idolatry. 
 But the savage intolerance of the invaders, who reduced 
 the conquered to abject slavery, burned books wherever 
 they found them, and even forbade the cultivation of 
 learning, reduced them to the utmost distress. At this 
 time they wrote, and used in their churches, all that 
 part of the Litany which begins with the Lord's prayer, 
 and ends with the prayer of St. Chrysostom. Thus you 
 see how venerably ancient are many of our forms, and 
 how little they merit that contempt which ignorant 
 people pour upon them. Very holy men (men now, we 
 have every reason to believe, in heaven) composed them, 
 and they have been used from age to age ever since, in 
 our churches, with but few alterations. But you will 
 say they were used by the Roman Catholics, who are a 
 very superstitious and bigoted set of people. This is 
 no objection at all, because the Roman Catholics were 
 not always so bad, and what is a proof of this is, that 
 there once was no other religion in the world ; and \ve 
 cannot think that church very v/icked, which God 
 chose, once, to make the sole guardian of his truth. 
 There have been many excellent and pious men among 
 the Roman Catholics, even at the time their public faith 
 was corrupted. 
 
 You may have heard of the Reformation ; you know it 
 was brought about by Luther and Calvin, in the sixteenth 
 century, about 1536. Now, Calvin is the founder of the 
 sect of Independents, such as those who meet at Castle- 
 gate, yet he had a hand in framing the liturgj^, which, 
 with alterations, we now use, and he selected it in part 
 from the liturgy of the Roman Church ; because they 
 had received it from the primitive Christians, who were 
 more immediately taught by the apostles. The Refor- 
 mation means that change in religion, which was brought 
 about, as said before, by Luther and Calvin, in conse- 
 26 
 
S02 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 quence of the abuses and errors which had crept into 
 the Romish Church. 
 
 You may possibly think the responses, or answers of 
 the clerk and people, rather ridiculous. — This absurdity, 
 however, generally consists more in the manner than in 
 the thing. They were intended to be pronounced aloud 
 "by the people, and were used as a means to keep their 
 attention awake, and show their sincerity. At the time 
 this form was invented, not one man in five or six hun- 
 dred could read ; and these repetitions answered another 
 purpose, of fixing important ejaculations and sentences in 
 their minds. In these days the same necessity does not 
 exist ; but we still retain the form on account of its other 
 advantages, and through reverence of such an antiquity, 
 as almost vouches for its being acceptable to God, who 
 has permitted it to be used by the wisest and best of 
 men for so long a period. 
 
 I think I have now nearly tired you. Pray write to 
 me soon, and believe me, my dear James, your very 
 affectionate brother, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 
 
 St. John's College, Cambridge, Nov. 10. 1805. 
 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 The reasons why I said mathematical studies did not 
 agree with me, were these — that I am more inclined to 
 classical pursuits, and that, considering what disadvan- 
 tages I lie under in being deaf, I am afraid I cannot excel 
 in them. I have at present entirely laid them aside, as 
 I am reading for the university scholarship, which will 
 soon be vacant : there are expected to be 13 or 14 can- 
 didates, some of whom are of great note from Eton ; and 
 I have as much expectation of gaining it, as of being 
 elected supreme magus over the mysteries of Mithra. 
 The scholarship is of no value in itself adequate to the 
 labor of reading for it, but it is the greatest classical honor 
 in the university, and is a pretty sure road to a fellowship. 
 My classical abilities here have attracted some attention. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 303 
 
 and my Latin Themes, in particular, have drawn forth 
 inquiries from the tutors as to the place of my education. 
 The reason why I have determined to sit for the scho- 
 larship is this, that to have simply been a candidate for 
 it establishes a man's character, as many of the first 
 classics in the university have failed of it. 
 ***** 
 
 I begin now to feel at home in my little room, and I 
 wish you were here to see how snugly I sit by my bla- 
 zing fire in the cold evenings. College certainly has 
 charms, though I have a few things rankling at my heart 
 which will nol; let me be quite happy. — Ora^ Ora, pro me. 
 
 This last sentence of mine is of a very curious tenden- 
 cy, to be sure : for who is there of mortals who has not 
 something rankling at his heart, which will not let him 
 be happy .-' 
 
 It is curious to observe the different estimations two 
 men make of one another's happiness. Each of them 
 surveys the external appearances of the other's situation, 
 and, comparing them with the secret disquieting circum- 
 stances of his own, thinks him happier ; and so it is that 
 all the world over, be we favored as we may, there is 
 always something which others have, and which we our- 
 selves have not, necessary to the completion of our fe- 
 licity. I think therefore, upon the whole, there is no 
 such thing as positive happiness in this world ; and a man 
 can only be deemed felicitous, as he is in comparison less 
 affected with positive evil. It is our business, therefore, 
 to support ourselves under existing ills, with the antici- 
 pation of future blessings. Life, with all its bitters, is 
 a draught soon drunk ; and though we have many chan- 
 ges to fear on this side the grave, beyond it we know 
 of none. 
 
 Your life and mine are now marked out ; and our call- 
 ing is of such a nature, that it ill becomes us to be too 
 much affected with circumstances of an external nature. 
 It is our duty to bear our evils with dignified silence. 
 Considering our superior consolations, they are small in 
 comparison with those of others ; and though, they may 
 cast a sadness both over our hearts and countenances, 
 which time may not easily remove, yet they must not 
 interfere with our active duties, nor affect our conduct 
 
304 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 towards others, except by opening- our heart with warmer 
 sympathy to their woes, their wants, and miseries. 
 
 As you have begun in your religious path, my beloved 
 friend, persevere. Let your love to the Crucified con- 
 tinue as pure as it was at first, while your zeal is more 
 tempered, and ,your piety more rational and mature. I 
 hope yet to live to see you a pious and respected parish 
 priest ; as for me — I hope I shall do my duty as I have 
 strength and ability, and I hope I shall always continue, 
 what I now profess myself, your friend and brother. 
 
 ■ H. K. WHITE. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 St. John's, Cambridge, 10th Dec. 1805. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 1 AM SO truly hurt that you should again complain of 
 my long silence, that I cannot refrain from sending this 
 by the post, although I shall send you a parcel to- 
 morrow. The reason of my not having sent you the 
 cravats sooner, is the difficulty I have found in getting 
 them together, since part were in the hands of my laun- 
 dress, and part dirty. I do not know whether you will 
 find them right, as my linen is in other respects deficient, 
 and I have a cause at issue with my washerwoman on 
 that score. This place is literally a den of thieves ; my 
 bed-maker, whom we call a gyp, from a Greek word sig- 
 nifying a vulture, runs away with everything he can lay 
 his hands on, and when he is caught, says he only bor- 
 rows tliem. He stole a sack of coals a-week, as regular- 
 ly as the week came, when first I had fires ; but I have 
 stopped the run of this business, by a monstrous large 
 padlock, which is hung to the staple of the bin. His 
 next trick was to bring me four candles for a pound in- 
 stead of six ; and this trade he carried on for some time, 
 until I accidentally discovered the trick : he then said he 
 had always brought me right until that time, and that 
 then he had brought me fives, but had given Mr. H. (a 
 man on the same staircase) one, because he thought he 
 understood I had borrowed one of him ; on inquiring of 
 Mr. H. he had not given him one according to his pre- 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 305 
 
 tence : but the gentleman was not caught yet, for he 
 declared he had lent one to the bed-maker of Lord B. in 
 tlie rooms below. His neatest trick is going to the gro- 
 cer every now and then for articles in your name, which 
 he converts to his own use. I have stopped him here 
 too, by keeping a checkbook. Tea, sugar, and pocket- 
 handkerchiefs, are his natural perquisites, and I verily 
 believe he will soon be filling his canister out of mine be- 
 fore my face. There is no redress for all this ; for if you 
 change, you are no better off: they are all alike. They 
 know you regard them as a pack of thieves, and their 
 only concern is to steal so dexterously that they may not 
 be confronted with direct proof. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Do iiot be surprised at any apparent negligence in my 
 letters : my time has so many calls for it, that half my 
 duties are neglected. Our college examination comes 
 on next Tuesday, and it is of the utmost moment that I 
 acquit myself well there. A month after will follow the 
 scholarship examination. My time, therefore, at pre- 
 sent, will scarcely permit the performance of my promise 
 with respect to the historical papers, but I have them in 
 mind, and I am much bent on perfecting them in a man- 
 ner superior to their commencement. 
 
 I would fain write to my brother James, who must by 
 no means think I forget him ; but I fear I shall see him 
 before I write to him on the accounts above stated. 
 The examination for the scholarship is distinct from 
 that of our college, which is a very important one ; and 
 while I am preparing for the one, I necessarily neglect 
 the other. 
 
 I wish very much to hear from you on religious topics ; 
 and remember, that although my leisure at present will 
 not allow me to write to you all I wish, yet it will be 
 the highest gratification to me to read your letters, es- 
 pecially when they relate to your Christian progress. I 
 beseech you not to relax, as you value your peace of 
 mind, and the repose of a dying bed. I wish you would 
 take in the Christian Observer, which is a cheap work, 
 and will yield you much profitable amusement. I have 
 it here for nothing, and can send you up some of the 
 numbers if you like. 
 ^26* 
 
306 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Remember, and let my mother know, that I have no 
 chance for the university scholarship, and that I only 
 sit for the purpose of letting the university know that I 
 am a decent proficient in the languages. 
 
 There is one just vacant which I can certainly get, but 
 I should be obliged to go to Peter-house in consequence, 
 which will not be advisable, — but I must make inquiries 
 about it. I speak with certainty on this subject, because 
 it is restricted to candidates who are in their first year, 
 amongst whom I should probably be equal to any. The 
 others are ooen to bachelors. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 St. John's, December 16th, 1805. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 In consequence of an alteration in my plans, I shall 
 have the pleasure of seeing you at the latter end of this 
 week, and I wish you so to inform my aunt. The rea- 
 son of this change is this, that I have over-read myself, 
 and I find it absolutely necessary to take some relaxation, 
 and to give up study entirely, for a short time, in order 
 that I may go on better hereafter. 
 
 This has been occasioned by our college lectures, 
 which I had driven too late, on account of my being 
 occupied in preparations for the university scholarship 
 examination, and then I was obliged to fag so hard for 
 the college lectures, as the time drew on, that I could 
 take no exercise. Thus I soon knocked myself up, and I 
 now labor under a great general relaxation, and much 
 nervous weakness. 
 
 Change of air and place will speedily remove these 
 symptoms, and I shall certainly give up the university 
 scholarship rather than injure my health. 
 
 Do not mention these things to my mother, as she 
 will make it a cause of unnecessary uneasiness. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 307 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 St. John's, December 19th, 1805. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I WAS sorry to receive your letter, oesiring me to defer 
 my journey ; and I am sorry to be forced to tell you the 
 reason of my coming- to town sooner than you wish me. 
 I have had an attack of my old nervous complaint, and 
 my spirits have been so wretchedly shattered, that my 
 surgeon says I shall never be well till I have removed 
 somewhere, where I can have society and amusement. 
 It is a very distressing thing to be ill in college, where 
 you have no attendance, and very little society. Mr. 
 Catton, my tutor, has prevailed upon me, by pressing 
 wishes, to go into the hall to be examined with the men 
 of my year : — I have gone through two examinations, 
 and I have one to come ; after that is over, he told me I 
 had better go to my friends directly, and relieve myself 
 with complete relaxation from study. Under these cir- 
 cumstances, the object of my journey to London will be 
 answered, by the mere residence in my aunt's family, 
 and by a cessation from reading. While I am here, I 
 am wretched ; I cannot read, the slightest application 
 makes me faint ; I have very little society, and that is 
 quite a force upon my friends. I am determined, there- 
 fore, to leave this place on Saturday morning, and you 
 may rest satisfied that the purpose of my journey will be 
 fully accomplished by the prattle of my aunt's little ones, 
 and her care. I am not an invalid, since I have no sick- 
 ness or ailment, but I am weak and low-spirited, and 
 unable to read. The last is the greatest calamity I can 
 experience of a worldly nature. My mind preys upon it- 
 self. Had it not been for Leeson, of Clare Hall, I could 
 not have gone through this week. I have been exam- 
 ined twice, and almost v/ithout looking over the sub- 
 jects, and I have given satisfaction ; but I am obliged to 
 be kept up by strong medicines to endure this exertion, 
 which is very great. 
 
 I am happy, however, to tell you, I am better ; and Mr. 
 Parish, the surgeon, says, a few days will reestablish 
 me when I get into another scene, and into society. 
 
308 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. , 
 
 London, December 24th, 1805 
 My DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 You will, no doubt, have been surprised at not having 
 heard from me for so long" a time, and you will be no less 
 so to find that I am writing this at my aunt's in this far- 
 famed city. I have been so much taken up with our 
 college examinations of late, that I could not find time 
 to Ma'ite even to you, and I am now come to town, in 
 order to give myself every relaxation and amusement I 
 can ; for I had read so much at Cambridge, that my 
 health was rather affected, and I was advised to give 
 myself the respite of a week or a fortnight, in order to 
 recover strength. I arrived in town on Saturday night, 
 and should have written yesterday, in order to remove 
 any uneasiness you might feel on my account, but there 
 is no post on Sunday. 
 
 I have now to communicate some agreeable intelli- 
 gence to you. Last week being the close of the Mich- 
 aelmas term, and our college examination, our tutor, 
 who is a very great man, sent for me, and told me he 
 was sorry to hear I had been ill : he understood I was 
 low-spirited, and wished to know whether I frightened 
 myself about college expenses. I told him, that they 
 did contribute some little to harass me, because I was 
 as yet uncertain what the bills of my first year would 
 amount to. His answer was to this purpose : — ' Mr. 
 White, I beg you will not trouble yourself on this sub- 
 ject : your emoluments will be very great, very great 
 indeed, and I will take care your expenses are not very 
 burdensome. — Leave that tome !' He advised me to go 
 to my friends, and amuse myself with a total cessation 
 from reading. After our college examination (which 
 lasted six days) was over, he sent for me again, and 
 repeated what he had said before about the expenses 
 of the college ; and he added, that if I went on as I 
 had begun, and made myself a good scholar, I might 
 rely on being provided for by the college ; for if Ihe county 
 should be full, and they could not elect me a fellow, they 
 would recommend me to another college, where they 
 would be glad to receive a clever man from their hands ; 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 309 
 
 or, at all events, they could always get a young man a 
 situation as a private tutor in a nobleman's family : or 
 could put him in some handsome way of preferment. 
 ' We make it a rule (he said) of providing for a clever 
 man, whose fortune is small ; and you may therefore rest 
 assured, Mr. White, that, after you have taken your 
 degree, you will be provided with a genteel competency 
 by the college.'' He begged I would be undeT no appre- 
 hensions on these accounts : he shook hands with me 
 very affectionately, and wished me a speedy recovery. 
 These attentions from a man like the tutor of St. John's 
 are very marked ; and Mr. Catton is well known for doing 
 more than he says. I am sure, after these assurances 
 from a principal of so respectable a society as St. John's, 
 I have nothing more to fear ; and I hope you will never 
 repine on my account again : — according to every ap- 
 pearance, my lot in life is certain. 
 
 ,T0 MR. B. MADDOCK. 
 
 London, Xraas, 1805. 
 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 You would have had no reason to complain of my long 
 silence, had I preferred my self-justification to your ease. 
 I wrote you a letter, which now lies in my drawer at St. 
 John's, but in such a weak state of body, and in so de- 
 sponding and. comfort] ess a tone of mind, that I knew it 
 would give you pain, and therefore I chose not to send 
 it. I have indeed been ill ; bat, thanks to God, I am 
 recovered. My nerves were miserably shattered by over- 
 application, and the absence of all that could amuse, and 
 the presence of many things which weighed heavy upon 
 my spirits. When I found myself too ill to read, and too 
 desponding to endure my own reflections, I discovered 
 that it is really a miserable thing to be destitute of the 
 soothing and supporting hand when nature most needs 
 it. I wandered up and down from one man's room to 
 another, and from one college to another, imploring 
 society, a little conversation, and a little relief of the 
 burden which pressed upon my spirits ; and I am sorry 
 
310 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 to say, that those who, when I was cheerful and lively, 
 sought my society with avidity, now, when I actually 
 needed conversation, were too busy to grant it. Our 
 college examination was then approaching, and I per- 
 ceived with anguish that I had read for the university 
 scholarship, until I had barely time to get up our private 
 subjects, and that as I was now too ill to read, all hope 
 of getting through the examination with decent respect- 
 ability was at an end. This was an additional grief. I 
 went to our tutor, with tears in my eyes, and told him I 
 must absent myself from the examination, — a step which 
 would have precluded me from a station amongst the 
 prize-men until the second year. He earnestly entreat- 
 ed me to run the risk. My surgeon gave me strong 
 stimulants and supporting medicines during the exami- 
 nation week, and I passed, I believe, one of the most 
 respectable examinations amongst them. As soon as 
 ever it was over, I left Cambridge, by the advice of my 
 surgeon and tutor, and I feel myself now pretty strong. 
 I have given up the thought of sitting for the university 
 scholarship in consequence of my illness, as the course 
 of my reading was effectually broken. In this place I 
 have been much amused, and have been received with 
 an attention in the literary circles which I neither 
 expected nor deserved. But this does not affect me as 
 it once would have done : my views are widely altered ; 
 and I hope that I shall in time learn to lay my whole 
 heart at the foot of the cross. 
 
 I have only one thing more to tell you of about my 
 illness ; it is, that I have found in a young man, with 
 whom I had a little acquaintance, that kind care and at- 
 tention, which I looked for in vain from those who pro- 
 fessed themselves my nearest friends. At a time when 
 * * * could not find leisure to devote a single eve- 
 ning to his sick friend, even when he earnestly implored 
 it, William Leeson constantly, and even against my 
 wishes, devoted every evening to the relieving of my mel- 
 ancholy, and the enlivening of my solitary hours. With 
 the most constant and affectionate assiduity, he gave me 
 my medicines, administered consolation to my spirits, 
 and even put me to bed. 
 
oe' h. k. white. 311 
 
 to mr. p. thompson. 
 
 London, 1st January, 1806. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I OWE it both, to my feelings and my duty, that I should 
 thank you for the kind inquiries you have thought it 
 worth while to make concerning me and my ajffairs. I 
 have just learned the purport of a letter received from 
 you by Mr. Robinson, the bookseller ; and it is a pleas- 
 ing task to me, at the same time that I express my sense 
 of your benevolent concern in my behalf, to give you, 
 myself, the information you require. 
 
 The little volume which, considered as the production 
 of a very young man, may have interested you, has not 
 had a very great sale, although it may have had as much 
 countenance as it deserved. The last report I received 
 from the pubhshers, was 450 sold. So far it has answer- 
 ed the expectations I had formed from it, that it has pro- 
 cured me the acquaintance, and, perhaps, I may say, 
 the friendship of men equally estimable for their talents 
 and their virtues. Rewarded by their countenance, I 
 am by no means dissatisfied with my little book ; indeed 
 I think its merits have, on the whole, rather been over- 
 rated than otherwise, which I attribute to the lenity so 
 readily afforded to the faults of youth, and to the promp- 
 titude with which benevolent minds give encouragement 
 where encouragement seems to be wanted. 
 
 With regard to my personal concerns, I have succeed- 
 ed in placing myself at Cambridge, and have already 
 kept one term. My college is St. John's, where, in the 
 rank of Sizer, I shall probably be enabled to live almost 
 independently of external support : but should I need that 
 support, I have it in my power to draw on a friend, whose 
 name I am not permitted to mention, for any sum not 
 exceeding 301. per annum. With habits of frugality, I 
 shall never need this sum : so that I am quite at ease 
 with respect to my college expenses, and am at full leis- 
 ure to pursue my studies with a free and vacant mind. 
 
 I am at present in the great city, where I have come, 
 in consequence of a little injudicious application, a suitor 
 to health, variety, and amusement. In a few days I 
 shall return to Cambridge, where (should you ever pass 
 
312 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 that way) I hope you will not forget that I reside there 
 three-fourths of the year. It would, indeed, give me 
 pleasure to say personally how much I am obliged by 
 your inquiries. 
 
 I hope you will put a favorable construction both on 
 the minuteness and the length of this letter, and permit 
 me to subscribe myself, sir, very thankfully and obe- 
 diently yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 TO HIS AUNT. 
 
 St. John's, Cambridge, Jan. 6th. 1806. 
 
 .ilY DEAR AUNT, 
 
 I AM at length once more settled in my rooms at Cam- 
 bridge ; but I am grown so idle, and so luxurious, since 
 I have been under your hands, that I cannot read with 
 half my usual diligence. 
 
 I hope you concluded the Christmas holydays on Mon- 
 day evening with the customary glee ; and I hope my 
 uncle was well enough to partake of your merriment. 
 You must now begin your penitential days, after so much 
 riot and feasting ; and, with your three little prattlers 
 around you, I am sure your evenings will flow pleasantly 
 by your own fire-side. Visiting and gayety are very well 
 by way of change ; but there is no enjoyment so lasting 
 as that of one's own family. Elizabeth will soon be 
 old enough to amuse you with her conversation ; and, I 
 trust, you will take every opportunity of teaching her 
 to put the right value on things, and to exercise her own 
 good sense. It is amazing how soon a child may become 
 a real comfort to its mother, and how much even young 
 minds will form habits of affection towards those who 
 treat them like reasonable beings, capable of seeing the 
 right and the wrong of themselves. A very little girl 
 may be made to understand that there are some things 
 which are pleasant and amusing, which are still less 
 worthy of attention than others more disagreeable and 
 painful. Children are, in general, fond of little orna- 
 ments of dress, especially females ; and though we may 
 allow them to be elevated with their trifling splendors, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 313 
 
 yet we should not forget to remind them, that, although 
 people may admire their dress, yet they will admire 
 them much more for their good sense, sweetness of 
 temper, and generosity of disposition. Children are 
 very quick-sighted to discern whether you approve of 
 them, and they are very proud of your approbation when 
 they think you bestow it : we should therefore be care- 
 ful how we praise them, and for what. If we praise 
 their dress it should be slightly, and as if it were a mat- 
 ter of very small importance ; but we should never let 
 any mark of consideration, or goodness of heart, in a 
 child, pass by, without some token of approbation. Still 
 we must never praise a child too much, nor too warmly, 
 for that would beget vanity : and when praise is moder- 
 ately yet judiciously bestowed, a child values it more, 
 because it feels that it is just. I don't like punishments. 
 You will never torture a child into duty ; but a sensible 
 child will dread the frown of a judicious mother, more 
 than all the rods, dark rooms, and scolding school- 
 mistresses in the universe. We should teach our child- 
 ren to make friends of us, to communicate all their 
 thoughts to us ; and while their innocent prattle will 
 amuse us, we shall find many opportunities of teaching 
 them important truths, almost without knowing it. 
 
 I admire all your little ones, and I hope to see Eliz- 
 abeth one day an accomplished and sensible girl. Give 
 my love to them, and tell them not to forget their cousin 
 Henry, who wants a housekeeper at college ! 
 
 Though I have written so long a letter, I am, indeed, 
 offended with you, and I dare say you know the reason 
 very well. 
 
 P. S. Whenever you are disposed to write a letter, 
 think of me. 
 
 27 
 
314 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 TO MR. B. HADDOCK. 
 
 St. John's, February 17th, 1806. 
 
 DEAE BEN, 
 
 Do not think I am reading hard : I beUeve it is all 
 over with that. I have had a recurrence of my old 
 complaint within this last four or five days, which has 
 half unnerved me for everything. The state of my health 
 is really miserable ; I am well and lively in the morning, 
 and overwhelmed with nervous horrors in the evening. 
 I do not know how to proceed with regard to my 
 studies : — a very slight over-stretch of the mind in the 
 day-time occasions me not only a sleepless night, but a 
 night of gloom and horror. The systole and diastole of 
 my heart seem to be playing at ball — the stake, my life. 
 I can only say the game is not yet decided : — I allude to 
 the violence of the palpitation. 
 
 I am going to mount the Gog-magog hills this morn- 
 ing, in quest of a good night's sleep. The Gog-magog 
 hills for my body, and the Bible for my mind, are my 
 only medicines. I am sorry to say, that neither are 
 quite adequate. Cui, igitiir ; dandum est vitio 9 Mihi 
 prorsus. I hope, as the summer comes, my spirits (which 
 have been with the swallows a winter's journey) will 
 come with it. When my spirits are restored, my health 
 will be restored : — the fons mali lies there. Give me 
 serenity and equability of mind, and all will be well 
 there. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 St. John's, nth March, 1806 
 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 ***** 
 
 I HOPE you read Mason on Self-knowledge now and 
 then. It is a useful book; and it will help you greatly 
 
op H. K. WHITE. 315 
 
 in framing your spirit to the ways of humility, piety, and 
 peace. Reading, occasional meditation, and constant 
 prayer, will infallibly guide you to happiness, as far as 
 we can be happy here ; and will help you on your way to 
 that blessed abode, where I hope, ardently hope, we 
 shall all meet hereafter in the assembly of the saints. 
 Go coolly and deliberately, but determinately, to the 
 work of your salvation. Do nothing here in a hurry ; 
 deliberate upon everything ; take your steps cautiously, 
 yet with a simple reliance on the mercy of your God and 
 Saviour ; and wherever you see your duty lie, lose no 
 time in acting up to it. This is the only way to arrive 
 at comfort in your christian career ; and the constant 
 observance of this maxim will, with the assistance of God, 
 smooth your way with quietness and repose, even to the 
 brink of eternity, and beyond the gulf that bounds it. 
 
 I had almost dropped the idea of seeing Nottingham 
 this next long vacation, as my stay in Cambridge may 
 be importantly useful ; but I think now, I shall go down 
 for my health's, and more particularly for my mother's 
 sake, whom my presence will comfort, and perhaps help. 
 I shall be glad to moor all my family in the harbour of 
 religious trust, and in the calm seas of religious peace. 
 These concerns are apt, at times, to escape me ; but 
 they now press much upon my heart ; and I think it is 
 my first duty to see that my family are safe in the most 
 important of all affairs. 
 
 TO THE REV. J. PLUMBTRE. 
 
 St, John's, March 12th, ISOa 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 I HOPE you will excuse the long delay which I have 
 made in sending the song. I am afraid I have trespass- 
 ed on your patience, if indeed so unimportant a subject 
 can have given you any thought at all. If you think it 
 worth while to send the song to your publisher, I should 
 prefer the omission of the writer's name, as the insertion 
 of it would only be a piece of idle ostentation, and answer 
 no end. My name will neither give credit to the verses, 
 nor the verses confer honor on my name. 
 
316 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 It will give me great pleasure to hear that your labors 
 have been successful in the town of * * *, where, I 
 fear, much is to be done. I am one of those who think 
 that the love of virtue is not sufficient to make a virtu- 
 ous man ; for the love of virtue is a mere mental prefer- 
 ence of the beautiful to the deformed ; and we see but 
 too often that immediate gratification outweighs the dic- 
 tates of our judgment. If men could always perform 
 their duty as well as they can discern it, or if they 
 would attend to their real interests as well as they can see 
 them, there would be little occasion for moral instruction. 
 Sir Richard Steele, who wrote like a saint, and who, in 
 his Christian Hero, shows the strongest marks of a 
 religious and devout heart, lived, notwithstanding all 
 this, a drunkard and a debauchee. And what can be 
 the cause of this apparent contradiction ? Was it that 
 he had not strength of mind to act up to his views .-' 
 Then a man's salvation may depend on strength of intel- 
 lect ! ! Or does not this rather show that superior 
 motives are wanting ? That assistance is yet necessary, 
 when the ablest of men has done his utmost .'' If then 
 such aid be necessary, how can it be obtained ? — by a 
 virtuous life ? — Surely not : because, to live really a 
 virtuous life, implies this aid to have been first given. 
 We are told in Scripture how it may be attained, name- 
 ly, by humble trust in the Lord Jesus Christ, as our 
 atoning sacrifice. This, therefore, is the foundation of 
 religious life, and as such, ought to be the fundamental 
 principle of religious instruction. This is the test of 
 our obedience, the indispensable preliminary before we 
 can enjoy the favor of God. What, therefore, can we 
 urge with more propriety from the pulpit than faith ? — 
 to preach morality does not include the principle of 
 faith — to preach faith includes every branch of morality, 
 at the same time that it affords it its present sanctions 
 and its strongest incitements. 
 
 I am afraid I have trespassed on your patience, and I 
 must beg of you to excuse the badness of the writing, 
 for which I have the plea of illness. I hope your health 
 is yet firm, and that God will in mercy prosper your 
 endeavours for the good of your flock. I am, dear sir, 
 very respectfully yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 317 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 St John's, Cambridge, April, 1806 
 
 DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 I AM quite unhappy to see you so anxious on my ac- 
 count, and also that you should think me neglectful of 
 you. Believe me, my dear mother, my thoughts are 
 often with you. Never do I lay myself on my bed, be- 
 fore you have all passed before me in my prayers ; and 
 one of my first earthly wishes is to make you comforta- 
 ble, and provide that rest and quiet for your mind which 
 you so much need : and never fear but I shall have it 
 in my power sometime or other. My prospects wear a 
 flattering appearance. I shall be almost sure of a fel- 
 lowship somewhere or other, and then, if I get a curacy 
 in Cambridge, I shall have a clear income of 170Z. per 
 annum, besides my board and lodging, perhaps more. 
 If I do not reside in Cambridge, I shall have some quiet 
 parsonage, where you may come and spend the summer 
 months. Maria and Kate will then be older, and you 
 will be less missed. On all accounts you have much 
 reason to indulge happier dreams. My health is con- 
 siderably better. Only do you take as much care of 
 yours as I do of mine, and all will be well. I exhort, 
 and entreat, and beseech you, as you love me, and all 
 your children, that you will take your bitters without 
 ceasing. As you wish me to pay regard to your exhor- 
 tations, attend to this. 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 St. John's, April, 1806. 
 DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 I AM a good deal surprised at not having heard from 
 you in answer to my last. You will be surprised to 
 hear the purport of my present letter, which is no less 
 than that I shall spend the ensuing Easter vacation in 
 Nottingham. The reasons which have induced me to 
 27* 
 
318 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 make this so wide an alteration in my plan, are these : 
 I have had some symptoms of the return of my old com- 
 plaint, and both my doctor and tutor think I had better 
 take a fortnight's relaxation at home. I hope you will 
 not think I have neglected exercise, since I have taken 
 more this term than I ever did before ; but I shall enlarge 
 my hours of recreation still more, since I find it neces- 
 sary, for my health's sake, so to do. 
 
 You need not give yourself any uneasiness as to my 
 health, for I am quite recovered. I was chiefly afflicted 
 with sleeplessness and palpitations of the heart, which 
 symptoms have now disappeared, and I am quite restor- 
 ed to my former good health. My journey will reestab- 
 lish me completely, and it will give me no small pleasure 
 to see you after so long an absence from home. I shall 
 be very idle while I am at Nottingham ; I shall only 
 amuse myself with teaching Maria and Kate. 
 
 ( SUPPOSED TO BE ADDRESSED ) 
 TO MRS. WEST. 
 
 I HAVE stolen your first volume of Letters from the 
 chimney-piece of a college friend, and I have been so 
 much pleased both with the spirit, conduct, and style of 
 the work, that I cannot refrain from writing to tell you 
 so. I shall read the remaining volumes immediately ; 
 but as I am at this moment just in that desultory mood 
 when a man can best write a letter, I have determined 
 not to delay what, if I defer at all, I shall probably not 
 do at all. 
 
 Well, then, my dear Madam, although I have insidi- 
 ously given you to understand, that I write to tell you 
 how much I approve your work, I will be frank enough 
 to tell you likewise, that I think, in one point, it is 
 faulty : and that, if I had not discovered what I consider 
 to be a defect in the book, I should probably not have 
 written for the mere purpose of declaiming on its excel- 
 lences. 
 
 Start not. Madam ; it is in that very point whereon 
 you have bestowed most pains, that I think the work is 
 faulty — Religion. If I mistake not, there will be some 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. ^ 319 
 
 little confusion of idea detected, if we examine this part 
 narrowly ; and as I am not quite idle enough to write 
 my opinions without giving- the reasons for them, I will 
 endeavour to explain why I think so. 
 
 Religion, then, Madam, I conceive to be the service a 
 creature owes to his Creator ; and I take it for granted, 
 that service implies some self-denial, and some labor ; for 
 if it did not involve something unpleasing to ourselves, 
 it would be a duty we should all of necessity perform. 
 Well, then, if rehgion call for self-denial, there must be 
 some motive to induce men voluntarily to undergo such 
 privations as may be consequent on a religious life, and 
 those motives must be such as affect either the present 
 state of existence, or some future state of existence. 
 Certainly, then, those motives which arise from the ex- 
 pectation of a future state of existence, must, in reality, 
 be infinitely more important than those which are found- 
 ed in temporal concerns, although, to mankind, the im- 
 mediate presence of temporal things may outweigh the 
 distant apprehension of the future. Granting, therefore, 
 that the future world is the main object of our religious 
 exercises, it will follow that they are the most impor- 
 tant concerns of a man's life, and that every other con- 
 sideration is light and trifling in the comparison. For 
 the world to come is everlasting, while the present world 
 is but very short. Foolish, then, indeed, and short- 
 sighted must that creature be, which can prefer the 
 conveniences and accommodations of the present to the 
 happiness of the eternal future. 
 
 All Christians, therefore, who undertake to lay down 
 a chart for the young and inexperienced, by which they 
 may steer with security through the ocean of life, will 
 be expected to make religion a prominent feature on the 
 canvass ; and that, too, not only by giving it a larger 
 space, but by enforcing the superiority of this consider- 
 ation to every other. Now this is what I humbly con- 
 ceive you have not altogether done ; and I think, indeed, 
 if I be competent to judge, you have failed in two 
 points ; — in making religion only a subordinate consider- 
 ation to a young man, and in not defining distinctly the 
 essentials of religion. 
 
 I would ask you, then, in what way you so impress 
 rehgion on the mind of your son, as one would expect 
 
320 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 that person would impress it who was conscious that it 
 was of the first importance. Do you instruct him to 
 turn occasionally, when his leisure may permit, to pious 
 and devout meditation ? Do you direct him to make 
 religion the one great aim and end of his being ? Do 
 you exhort him to frequent, private, and earnest prayer 
 to the Spirit of Holiness, that he would sanctify all his 
 doings ? Do you teach him that the praise or the cen- 
 sure, the admiration or the contempt of the world, is of 
 little importance, so as his heart be right before the 
 Great Judge ? Do you tell him that, as his reason now 
 opens, he should gradually withdraw from the gayer 
 and occasionally more unlicensed diversions of the 
 world — the ball-room, the theatre, and the public con- 
 cert, in order that he may abstract his mind more from 
 the too-fascinating delights of life, and fit himself for the 
 new scene of existence, which will, sooner or later, open 
 upon his view ? No, Madam, I think you do not do this. 
 You tell him there is a deal of enthusiasm in persons 
 who, though they mean well, are over-strict in their 
 religious performances. You tell him, that assemblies, 
 dances, theatres, are elegant amusements, though you 
 couple the fine arts with them, which I am sorry to see 
 in such company. I, too, am enthusiastically attached to 
 the fine arts. Poetry, painting, and music, are amongst 
 my most delicious and chastest pleasures ; and happy 
 indeed do I feel when I can make even these contribute 
 to the great end, and draw my soul from its sphere, to 
 fix it on its Maker and Redeemer. I am fond, too, of 
 tragedy, and though 1 do not find it with so much purity 
 and chastity in Shakspeare as in the old Greek drama- 
 tists, yet I know how to appreciate its beauties in him 
 too. Besides these, I have a thousand other amuse- 
 ments of the most refined nature, without either theatres, 
 balls, or card-tables. The theatre is not in itself an 
 immoral institution, but in its present state it is : and I 
 feel much for an uncorrupted, frank lad of fourteen, who 
 is permitted to visit this stew of licentiousness, impu- 
 dence and vice. Your plan seems to me this : — Teach a 
 boy to lead an honest, upright life, and to do his duty, 
 and he will gain the good will of God by the very tenor 
 of his actions. This is, indeed, an easy kind of religion, 
 for it involves no self-denial ; but true religion does involve 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. SM 
 
 self-denial. The inference is obvious. I say it involves 
 no self-denial ; because a well-educated sensible lad will 
 see so many inconveniences in vicious indulgences, that 
 he will choose the virtuous by a natural effort of the 
 understanding ; and so, according to this system, he will 
 ensure heaven by the soundness of his policy and the 
 rectitude of his understanding. 
 
 Admitting this to be a true doctrine, Christianity has 
 been of no material service to mankind ; and the Son 
 of Grod might have spared his blood ; for the heathens 
 knew all this, and not only knew it, but many of them 
 put it into practice. What then has Christianity done .'' 
 — But the Scripture teaches us the reverse of this : it 
 teaches us to give God our whole heart, to live to him, 
 to pray continually, and to fix our affections, not on 
 things temporal, but on things eternal. Now, I ask you, 
 whether, without any sophistry, or any perversion of 
 the meaning of words, you can reconcile this with your 
 religious instruction to your son ? 
 
 I think, likewise, that you do not define the essentials 
 of religion distinctly. We are either saved by the atone- 
 ment of Jesus Christ, or we are not ; and if we are^ then 
 all men are necessarily saved, or some are iieoessarily 
 not saved ; and if some are not saved, it must be from 
 causes either existing in the individuals themselves, or 
 from causes existing in the economy of God's dispensa- 
 tions. Now, Madam, we are told that Jesus Christ died 
 for all ; but we grant that all are not saved. Why then 
 are some not saved ? It is because they do not act in a 
 manner worthy of God's favor ! Then a man's salvation 
 depends upon his actions. But we are told in Scripture, 
 that it does not depend on his actions — ' By faith are ye 
 saved, without the works of the law ;' — therefore it 
 either must depend on some other effort of the creature, 
 or on the will of the Creator. I will not dispute the 
 question of Calvinism with you ; I will grant that Cal- 
 vinism is indefensible ; but this all must concede who 
 believe the Scriptures, that we are to be saved by faith 
 only through Jesus Christ. I ask, therefore, whether 
 you have taught this to your son ; and I ask whether, 
 there is one trait in your instructions, in common with 
 the humbling, self-denying religion taught by the Apos- 
 tles, by the homilies of our church, and by all the re- 
 
322 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 formers ? The chief argument of the latter against the 
 Romish church, was their asserting the validity of works. 
 Now, what ideas must your son have of christian faith ? 
 You say, that even Shakspeare^s debauchees loere believers; and 
 he is given to understand, that he is a good Christian, 
 if he do his duty to his master and fellows, go to church 
 every Sunday, and keep clear of enthusiasm. And what 
 has Jesus Christ to do with your system ; and where is 
 that faith banished, of which every page of Scripture is 
 full ? — Can this be right ? ^Closet devotion^ is the means 
 of attaining faith ; and humble prayer is the true means 
 of arriving at fervency in religion, without enthusiasm.) 
 You condemn Socinianism ; but I ask you where Jesus 
 Christ appears in your scheme, and where the influen- 
 ces of the Holy Ghost, and even his names, are banished 
 from it ? 
 
 TO MR. p. THOMPSON. 
 
 Nottingham, April 8th, 1806. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 I SINCERELY beg your pardon for my ungrateful disre- 
 gard of your polite letter. The intervening period has 
 been so much taken up, on the one hand, by ill health, 
 and on the other by occupations of the most indispensa- 
 ble kind, that I have neglected almost all my friends, 
 and you amongst the rest. I am now at Nottingham, a 
 truant from study, and a rejected votary at the shrine 
 of Health ; a few days will bring me back to the margin 
 of the Cam, and bury me once more in the busy routine 
 of college exercises. Before, however, I am again a 
 man of bustle and occupation, I snatch a few moments 
 to tell you how much I shall be gratified by your corres- 
 pondence, and how greatly I think myself flattered by 
 your esteeming mine worth asking for. 
 
 The little sketch of your past occupations and present 
 pursuits interested me. Cultivate, with all assiduity, 
 the taste for letters which you possess. It will be a 
 source of exquisite gratification to you : and if directed 
 as it ought to be, and I hope as it will be directed, it 
 
OP H. E, WHITE. 323 
 
 will be more than gratification, (if we understand pleas- 
 ure alone by that word,) since it will combine with it 
 utility of the highest kind. If polite letters were merely 
 instrumental in cheering the hours of elegant leisure, in 
 affording refined and polished pleasures, uncontaminated 
 with gross and sensual gratifications, they would still be 
 valuable ; but in a degree infinitely less than when they 
 are considered as the handmaids of the virtues, the cor- 
 rectors as well as the adorners of society. But litera- 
 ture has, of late years, been prostituted to all the pur- 
 poses of the bagnio. Poetry, in particular, arrayed in 
 her most bewitching colors, has been taught to exercise 
 the arts of the Lewo, and to charm only that she may 
 destroy. The Muse, who once dipped her hardy wing 
 in the chastest dews of Castalia, and spoke nothing but 
 what had a tendency to confirm and invigorate the man- 
 ly ardor of a virtuous mind, now breathes only the vo- 
 luptuous languishings of the harlot, and, like the brood 
 of Circe, touches her charmed chords with a grace, that 
 while it ravishes the ear, deludes and beguiles the sense. 
 I call to witness Mr. Moore, and the tribe of imitators 
 which his success has called forth, that my statement 
 is true. Lord Strangford has trodden faithfully in the 
 steps of his pattern. 
 
 ***** 
 I hope, for the credit of poetry, that the good sense of 
 the age will scout this insidious school ; and what may 
 we not expect, if Moore and Lord Strangford apply them- 
 selves to a chaster muse ? — They are both men of un- 
 common powers. You may remember the reign of Dar- 
 winian poetry, and the fopperies of Delia Crusca. To 
 these succeeded the school of Simplicity, in which Words- 
 worth, Southey, and Coleridge, are so deservedly emi- 
 nent. I think that the new tribe of poets endeavour to 
 combine these two opposite sects, and to unite richness 
 of language, and warmth of coloring, with simplicity 
 and pathos. They have certainly succeeded ; but Moore 
 unhappily wished to be a Catullus, and from him has 
 sprung the licentiousness of the new school. Moore's 
 poems and his translations will, I think, have more in- 
 fluence on the female society ojf this kingdom, than the 
 stage has had in its loorst period, the reign of Charles IL 
 
324 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Ladies are not ashamed of having the delectable Mr. 
 Little on their toilet, which is a pretty good proof that 
 his voluptuousness is considered as quite veiled by the 
 sentimental garb in which it is clad. But voluptuous- 
 ness is not the less dangerous for having some slight 
 resemblance of the veil of modesty. On the contrary, 
 her fascinations are infinitely more powerful in this 
 retiring habit, than when she boldly protrudes herself 
 on the gazer's eye, and openly solicits his attention. 
 The broad indecency of Wycherly, and his contempora- 
 ries, was not half so dangerous as this insinuating and half- 
 covered mocfc-delicacy, which makes use of the blush of 
 modesty in order to heighten the charms of vice. 
 
 I must conclude somewhat abruptly, by begging you 
 will not punish my negligence towards you by retarding 
 the pleasure I shall receive from your answer. I am, 
 very truly yours. 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
 Address to me, St. John's College, Cambridge. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 St. John's, May, 1806 
 
 MY DEAR NEVILLE 
 
 My long delayed and very anciently-promised letter 
 to Charlesworth will reach him shortly. Tell him that 
 I have written once to him in Latin ; but that having 
 torn th3 paper in two by a mistake, I could not summon 
 resolution to copy it. 
 
 I was glad to hear of the eclat with which he disputed 
 and came off on so difficult a subject as the Nerves ; and 
 I beg him, if he have made any discoveries, to commu- 
 nicate them to me, who, being persecuted by these 
 same nerves, should be glad to have some better ac- 
 quaintance with my invisible enemies. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 325 
 
 TO HIS SISTER. 
 
 St. John's, June 25th, 1806. 
 MY DEAR SISTER, 
 
 * * ■ * * * 
 
 The intelligence you gave me of Mr. Forest's illness, 
 &c. &c. cannot affect me in any way whatever. The 
 mastership of the school must be held by a clergyman ; 
 and I very well recollect that he is restrained from holding 
 any curacy, or other ministerial office. The salary is not 
 so large as you mention : and if it were, the place would 
 scarcely be an object to me : for I am very certain, that 
 if I choose, when I have taken my degree, I may have 
 half-a-dozen pupils to prepare for the university, with a 
 salary of lOOZ. per annum, which would be more respect- 
 able, and more consonant to my habits and studies, than 
 drilling the fry of a trading town, in learning which 
 they do not know how to value. Latin and Greek are 
 nothing like so much respected in Nottingham as Win- 
 gate's Arithmetic. 
 
 ***** 
 
 It is well for you that you can still enjoy the privilege 
 of sitting under the sound of the Gospel ; and the wants 
 of others, in these respects, will, perhaps, teach you 
 how to value the blessing. All our comforts, and almost 
 all our hopes here, lie at the mercy of every succeeding 
 hour. Death is alv/ays at hand to bereave us of some 
 dear connexion, or to snatch us away from those who 
 may need our counsel and protection. I do not see how 
 any person, capable of reflection, can live easily and 
 fearlessly in these circumstances, unless he have a well- 
 grounded confidence in the providing care of the Almigh- 
 ty, and a strong belief that his hand is in every event, 
 and that it is a hand of mercy. The chances and chan- 
 ges of mortal life are so many and various, that a person 
 cannot possibly fortify himself against the contingencies 
 of futurity without some such hold as this, on which to 
 repose amidst the contending gales of doubt and appre- 
 hension. This I say as affecting the present life : — our 
 views of the future can never be secure, they can iiever 
 be comfortable or calm, without a solid faith in the Re- 
 deemer. Men may reason about the divine benevolence, 
 28 
 
326 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 the certainty of a future state, and the probable means 
 of propitiating the Great Judge, but their speculations 
 will only entangle them in the mazes of doubt, perplexi- 
 ty, and alarm, unless they found their hopes on that 
 basis which shall outstand the tide of ages. If we take 
 this away, the poor bark of mortality loses its only stay, 
 and we steer at random, we know not how, we know not 
 whither. The religion of Jesus Christ is strength to the 
 weak, and wisdom to the unwise. It requires no pre- 
 parative of learning nor study, but is, if possible, more 
 obvious and easy to the illiterate than to the erudite. 
 No man, therefore, has any excuse if he neglect it. 
 The way is plain before him, and he is invited to enter. 
 He has only to kneel at the foot of the cross, and cry, 
 with the poor publican, ' Lord have mercy upon me, a 
 miserable sinner.' If he do this, and examine his own 
 heart, and mortify the body of sin within him, as far as 
 he is able, humbly and earnestly imploring the assist- 
 ance of God's holy Spirit, we cannot doubt but he will 
 meet with the approbation and assistance of the Almigh- 
 ty. In this path we must all tread. In this path I hope 
 that you, my dear sister, are now proceeding. You 
 have children ; to whom can you commit them, should 
 Providence call you hence, with more confidence than 
 the meek and benevolent Jesus .'' What legacy can you 
 leave them more certainly profitable, than the prayers 
 of a pious mother ? And if, taught by your example, as 
 well as by your instructions, they should become them- 
 selves patterns of a holy and religious life, how sweetly 
 will the evening of your days shine upon your head, as 
 you behold them treading in those ways which you 
 know, by experience, to be ways of pleasantness and 
 peace ! I need not press this subject. I know you feel 
 all that I say, and more than I can express. I only fear 
 that the bustle of family cares, as well as many anxieties 
 of mind on other accounts, should too much divert you 
 from these important objects. Let me only remind you, 
 that the prayers of the afflicted are particularly accept- 
 able to God. The sigh of the penitent is not too light to 
 reach his ear. The eye of God is fixed as intently upon 
 your soul at all times, as it is upon the revolution of the 
 heavenly bodies and the regulation of systems. God 
 surveys all things, and he contemplates them with per- 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 327 
 
 feet attention ; and, consequently, he is as intently con- 
 versant about the smallest as about the greatest things. 
 For if he were not as perfectly intent on the soul of an 
 individual being as he is about the general concerns of 
 the universe, then he would do one thing less perfectly 
 than another : which is impossible in God. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVH^LE. 
 
 St. John's, June 30th, 1806. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 1 RECEIVED your letter yesterday ; and I hope you will 
 not think my past silence at all in need of apology, when 
 you know that our examination only closed on Saturday. 
 
 I have the satisfaction of informing you, that after a 
 week's scrutiny, I was deemed to be the first man. I 
 had very little hopes of arriving at so distinguishing a 
 station, on account of my many checks and interruptions. 
 It gave me great pleasure to observe how all the men 
 rejoiced in my success. It was on Monday that the 
 classes were published. I am a prize-man both in the 
 mathematical and logical, or general examination, and 
 in Latin composition. 
 
 Mr. Catton has expressed his great satisfaction at my 
 progress : and he has offered to supply me with a private 
 tutor for the four months of the vacation, free of any ex- 
 pense. This will cost the college twelve or fifteen guin- 
 eas at least. My last term bill amounts only to 41. 5s. 
 3d. after my exhibitions are deducted. 
 
 I had engaged to take charge of a few classical pupils, 
 for a clergyman in Warwickshire, during one month of 
 the vacation, for which I was to receive, besides my 
 board, &c. &c. ten guineas ; but Mr. Catton says this is 
 a piece of extreme folly, as it will consume time, and do 
 me no good. He told me, therefore, positively, that he 
 would not give me an exeat, without which no man can 
 leave his college for the night. 
 
 I cannot, therefore, at all events, visit Nottingham 
 with my aunt, nor meet her there. 
 
 I could now, if I chose, leave St. John's College, and 
 
328 COMP.LETE WORKS 
 
 go to another with great eclat ; but it would be an unad- 
 visable step. I believe, however, it will be impossible 
 for them to elect me a fellow at St. John's, as my county- 
 is under particular restrictions. They can give me a 
 fellowship of smaller value, but I had rather get one at 
 another college : at all events, the smaller colleges will 
 be glad to elect me from St. John's. 
 
 ***** 
 
 With regard to cash, I manage pretty well, though 
 my fund is at present at its lowest ebb. My bills, how- 
 ever, are paid; and I have no occasion for money,. ex- 
 cept as a private convenience. The question therefore 
 is, whether it will be more inconvenient to you than 
 convenient to me for you to replenish my purse. Decide 
 impartially. I have not drawn upon my mother since 
 Christmas, except for the expense of my journey up 
 from Nottingham to Cambridge ; nor do I mean to do it 
 till next Christmas, when, as I have ordered a suit of 
 clothes, I shall have a good many calls for money. 
 
 Let me have a long letter from you soon. 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 St. John's, July 9th, 1806. 
 MY DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 I HAVE scarcely time to write you a long letter ; but 
 the pleasing nature of my intelligence will, I hope, make 
 up for its shortness. 
 
 After a week's examination, I am decided to be the 
 first man of my year at St. John's : an honor I had 
 scarcely hoped for, sinc^ my reading has been so very 
 broken and interrupted. The contest was very stiff, 
 and the men all acquitted themselves very well. We 
 had thirteen men in the first class, though there are sel- 
 dom more than six or eight who attain that rank in 
 common. 
 
 I have learned also, that I am a prize-man in classical 
 composition, though I do not yet know whereabouts I 
 stand. It is reported that here too I am first. 
 
 Before it was known that I was the first man, Mr. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 329 
 
 Catton, our college tutor, told me that he was 'so satis- 
 fied with the manner in which I had passed through the 
 examination, that if I chose to stay up during the sum- 
 mer, I should have a private tutor in the mathematics, 
 and that it should be no expense to me. I could not hesi- 
 tate at such a proposal, especially as he did not limit the 
 time for my keeping the private tutor, but will probably 
 continue it as long as I like. You may estimate the val- 
 ue of this favor, when I tell you that a private tutor, 
 for the whole vacation, will cost the college at least 
 twelve or fourteen guineas, and that during term time 
 they receive ten guineas the term. 
 
 I cannot of course leave the college this summer even 
 for a week, and shall therefore miss the pleasure of see- 
 ing my aunt G at Nottingham. I have written to 
 
 her. 
 
 It gave me much pleasure to observe the joy all the 
 men seemed to feel at my success. I had been on a 
 water excursion, with a clergyman in the neighbour- 
 hood, and some ladies, and just got home as the men 
 were assembling for supper ; you can hardly conceive 
 with what pleasure they all flocked round me, with the 
 most hearty congratulations, and I found that many of 
 them had been seeking me all over the college, in order 
 to be the first to communicate the good tidings. 
 
 TO MR. B. HADDOCK. 
 
 ' St. John's, July, 1806. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I HAVE good and very bad news to communicate to 
 you. Good, that Mr. Catton has given me an exhibition, 
 which makes me up a clear income of 631. per annum, 
 and that I am consequently more than independent ; 
 bad, that I have been very ill, notwithstanding regular 
 and steady exercise. Last Saturday morning I rose ear- 
 ly, and got up some rather abstruse problems in mechan- 
 ics for my tutor, spent an hour with him, between eight 
 and nine got my breakfast, and read the Greek History 
 {at breakfast) till ten, then sat down to decioher some 
 28* 
 
330 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 logarithm tables. I think I had not done anything- at 
 them, when I lost myself. At a quarter past eleven my 
 laundress found me bleeding in four different places in 
 my face and head, and insensible. I got up, and stag- 
 gered about the room, and she, being frightened, ran 
 away, and told my Gyp to fetch a surgeon. Before he 
 came, I was sallying out with my flannel gown on, and 
 my academical gown over it : he made me put on my 
 coat, and then I went to Mr. Farish's : he opened a vein, 
 and my recollection returned. My own idea was, that I 
 had fallen out of bed, and so I told Mr. Parish at first ; 
 but I afterwards remembered that 1 had been to Mr. 
 Fiske, and breakfasted. 
 
 Mr. Catton has insisted on my consulting Sir Isaac 
 Pennington, and the consequence is, that I am to go 
 through a course of blistering, &c. which, after the 
 bleeding, will leave me weak enough. 
 
 I am, however, very well, except as regards the doc- 
 tors ; and yesterday I drove into the country to Saffron 
 Walden in a gig. My tongue is in a bad condition, from 
 a bite which I gave it either in my fall, or in the mo- 
 ments of convulsion. My nose has also come badly off. 
 I believe I fell against my reading desk. My other 
 wounds are only rubs and scratches on the carpet. 
 
 I am ordered to remit my studies for awhile, by the 
 common advice both of doctors and tutors. Dr. Pen- 
 nington hopes to prevent any recurrence of the fit. He 
 thinks it looks towards epilepsy, of the horrors of which 
 malady I have a very full and precise idea ; and I only 
 pray that God will spare me as respects my faculties, 
 however else it may seem good to him to afflict me. 
 Were I my own master, I know how I should act ; but I 
 am tied here by bands which I cannot burst. I know 
 that change of place is needful ; but I must not indulge 
 in the idea. The college must not pay my tutor for 
 nothing. Dr. Pennington and Mr. Farish attribute the 
 attack to a too continued tension of the faculties. As I 
 am much alone now, I never get quite off study, and >[ 
 think incessantly. I know nature will not endure this. 
 They both proposed my going home, but Mr. * * did not 
 hint at it, although much concerned ; and, indeed, I know 
 home would be a bad place for me in my present situa- 
 tion. I look round for a resting place, and I find none. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 331 
 
 Yet there is one, which I have long* too, too much dis- 
 regarded, and thither I must now betake myself. There 
 are many situations worse than mine, and I have no 
 business to complain. If these afflictions should draw 
 the bonds tighter which hold me to my Redeemer, it 
 will be well. 
 
 You may be assured that you have here a plain state- 
 ment of my case, in its true colors, without any pallia- 
 tion. I am now well again, and have only to fear a 
 relapse, which I shall do all I can to prevent, by a re- 
 laxation in study. I have now written too much. I am 
 very sincerely yours, H. K. WHITE. 
 
 P. S. I charge you, as you value my peace, not to let 
 my friends hear, either directly or indirectly of my ill- 
 ness. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 St. John's, 30th July, 1806. 
 MY DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I HAD deferred sitting down to write to you until I 
 should have lejsure to send you a very long letter ; but 
 as that time seems every day farther off, I shall beg 
 your patience no longer, but fill my sheet as well as I 
 can. 
 
 I must first reply to your queries. I beg pardon for 
 having omitted to mention the receipt of the * * *, but, 
 as I acknowledged the receipt of the parcel, I concluded 
 that you would understand me to mean its contents as 
 specified in your letter. But I know the accuracy of a 
 man of business too well to think your caution strange. 
 As to the college prizes, I have the satisfaction of telling 
 you that I am entitled to two, viz. the first for the gene- 
 ral examination, and one of the first for the classical 
 Composition. I say one of the first on this account — I 
 am put equal with two others at the top of the list. In 
 this contest I had all the men of the three years to 
 contend with, and, as both my equals are my seniors 
 in standing, I have no reason to be dissatisfied. 
 
332 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 The Rhetoric Lecturer sent me one of my Latin Es- 
 says to copy, for the purpose of inspection ; a compli- 
 ment which was paid to none of the rest. 
 
 We three are the only men who are honored with 
 prizes, so that we have cut four or five Eton men, who 
 are always boasting of their classical ability. 
 
 With regard to your visit here, I think you had better 
 come in term time, as the university is quite empty, and 
 starers have nothing but the buildings to gaze at. If, 
 however, you can come more conveniently now than 
 hereafter, I would advise you not to let this circum- 
 stance prevent you. I shall be glad to see Mr. * * * 
 with you. You may spend a few days very pleasantly 
 here, even in vacation time, though you will scarcely 
 meet a gownsman in the streets. 
 
 I thought the matter over about * * * ^^ but I do not 
 
 think I have any influence here. Being myself a young 
 
 man, I cannot with any chance of success, attempt to 
 
 direct even that interest which I may claim W^Tth others. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The university is the worst place in the world for 
 making interest. The great mass of men are them- 
 selves busily employed in wriggling themselves into 
 places and livings : and there is, in general, too much 
 anxiety for No. 1, to permit any interference for a 
 neighbour. No. 2 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 St. John's, August, 1806. 
 MY DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 . I HAVE no hesitation in declining the free school, on 
 the ground of its precluding the exercise of the ministe- 
 rial duties. I shall take the liberty of writing Mr. 
 
 to thank him for having thought of me, and to recom- 
 mend to his notice Mr. . 
 
 ***** 
 
 But do not fret yourself, my dear mother ; in a fev/ 
 years we shall, I hope, be in happier circumstances. I 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 333 
 
 am not too sanguine in my expectations, but I shall cer- 
 tainly be able to assist you, and my sisters, in a few 
 years. * * * *. As for Maria and Kate, if they suc- 
 ceed well in their education, they may, perhaps, be able 
 to keep a school of a superior kind, where the profits 
 will be greater, and the labor less. I even hope that 
 this may not be necessary, and that you, my father and 
 they, may come and live with me when I get a parson- 
 age. You would be pleased to see how comfortably Mr. 
 
 lives with his mother and sisters, at a snug little 
 
 rectory about ten miles from Cambridge. So much for 
 castle-buildinff. 
 
 TO MR. * * * 
 
 St. John's, Aug. 15, 1806 
 MY GOOD FRIEND, 
 
 I HAVE deferred writing to you until my return from 
 
 Mr. 's, knowing how much you would like to hear 
 
 from me in respect to that dear family, I am afraid 
 your patience has been tried by this delay, and I trust 
 to this circumstance alone as my excuse. 
 
 My hours have seldom flowed so agreeably as they 
 
 did at S , nor perhaps have I made many visits 
 
 which have been more profitable to me in a religious 
 
 sense. The example of Mr. will, I hope, stimulate 
 
 me to a faithful preparation for the sacred office to which 
 I am destined. I say a faithful preparation, because I 
 fear I am apt to deceive myself with respect to my 
 present pursuits, and to think I am only laboring for the 
 honor of God, when I am urging literary labors to a de- 
 gree inconsistent with duty and my real interests. Mr. 
 
 is a good and careful pastor ; my heart has seldom 
 
 been so full as when I have accompanied him to the 
 chambers of the sick, or have heard his affectionate ad- 
 dresses to the attentive crowd, which fills his school- 
 room on Sunday evening. — He is so earnest, and yet 
 so sober, so wise, and yet so simple ! You, my dear 
 
 R , are now very nearly approaching to the sacred 
 
 office, and I sincerely pray that you may be stimulated 
 
334 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 to follow after the pattern of our excellent friend. You 
 may have Mr. 's zeal, but you will need his learn- 
 ing and his judgment to temper it. Remember, that it 
 is a work of much more self-denial, for a man of active 
 habits to submit to a course of patient study, than to 
 suifer many privations for Christ's sake. In the latter 
 the heart is warmly interested : the other is the slow 
 and unsatisfactory labor of the head, tedious in its pro- 
 gress, and uncertain in its produce. Yet there is a 
 pleasure, great and indescribable pleasure, in sanctified 
 study : the more wearisome the toil, the sweeter will it 
 be to those who sit down with a subdued and patient 
 spirit, content to undergo much tedium and fatigue, for 
 the honor of God's ministry. Reading, however dry, 
 soon becomes interesting, if we pursue it with a resolute 
 spirit of investigation, and a determinate purpose of 
 thoroughly mastering what we are about. You cannot 
 take up the most tiresome book, on the most tiresome 
 Subject, and read it with fixed attention for an hour, but 
 you feel a desire to go on : and here I would exhort you, 
 whatever you read, read it accurately and thoroughly, 
 and never to pass over anything, however minute, 
 which you do not quite comprehend. This is the only 
 way to become really learned, and to make your studies 
 satisfactory and productive. If I were capable of di- 
 recting your course of reading, I should recommend you 
 to peruse Butler's Analogy, Warburton's Divine Lega- 
 tion, Prideaux and Shuckford's Connexions, and Milner's 
 Church History, century for century, along with Mos- 
 heim's Ecclesiastical History. The latter is learned, 
 concise, clear, and written in good scholastic Latin. 
 Study the Chronology of the Old Testament, and as 
 a meaii of making it interesting, trace out the completion 
 of the prophecies. Read your Greek Testament with 
 the nicest accuracy, tracing every word to its root, and 
 seeking out the full force of particular expressions, by 
 reference both to Parkhurst and Scapula. The deriva- 
 tion of words will throw great light on many parts of 
 the New Testament : thus, if we know that the word 
 diaxovog, a deacon, comes from Sia and xot,o, to bustle about 
 in the dust, we shall have a fuller notion of the humility 
 of those who held the office in the primitive church. In 
 reading the Old Testament, wherever you find a pas- 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 335 
 
 sage obscure, turn to the Septuagint, which will often 
 clear up a place better than fifty commentators. Thus, 
 in Joel, the day of the Lord is called ' a day of gloominess, 
 a day of darkness, and of clouds, like the morning spread upon 
 the mountains,^ which is a contradiction. Looking- at the 
 Septuagint, we find that the passage is mispointed, and 
 that the latter metaphor is applied to the people : ' A 
 people great and strong, like the morning spread upon the 
 mountains.' The Septuagint is very easy Greek, quite 
 as much so as the Greek Testament ; and a little prac- 
 tice of this kind will help yoa in your knowledge of the 
 language, and make you a good critic. I perceive your 
 English style is very unpolished, and I think this a mat- 
 ter of great moment. I should recommend you to read, 
 and imitate as nearly as you can, the serious papers in 
 the eighth volume of the Spectator, particularly those 
 on the Ubiquity of the Deity. Accustom yourself to 
 write down your thoughts, and to polish the style some- 
 time after composition, when you have forgotten the ex- 
 pression. Aim at conciseness, neatness, and clearness ; 
 never make use oi fine or vulgar words. Avoid every 
 epithet which does not add greatly to the idea, for every 
 addition of this kind, if it do not strengthen, weakens 
 the sentiment ; and be cautious never to express by two 
 words, what you can do as well by one ; a multiplicity 
 of words only hides the sense, just as a superabun- 
 dance of clothes does the shape. This much for studies. 
 
 I recommend you to pause, and consider much and well 
 on the subject of matrimony. You have heard my sen- 
 timents with regard to a rich wife ; but I am much too 
 young, and too great an enthusiast, to be even a tolera- 
 ble counsellor on a point like this. You must think for 
 yourself, and consult with prudent and pious people, 
 whose years have taught them the wisdom of the pres- 
 ent world, and whose experience has instructed them in 
 that of the v/orld to come. But a little sober thought is 
 worth a world of advice. You have, however, an infalli- 
 ble adviser, and to his directions you may safely look. 
 To him I commend all your ways. 
 
 I have one observation to make, which I hope you 
 
 will forgive in me ; it is, that you fall in love too readily. 
 
 /I have no notion of a man's having a certain species ofj 
 
33Q COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 affection for two women at once^ I am afraid you let 
 your admiration outrun your judgment in the outset, 
 and then comes the denouement and its attendant, disap- 
 pointment and disgust. Take good heed you do not do 
 this in marriage ; for if you do, there will be great risk 
 of your making shipwreck of your hopes. Be content 
 to learn a woman's good qualities as they gradually 
 reveal themselves ; and do not let your imagination 
 adorn her with virtues and charms to which she has no 
 pretension. I think there is often a little disappoint- 
 ment after marriage — our angels turn out to be mere 
 Eves — but the true way of avoiding, or, at least, lessen- 
 ing this inconvenience, is to estimate the object of our 
 affections really as she is, without deceiving ourselves, 
 and injuring her, by elevating her above her sphere. 
 This is the way to be happy in marriage ; for upon this 
 plan our partners will be continually breaking in upon 
 us, and delighting us with some new discovery of excel- 
 lence ; while, upon the other plan, we shall always be 
 finding that the reality falls short of what we had so 
 fondly and so foolishly imagined. 
 
 Be very sedulous and very patient in your studies. 
 You would shudder at the idea of obtruding yourself on 
 the sacred office in a condition rather to disgrace than 
 to adorn it. St. Paul is earnest in admonishing Timothy 
 to give attention to reading : and that holy apostle him- 
 self quotes from several of the best authors among the 
 Greeks. His style is also very elegant, and polished on 
 occasion. He, therefore, did not think the graces of 
 composition beneath his attention, as some foolish and 
 ignorant preachers of the present day are apt to do. I 
 have written a longer letter to you than I expected, and 
 I must now therefore say, good-by. I am very affec- 
 tionately yours. • H. K. WHITE 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 St. Jolin's, August IStli, 1806. 
 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I CAN but just manage to tell you, by this post, what 
 am sure you will be glad to learn, even at the expense 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. SST^ 
 
 of seven-pence for an empty sheet, that Mr. Catton has 
 given me an exhibition, which makes my whole income 
 sixty guineas a year. My last term's bill was 131. 13s., 
 and I had 11. 12s. to receive ; but the expenses of this 
 vacation will leave me bare until Christmas. 
 
 I have the pleasure of not having solicited either this 
 or any other of the favors which Mr. Catton has so lib- 
 erally bestowed upon me : and though I have been the 
 possessor of this exhibition ever since March last, yet 
 Mr. Catton did not hint it to me until this morning, when 
 he gave me my bill. 
 
 I have, of course, signified to Mr. Simeon, that I shall 
 have no need whatever of the stipend which I have 
 hitherto received through his hands. He was extreme- 
 ly kind on the occasion, and indeed his conduct towards 
 me has ever been fatherly. It was Mr. * * * who allow- 
 ed me 201. per annum, and Mr. Simeon added lOZ. He 
 told me, that my conduct gave him the most heartfelt 
 joy ; that I was so generally respected, without having 
 made any compliances, as he understood, or having, in 
 any instance, concealed my principles. Indeed, this is 
 a praise which I may claim, though I never conceived 
 that it was at all an object of praise. I have always 
 taken some pains to let those around me know my reli- 
 gious sentiments, as a saving of trouble, and as a mark 
 of that independence of opinion, which, I think, every 
 one ought to assert : and as I have produced my opin- 
 ions with frankness and modesty, and supported them 
 (if attacked) with coolness and candor, I have never 
 found them any impediment to my acquaintance with 
 any person whose acquaintance I coveted. 
 
 DEAR A. 
 
 TO MR. R. W. A. 
 
 St. John's, Aug. 18th, 180C. 
 
 I AM glad to hear of your voyages and travels through 
 various regions, and various seas, both of this island, 
 and its little suckling the Isle of Wight. 
 
 Many hair's-breadth 'scapes and perilous adventures 
 you must needs have had, and many a time, on the ex- 
 treme shores of the south, must you have looked up 
 29 
 
338 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 with the eye of intelligent curiosity to see whether the 
 same moon shone there as in the pleasant, but now far 
 distant groves of Colwick. And now, my very wise and 
 travelled friend, seeing that your head is yet upon your 
 shoulders, and your neck in its right natural position, 
 and seeing that, after all the changes and chances of a 
 long journey, and after being banged from post to pillar, 
 and from pillar to post ; seeing, I say, that after all this,- 
 you are safely housed once more under your paternal 
 roof, what think you, if you were to indulge your mind 
 as much as you have done your eyes and gaping mus- 
 cles ? A few trips to the fountains of light and color, or 
 to the regions of the good lady who x^q^^^ aSaXoig dunat 
 a<foQQov novzov, a ramble down the Galaxy, and a few peeps 
 
 on the UnCOnfined confines {noruov anor^iov, vmov avnvov, (?tov ov 
 
 Biurvov) of infinite space, would prove, perhaps, as delecta- 
 ble to your immaterial part, as the delicious see-saw of 
 a post chaise was to your corporal ; or, if these ethere- 
 al, aeronautical, mathematical volutations should dis- 
 please you, perhaps it would not be amiss to saunter a 
 few weeks on the site of Troy, or to lay out plans of 
 ancient history on the debatable ground of the Pelopon- 
 nesians and Athenians. There is one Thucydides, who 
 lives near, who will tell you all about the places you 
 visit, and the great events connected with them : he is a 
 sententious old fellow, very shrewd in his remarks, and 
 speaks, moreover, very excellent Greek at your service. 
 I know not whether you have met with any guide in the 
 course of your bodily travels who can be compared to 
 him. If you should make Rome in your way, either 
 there or back, I should like to give you a letter of intro- 
 duction to an old friend of mine, whose name is Livy, 
 who, as far as his memory extends, will amuse you with 
 pretty stories, and some true history. There is another 
 honest fellow enough, to whom I dare not recommend 
 you, he is so very crabbed and tart, and speaks so much 
 in epigrams and enigmas, that I am afraid he would 
 teach you to talk as unintelligibly as himself. I do not 
 mean to give you any more advice, but I have one exhor- 
 tation, which I hope you will take in good part : it is this, 
 that if you set out on this journey, you would please to 
 proceed to its end : for I have been acquainted with some 
 young men^ who have turned their faces towards Athens 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 339 
 
 or Rome, and trudged on manfully for a few miles, but 
 when they had travelled till they grew weary, and 
 worn out a good pair of shoes, have suddenly become 
 disheartened, and returned without any recompense for 
 their pains. 
 
 And now let me assume a more serious strain, and 
 exhort you to cultivate your mind with the utmost 
 assiduity. You are at a critical period of your life, and 
 the habits which you now form will, most probably, 
 adhere to you through life. If they be" idle habits, I am 
 sure they will. 
 
 But even the cultivation of your mind is of minor im- 
 portance to that of your heart, your temper, and dispo- 
 sition. Here I have need not to preach but to learn. You 
 have had less to encounter in your religious progress 
 than / have, and your progress has been therefore great- 
 er, greater even than your superior faculties would have 
 warranted. I have had to fight hard with vanity at 
 home, and applause abroad : no wonder that my vessel 
 has been tossed about ; but greater wonder that it is yet 
 upon the waves. I exhort you to pray with me, (and I 
 entreat you to pray for me,) that we may both weather 
 out the storm, and arrive in the haven of sound tran- 
 quillity, even on this side the grave. 
 
 We have all particular reason to watch and pray, lest 
 self too much predominate. We should accustom our- 
 selves to hold our own comforts and conveniences as 
 subordinate to the comforts and conveniences of others 
 in all things : and a habit thus begun in little matters, 
 might probably be extended without difficulty to those of 
 a higher nature. 
 
 TO MR. B. HADDOCK. 
 
 St. John's, 14th Sept. 1806. 
 
 MY DEAR BEN, 
 
 I CAN scarcely write more to you now than just to 
 oalm your uneasiness on my account. I am perfectly 
 well again, and have experienced no recurrence of the 
 fit : my spirits too are better, and I read very moderate- 
 
S40 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 ly. I hope that God will be pleased to spare his rebellious 
 child ; this stroke has brought me nearer to Him : whom 
 indeed have I for my comforter but Him ? 
 
 I am still reading, but with moderation, as I have 
 been during the whole vacation, whatever you may 
 persist in thinking. 
 
 My heart turns with more fondness towards the con-' 
 solations of religion than it did, and in some degree I 
 l\a\e found consolation. I still, however, conceive that 
 it is my duty to pursue my studies temperately, and to. 
 fortify myself with Christian resignation and calmnessi 
 for the worst. I am much wanting in these virtues, 
 and, indeed, in all Christian virtues ; but I know how 
 desirable they are, and I long for them. Pray that l 
 may be strengthened and enlightened, and that I may 
 be enabled to go where duty bids, wherever that be. 
 
 TO MR. B. MADDOCK. , 
 
 St. John's, Cambridge, 22d Sept. 1806 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, i 
 
 ***** 
 
 You charge me with an accession of gallantry of late ; 
 I plead guilty. I really began to think of marriage (very 
 prematurely, you'll say ;) but if I experience any repeti- 
 tion of the fit, I shall drop the idea of it forever. It 
 would be folly and cruelty to involve another in all the 
 horrors of such a calamity. 
 
 I thank you for your kind exhortations to a complete 
 surrender of my heart to God, which are contained in 
 your letter. In this respect I have betrayed the most 
 deplorable weakness and indecision of character. I know 
 what the truth is, and I love it ; but I still go on giving 
 myself half to God, and half to the world, as if I expect- 
 ed to enjoy the comforts of religion along with the van- 
 ities of life. If, for a short time, I keep up a closer 
 communion with God, and feel my whole bosom burst- 
 ing with sorrow and tenderness as I approach the foot- 
 stool of my Saviour, I soon relapse into indifferejice, 
 worldly-mindedness, and vsin ; my devotions become list- 
 less and perfunctory : I dote on the world, its toys, and 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. ^ 341 
 
 its corruptions, and am mad .enough to be willing' to 
 sacrifice the happiness of eternity to the deceitful pleas- 
 ures of the passing moment. My heart is indeed a 
 lamentable sink of loathsome corruption and hypocrisy. 
 In consistency with my professed opinions, I am often 
 obliged to talk on subjects of which I know but little in 
 experience, and to rank myself with those who have 
 felt, what I only approve from my head, and, perhaps, 
 esteem from my heart. I often start with horror and 
 disgust from myself, when I consider how deeply I have 
 imperceptibly gone into this species of simulation. Yet 
 I think my love for the Gospel, and its professors, is 
 sincere ; only I am insincere in suffering persons to en- 
 tertain a high opinion of me as a child of God, when 
 indeed I am an alien from him. On looking over some 
 private memorandums, which were written at various 
 times in the course of the two last years, I beheld, with 
 inexpressible, anguish, that my progress has, if anything, 
 been retrograde. I am still as dark, still as cold, still as 
 ignorant, still as fond of the world, and have still fewer 
 desires after holiness. I am very, very dissatisfied with 
 myself, and yet I am not prompted to earnest prayer. 
 I have been so often earnest, and always have fallen 
 away, that I go to God without hope, without faith. 
 Yet I am not totally without hope ; I know God will have 
 my whole heart, and I know, when I give him that, I 
 shall experience the light of his countenance with a per- 
 manency. I pray that he would assist my weakness, 
 and grant me some portion of his grace, in order that I 
 may overcome the world, the flesh, and the devil, tc 
 which I have long, very long, been a willing, though an 
 unhappy slave. Do you pray earnestly with me, and 
 for me, in these respects ; I know the prayers of the 
 faithful avail much ; and when you consider with what 
 great temptations I am surrounded, and how very little 
 strength I have wherewith to resist them, you will feel 
 with me the necessity of earnest supplication, and fervent 
 intercession, lest I should be lost, and cast away forever. 
 I shall gladly receive your spiritual advice and direc- 
 tions. I have gone on too long in coldness and uncon- 
 cern ; who knows whether, if I neglect the present hour, 
 the day of salvation may not be gone by forever ! ! 
 
 ^ ♦ ' iji ♦ ♦ 
 
 29* 
 
342 , COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 . TO MR, JOHN CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 St. John's, 22d Sept. 1806. 
 MY DEAR CHARLESWORTH, 
 
 Thank you for taking the blame of our neglected cor- 
 respondence on your own shoulders, I thought it rested 
 elsewhere. Thrice have I begun to write to you ; once 
 in Latin, and twice in English ; and each time have the 
 fates opposed themselves to the completion of my design. 
 But, however, pax sit rebus, we are naturally disposed to 
 forgive, because we are, as far as intention goes, mutu- 
 al offenders. 
 
 I thank you for your invitation to Clapham, which 
 came at a fortunate juncture, since I had just settled 
 with my tutor that I should pay a visit to my brother in 
 London this week. I shall of course see you ; and shall^ 
 be happy to spend a few days with you at Clapham and 
 to rhapsodize on your common. It gives me pleasure 
 to hear you are settled, and I give you many hearty 
 good wishes for practice and prosperity. I hope you 
 will soon find that a wife is a very necessary article of 
 enjoyment in a domesticated state ; for how indeed 
 should it be otherwise .'' A man cannot cook his dinner 
 while he is employed in earning it. Housekeepers are 
 complete helluones rei familiaris, and not only pick your 
 pockets, but abuse you into the bargain. While a wife, 
 on the contrary, both cooks your dinner, and enlivens 
 it with her society ; receives you after the toils of the 
 day with cheerfulness and smiles, and is not only the 
 faithful guardian of your treasury, but the soother of 
 your cares, and the alleviator of your calamities. Now, 
 am I not very poetical ? But on such a subject who 
 would not be poetical ? A wife ! — a domestic fire-side ; 
 — the cheerful assiduities of love and tenderness ! It 
 would inspire a Dutch burgomaster ! and if, with all this 
 in your grasp, you shall still choose the pulsare terram pe- 
 de libero, still avoid the irrnpta copula, still deem it a mat- 
 ter of light regard to be an object of affection and fond- 
 ness to an amiable and sensible woman, why then you 
 deserve to be a fellow of a college all your days ; to be 
 kicked about in your last illness by a saucy and careless 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 343 
 
 bed-maker ; and, lastly, to be put in the ground in your 
 colleg-e chapel, followed only by the man who is to be 
 your successor. Why, man, I dare no more dream that 
 I shall ever have it in my power to have a wife, than 
 that I shall be Archbishop of Canterbury, and Primate 
 of all England. A suite of rooms in a still and quiet cor- 
 ner of old St. John's, which was once occupied by a cra- 
 zy monk, or by one of the translators of the Bible in the 
 days of good King James, must form the boundary of 
 my ambition. I must be content to inhabit walls which 
 never echoed with a female voice, to be buried in glooms 
 which were never cheered with a female smile. It is 
 said, indeed, that women were sometimes permitted to 
 visit St. John's when it was a monastery of White-Friars, 
 in order to be present at particular religious ceremonies ; 
 but the good monks were careful to sprinkle holy water 
 wherever their profane footsteps had carried contagion 
 and pollution. 
 
 It is well that you are free from the restrictions of 
 monastic austerity, and that, while I sleep under the 
 shadow of towers and lofty v/alls, and the safeguard of 
 a vigilant porter, you are permitted to inhabit your own 
 cottage, under your own guardianship, and to listen to 
 the sweet accents of domestic affection. 
 
 Yes, my very Platonic, or rather Stoical friend, I must 
 see you safely bound in the matrimonial noose, and then, 
 like a confirmed bachelor, ten years hence, I shall have 
 the satisfaction of pretending to laugh at, while, in my 
 heart, I envy you. So much for rhapsody. I am coming 
 to L^ondon for relaxation's sake, and shall take it pretty 
 freely ; that is, I shall seek after fine sights — stare at 
 fine people — be cheerful with the gay — foolish with the 
 simple — and leave as little room to suspect as possible 
 that lam (anything of) a philosopher and mathematician. 
 I shall probably talk a little Greek, but it will be by 
 stealth, in order to excite no suspicion. 
 
 I shall be in town on Friday or Saturday. I am in a 
 very idle mood, and have written you a very idle letter, 
 
 for which I entreat your pardon : and I am, dear C , 
 
 very sincerely yours, 
 
 H. K. WHITF. 
 
344 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 
 
 ( FOUND IN HIS POCKET AFTER HIS DECEASE.) 
 
 St. John's College, Saturday, Oct. 11th, 1806. 
 DEAR NEVILLE, 
 
 I AM safely arrived, and in college, but my illness has 
 increased upon me much. The cough continues, and is 
 attended with a good deal of fever. I am under the care 
 of Mr. Parish, and entertain very little apprehension 
 about the cough ; but my over-exertions in town have 
 reduced me to a state of much debility ; and, until the 
 cough be gone I cannot be permitted to take any strength- 
 ening medicines. This places me in an awkward predic- 
 ament ; but I think I perceive a degree of expectoration 
 this morning, which will soon relieve me, and then I shall 
 mend apace. 
 
 , Under these circumstances, I must not expect to see 
 you here at present : when I am a little recovered, it 
 will be a pleasant relaxation to me. 
 
 Our lectures began on Friday, but I do not attend them 
 until I am better. I have not written to my mother, nor 
 shall I while I remain unwell. You will tell her, as a 
 reason, that our lectures began on Friday. I know she 
 will be uneasy, if she do not hear from me, and still 
 more so, if I tell her I am ill. 
 
 I cannot write more at present, than that I am your 
 truly affectionate brother, 
 
 H. K. WHITE. 
 
HIJN'TS, &c. 
 
 Why will not men be contented with appearing what 
 they are ? As sure as we attempt to pass for what we 
 are not, we make ourselves ridiculous. With religious 
 professors, this ought to be a consideration of importance ; 
 for when we assume credit for what we do not possess, 
 we break the laws of God in more ways than we are 
 aware of: vanity and deceit are both implicated. 
 
 Why art thou so disquieted, my soul, and why so 
 full of heaviness ? put thy trust in God ; for I will yet 
 thank him who is the help of my countenance, and my 
 God. Ps. xlii. 
 
 Domine Jesu ! inte speravi, miserere mei ! Ne sperne 
 animum miserrimi peccatoris. 
 
 The love of Christ is the only source from whence a 
 Christian can hope to derive spiritual happiness and 
 peace. Now the love of Christ will not reside in the 
 bosom already preoccupied with the love of the world, 
 or any other predominating affection. We must give up 
 everything for it, and we know it deserves that distinc- 
 tion ; yet, upon this principle, unless the energy of Divine 
 grace were what it is, mighty and irresistible, who would 
 be saved ? 
 
 The excellence of our liturgy, and our establishment, 
 is more and more impressed upon my mind : how admi- 
 rable do her confessions, her penitentiary offerings, her 
 intercessions, her prayers, suit with the case of the 
 Christian ! It is a sign that a man's heart is not right 
 with God, when he finds fault with the liturgy. 
 
 Contempt of religion is distinct from unbelief: unbelief 
 may be the result of proud reasonings, and independent 
 research ; but contempt of the Christian doctrine must 
 proceed from profound ignorance. 
 
346 COMPLETE WORKS * 
 
 Lord, give me a heart to turn all knowledge to thy 
 glory, and not to mine : keep me from being deluded 
 with the lights of vain philosophy ; keep me from the 
 pride of human reason ; let me not think my own 
 thoughts, nor dream my own imaginations ; but, in all 
 things acting under the good guidance of the Holy 
 Spirit, may I live in all simplicity, humility, and single- 
 ness of heart, unto the Lord Jesus Christ, now and for 
 ever more. Amen. 
 
 [The above Prayer was prefixed to a manual, or memoranaura-book.] 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 Almighty Father, at the close of another day I kneel 
 before, thee in supplication, and ere I compose my body 
 to sleep, I would steal a few moments from weariness, 
 to lift up my thoughts to thy perfections, to meditate on 
 thy wonderful dispensations, and to make my request 
 known unto thee. 
 
 Although the hours of this day have not been spent in 
 the busy haunts of society, but in the pursuit of needful 
 and godly knowledge, yet I am conscious that my thoughts 
 and actions have been far from pure ; and many vain 
 and foolish speculations, many sinful thoughts and am- 
 bitious anticipations, have obtruded themselves on my 
 mind. I know that I have felt pleasure in what I ought 
 to have abhorred, and that I have not had thy presence 
 continually in mind ; so that my ghostly enemy has mix- 
 ed poison with my best food, and sowed tares with the 
 good seed of instruction. Sometimes, too, the world 
 has had too much to do with my thoughts ; I have long- 
 ed for its pleasures, its splendors, its honors, and have 
 forgotten that I am a poor follower of Jesus Christ, 
 whose inheritance is not in this land, but in the fields 
 above. I do therefore supplicate and beseech thee, Oh ! 
 thou my God and Father, that thou wilt not only forgive 
 these my wanderings, but that thou wilt chasten my 
 heart, and establish my affections, so that they may not 
 be shaken by the light suggestions of the tempter Satan ; 
 and since I am of myself very weak, I implore thy re- 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 347 
 
 straining hand upon my understanding, that I may not 
 reason in the pride of worldly wisdom, nor flatter myself 
 on my attainments, but ever hold my judgment in sub- 
 ordination to thy word, and see myself as what I am, a 
 helpless dependant on thy bounty. If a spirit of indo- 
 lence and lassitude have at times crept on me, I pray thy 
 forgiveness for it ; and if I have felt rather inclined to 
 prosecute studies which procure respect from the world, 
 than the humble knowledge which becomes a servant of 
 Christ, do thou check this growing propensity, and only 
 bless my studies so far as they conduce to thy glory, 
 and as thy glory is their chief end. My heart, Lord ! 
 is but too fond of this vain and deceitful world, and I 
 have many fears lest I should make shipwreck of my 
 hope on the rocks of ambition and vanity. Give me, I 
 pray thee, thy grace to repress these propensities : il- 
 lumine more completely my wandering mind, rectify my 
 understanding, and give me a simple, humble, and affec- 
 tionate heart, to love thee and thy sheep with all sin- 
 cerity. As I increase in learning, let me increase in 
 lowliness of spirit : and inasmuch as the habits of studi- 
 ous life, unless tempered by preventing grace, but too 
 much tend to produce formality and lifelessness in devo- 
 tion, do thou, heavenly Father, preserve me from all 
 cold and speculative views of thy blessed Gospel ; and 
 while with regular constancy I kneel down daily before 
 thee, do not fail to light up the fire of heavenly love in 
 my bosom, and to draw my heart heavenward with ear- 
 nest longing [to thyself.] 
 
 And now, Blessed Redeemer ! my rock, my hope, 
 and only sure defence, to thee do I cheerfully commit 
 both my soul and my body. If thy wise Providence see 
 fit, grant that I may rise in the morning, refreshed with 
 sleep, and with a spirit of cheerful activity for the duties 
 of the day : but whether I wake here or in eternity, grant 
 that my trust in thee may remain sure, and my hope un- 
 shaken. Our Father, &c. 
 
 [This prayer was discovered amongst some dirty loose papers of H. K. White's.] 
 
348 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 MEM. September 22nd, 1806. 
 
 On running over the pages of this book, I am constrain- 
 ed to observe, with sorrow and shame, that my progress 
 in divine light has been httle or none. 
 
 I have made a few conquests over my corrupt incHna- 
 tions, but my heart still hankers after its old delights ; 
 still lingers half willing, half unwiUing, in the ways of 
 worldly-mindedness. 
 
 My knowledge of divine things is very little improved. 
 I have read less of the Scriptures than I did last year. 
 In reading the Fathers, I have consulted rather the pride 
 of my heart than my spiritual good. 
 
 I now turn- to the cause of these evils, and I find that 
 the great root, the main-spring, is — love of the world ; 
 next to that, pride ; next to that, spiritual sloth. 
 
 REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH POETS. 
 
 IMITATIONS, 
 
 The sublimity and unaffected beauty of the sacred 
 writings are in no instance more conspicuous, than in the 
 following verses of the xviiith Psalm : 
 
 ' He bowed the heavens also and came down : and 
 darkness was under his feet. 
 
 ' And he rode upon a cherub and did fly : yea, he did 
 fly upon the wings of the wind.' 
 
 None of our better versions have been able to preserve 
 the original graces of these verses. That v/retched one 
 of Thomas Sternhold, however, (which, to the disgrace 
 and manifest detriment of religious worship, is general- 
 ly used,) has in this solitary instance, and then perhaps 
 by accident, given us the true spirit of the Psalmist, and 
 has surpassed not only Merrick, but even the classic 
 Buchanan. This version is as follows : — 
 
 ' The Lord descended from above. 
 
 And bowed the lieavens high, 
 And underneath his feet he cast 
 
 The darkness of the sky,, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 34& 
 
 ' On cherubs and on cherubims 
 
 Full royally he rode, 
 And on the wings of mighty winds 
 
 Came flying all abroad.' 
 
 Dryden honored these verses with very high commen- 
 dation, and, in the following lines of his Annas Mirabilis, 
 has apparently imitated them, in preference to the orig- 
 inal : 
 
 The duke less numerous, but in courage more. 
 On wings of all the winds to combat flies.' 
 
 And in his Ceyx and Alcyone, from Ovid, he has — 
 
 * And now sublime she rides upon the wind.' 
 
 which is probably imitated, as well as most of the fol- 
 lowing, not from Sternhold, but the original. Thus Pope, 
 
 ' Not God alone in the still calm we find, 
 
 He mounts the storm and rides upon the wind.' 
 
 And Addison — 
 
 * Rides in the whirlwind and dii'ects the storm.' 
 
 The unfortunate Chatterton has — 
 
 ' And rides upon the pinions of the wind.' 
 
 And Gray — 
 
 ' With arms sublime that float upon the air.' 
 
 Few poets of eminence have less incurred the charge 
 of plagiarism than Milton ; yet many instances might be 
 adduced of similarity of idea and language with the 
 Scripture, which are certainly more than coincidences, 
 and some of these I shall, in a future number, present 
 to your readers. Thus the present passage in the 
 Psalmist was in all probability in his mind when he 
 wrote — 
 
 ' And with mighty wings outspread, 
 
 Dove-hke sat'st brooding on the vast abyss.' ; 
 
 Par. Lost, I. 20. B. 1. 
 
 The third verse of the civth Psalm — i 
 
 ' He maketh tlie clouds his chariot, and walketh upon the wings of the wind,' — 
 
 is evidently taken from the before-mentioned verses in 
 the xviiith Psalm, on which it is perhaps an improve- 
 ment. It has also been imitated by two of our first 
 30 
 
S60 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 poets, — Shakspeare and Thomson. The former in Ro 
 meo and Juliet — 
 
 ' Bestrides the lazy-paced clouds. 
 And sails upon the bosom of the air.' 
 
 The latter in Winter, 1. 199. 
 
 Till Nature's King, who oft 
 
 Amid tempestuous darkness dwells alone. 
 And on the wings of the careering winds 
 Walks dreadfully serene.' 
 
 As these imitations have not before, I believe, been 
 noticed, they cannot fail to interest the lovers of polite 
 letters ; and they are such as at least will amuse your 
 readers in general. If the sacred writings were atten- 
 tively perused, we should find innumerable passages 
 from which our best modern poets have drawn their 
 most admired ideas : and the enumerations of these in- 
 stances would perhaps attract the attention of many per- 
 sons to those volumes, which they now perhaps think 
 to contain everything tedious and disgusting, but which, 
 on the contrary, they would find replete with interest, 
 beauty, and true sublimity. 
 
 STERNHOLD AND HOPKINS. 
 
 ME, EDITOR, 
 
 In your Mirror for July, a Mr. William Toone has 
 offered a few observations on a paper of mine, in a pre- 
 ceding number, containing remarks on the versions and 
 imitations of the 9th and 1 0th verses of the xviiith Psalm, 
 to which I think it necessary to offer a few words by 
 way of reply ; as they not only put an erroneous con- 
 struction on certain passages of that paper, but are other- 
 wise open to material objection. 
 
 The object of Mr. Toone, in some parts of his obser- 
 vations, appears to have been to refute something which 
 he fancied I had advanced, tending to establish the gen- 
 eral merit of Sternhold and Hopkins's translation of the 
 Psalms : but he might have saved himself this unneces- 
 sary trouble, as I have decidedly condemned it as mere 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. S51 
 
 doggerel, still preserved in our churches, to the detri- 
 ment of religion ; and the version of the passage in 
 question is adduced as a brilliant, though probably ac- 
 cidental, exception to the general character of the work. 
 What necessity, therefore, your correspondent could see 
 for ' hoping that I should think with him, that the sooner the old 
 version of the Psalms was consigned to oblivion, the better it 
 would be for rational devotion,'* I am perfectly at a loss to 
 imagine. 
 
 This concluding sentence of Mr. Toone's paper, which 
 I consider as introduced merely by way of rounding the 
 period, and making a graceful exit, needs no further 
 animadversion. I shall therefore proceed to examine 
 the objections of the ' worthy clergyman of the church 
 of England ' to these verses, cited by your correspon- 
 dent, by which he hopes to prove, Dryden, Knox, and 
 the numerous other eminent men who have expressed 
 their admiration thereof, to be little better than idiots.— 
 The first is this : 
 
 * Cherubim is the plural for Cherub ; but our versioner 
 by adding an s to it, has rendered them both plurals.* 
 By adding an s to what ? If the pronoun it refer to 
 cherubim, as according to the construction of the sen- 
 tence it really does, the whole objection is nonsense. — 
 But the worthy gentleman, no doubt, meant to say, that 
 Sternhold had rendered them both plurals by the ad- 
 dition of an s to cherub. Even in this sense, however, I 
 conceive the charge to be easily obviated ; for, though 
 cherubim is doubtless usually considered as the plural 
 of cherub, yet the two words are frequently so used in 
 the Old Testament as to prove, that they were often 
 applied to separate ranks of beings. One of these, which 
 I shall cite, will dispel all doubt on the subject. 
 
 ' And within the oracle he made two cherubims of olive tree, each ten cubits 
 high.' 1 Kings, v. 23. ch. vi. 
 
 The other objection turns upon a word with which it 
 is not necessary for me to interfere ; for I did not quote 
 these verses as instances of the merit of Sternhold, or 
 his version, I only asserted that the lines which I then 
 copied, viz. 
 
 * The Lord descended from above,' See. 
 
352 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 were truly noble and sublime. Whether, therefore, 
 Sternhold wrote all the loinds (as asserted by your corres- 
 pondent, in order to furnish room for objection,) or mighty 
 winds, is of no import. But if this really be a subsequent 
 alteration, I think at least there is no improvement ; 
 for when we conceive the winds as assembling from all 
 quarters, at the omnipotent command of the Deity, and 
 bearing him with their united forces from the heavens, 
 we have a more sublime image than when we see him 
 as flying merely on mighty loinds., or as driving his team 
 (or troop) of angels on a strong tempest's rapid wing, 
 with most amazing suiftness, as elegantly represented by 
 Brady and Tate.* 
 
 I I differ from your correspondent's opinion, that these 
 verses, so far from possessing sublimity, attract the 
 reader merely by their rumbling sound : And here it may 
 not be amiss to observe, that the true sublime does not 
 consist of high sounding words, or pompous magnifi- 
 cence ; on the contrary, it most frequently appears clad 
 in native dignity and simplicity, without art, and with- 
 out ornament. 
 
 The most elegant critic of antiquity, Longinus, in his 
 Treatise on the Sublime, adduces the following passage 
 from the Book of Genesis, as possessing that quality in 
 an eminent degree : 
 
 ' God said, Let there be light, and there was light : — Let the earth be, and 
 earth was.'' f 
 
 From what I have advanced on this subject, I would 
 not have it inferred, that I conceive the version of 
 Sternhold and Hopkins, generally speaking, to be supe- 
 rior to that of Brady and Tate ; for, on the contrary, in 
 almost every instance, except that above mentioned^ 
 the latter possesses an indubitable right to preeminence. 
 Our language, however, cannot yet boast one version 
 possessing the true spirit of the original ; some are 
 beneath contempt, and the best has scarcely attained 
 mediocrity. Your correspondent has quoted some ver- 
 
 *The chariot of the king of kings. 
 
 Which active troops of angels drew. 
 
 On a strong tempest's rapid wings. 
 With most amazing swiftness flew. 
 
 ■{• The quotation appears to have been made from memory, and not correctly. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 35$ 
 
 ses from Tate, in triumph, as comparatively excellent ; 
 but, in my opinion, they are also instances of oar gen- 
 eral failure in sacred poetry : they abound in those 
 amhitiosa ornamenta which do well to please women and 
 children, but which disgust the man of taste. 
 
 To the imitations already noticed of this passage, per- 
 mit me to add the following : — 
 
 *.But various Iris, Jove's commands to bear, 
 Speeds on the wings of winds through liquid air.' 
 
 Pope's Iliad, B. 2. 
 
 •Miguel cruzando os pelagos do vento.' 
 
 Carlos Reduzido, Canto I., by Pedro de Azevedo Tojalj 
 an ancient Portuguese poet of some merit. 
 
 REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH POETS. 
 
 WARTON. 
 
 The poems of Thomas Warton are replete with a sub- 
 limity, and richness of imagery, which seldom fail to en- 
 chant : every line presents new beauties of idea, aided 
 by all the magic of animated diction. From the inex- 
 haustible stores of figurative language, majesty, and sub- 
 limity, which the ancient English poets afford, he has 
 culled some of the richest and the sweetest flowers. 
 But, unfortunately, in thus making use of the beauties 
 of other writers, he has been too unsparing ; for the 
 greater number of his ideas and nervous epithets can- 
 not, strictly speaking, be called his own ; therefore, how- 
 ever we may be charmed by the grandeur of his images, 
 or the felicity of his expression, we must still bear in our 
 recollection, that we cannot with justice bestow upon 
 him the highest enlogium of genius — that of originality. 
 
 It has, with much justice, been observed, that Pope, 
 and his imitators, have introduced a species of refine- 
 ment into our language, which has banished that nerve 
 and pathos for which Milton had rendered it eminent. 
 Harmonious modulations, and unvarying exactness of 
 measure, totally precluding sublimity and fire, have re- 
 duced our fashionable poetry to mere sing-song. But 
 30* 
 
354 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 Thomas Warton, whose taste was unvitiated by the 
 frivolities of the day, immediately saw the intrinsic 
 worth of what the world then slighted. He saw that 
 the ancient poets contained a fund of strength, and beau- 
 ty of imagery, as well as diction, which, in the hands of 
 genius, would shine forth with redoubled lustre. En- 
 tirely rejecting, therefore, modern niceties, he extracted 
 the honied sweets from these beautiful, though neglect- 
 ed flowers. Every grace of sentiment, every poetical 
 term, which a false taste had rendered obsolete, was by 
 him revived and made to grace his own ideas ; and 
 though many will condemn him as guilty of plagiarism, 
 yet few will be able to withhold the tribute of their 
 praise. 
 
 The peculiar forte of Warton seems to have been in 
 the sombre descriptive. The wild airy flights of a Spen- 
 ser, the 'chivalrous feats of barons bold,' or the 'clois- 
 ter'd solitude,' were the favorites of his mind. Of this 
 his bent he iijforms us in the following lines : — 
 
 Through Pope's soft song, though all the graces breathe. 
 
 And happiest art adorns his attic page. 
 
 Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow. 
 
 As at the root of mossy trunk reclin'd. 
 
 In magic Spenser's wildly warbled song, ^ 
 
 I see deserted Una wander wide 
 
 Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths. 
 
 Weary, forlorn, than where the fated fair * ( 
 
 Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames, 
 
 Launches in all the lustre of brocade. 
 
 Amid the splendors of the laughing sun ; 
 
 The gay description palls upon the sense. 
 
 And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss. 
 
 Pleasures of Melancholy. 
 
 Warton's mind was formed for the grand and the sub- 
 lime. Were his imitations less verbal, and less numer- 
 ous, I should be led to imagine that the peculiar beau- 
 ties of his favorite authors had sunk so impressively into 
 his mind, that he had unwittingly appropriated them as 
 his own ; but they are in general such as to preclude 
 the idea. 
 
 To the metrical and other intrinsic ornaments of style, 
 he appears to have paid due attention. If we meet with 
 an uncouth expression, we immediately perceive that it 
 is peculiarly appropriate, and that no other term could 
 
 * Belinda. Vide Pope's Rape of the Lock. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 355 
 
 have been made use of with so happy an effect. His 
 poems abound with aUiterative hnes. Indeed, this fig- 
 ure seems to have been his favorite ; and he studiously 
 seeks every opportunity to introduce it : however, it 
 must be acknowledged, that his ' daisy-dappled dales,' 
 &c. occur too frequently. 
 
 The poem on which Warton's fame {as a poet) princi- 
 pally rests, is, the ' Pleasures of Melancholy,' and (not . 
 withstanding the perpetual recurrence of ideas which 
 are borrowed from other poets) there are few pieces 
 which I have perused with more exquisite gratification. 
 The gloomy tints with which he overcasts his descrip- 
 tions ; his highly figurative language ; and, above all, the 
 antique air which the poem wears, convey the most 
 sublime ideas to the mind. 
 
 Of the other pieces of this poet, some are excellent, 
 and they all rise above mediocrity. In his sonnets, he 
 has succeeded wonderfully ; that written at Winslade, 
 and the one to the river Lodon, are peculiarly beauti- 
 ful, and that to Mr. Gray is most elegantly turned. The 
 ' Ode on the Approach of Summer ' is replete with 
 genius and poetic fire ; and even over the Birth-day Odes, 
 which he wrote as poet laureat, his genius has cast 
 energy and beauty. His humorous pieces and satires 
 abound in wit ; and, in short, taking him altogether, he 
 is an ornament to our country and our language, and it 
 is to be regretted, that the profusion with which he has 
 made use of the beauties of other poets, should have 
 given room for censure. 
 
 I should have closed my short, and, I fear, jejune es- 
 say on Warton, but that I wished to hint to your truly 
 elegant and acute Stamford correspondent, Octavius 
 Gilchrist, (whose future remarks on Warton's imitations 
 I await with considerable impatience,) that the passage 
 in the Pleasures of Melancholy — 
 
 ■ or ghostly shape, 
 
 At distance seen, invites, with heclt'ning hand, 
 Thy lonesome steps,' 
 
 which he supposes to be taken from the following in 
 Comus — 
 
 • Of calling shapes, and beck'nlng shadows dire, 
 And airy tongues that syllable men's names, ' 
 
356 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 is more probably taken from the commencement of 
 Pope's Elegy on an unfortunate Lady — 
 
 ' What beck'niug gliost, along the moonlight shade 
 Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade 1 ' 
 
 The original idea was possibly taken from Comus by 
 Pope, from whom Warton, to all appearance, again bor- 
 rowed it. 
 
 Were the similarity of the passage in Gray to that in 
 Warton less striking and verbal, I should be inclined to 
 think it only a remarkable coincidence ; for Gray's biog- 
 raphers inform us, that he commenced his elegy in 1742, 
 and that it was completed in 1744, being the year which 
 he particularly devoted to the muses, though he did not 
 ^put the finishing stroke to it ' until 1750. The Pleasures of 
 Melancholy were published in 4to. in 1747 ; therefore 
 Gray might take his third stanza from Warton ; but it is 
 rather extraordinary that the third stanza of a poem 
 should be taken L'om another, published jive years after 
 that poem was begun, and three after it was understood 
 to be completed. One circumstance, however, seems 
 to render the supposition of its being a plagiarism some- 
 what more probable, which is, that the stanza in ques- 
 tion is not essential to the connexion of the succeeding 
 and antecedent verses ; therefore it might have been 
 added by Gray, when he put the '■finishing stroke ' to his 
 piece in 1750. 
 
 CURSORY REMARKS ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 The pleasure which is derived from the representa- 
 tion of an affecting tragedy, has often been the subject 
 of inquiry among philosophical critics, as a singular phe- 
 nomenon. — That the mind should receive gratification 
 from the excitement of those passions which are in 
 themselves painful, is really an extraordinary paradox, 
 and is the more inexplicable, since, when the same 
 means are employed to rouse the more pleasing affec- 
 tions, no adequate effect is produced. 
 
 In order to solve this problem, many ingenious hy- 
 potheses have been invented. The Abbe Du Bos tells 
 us, that the mind has such a natural antipathy to a state 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 357 
 
 of listlessness and languor, as to render the transition 
 from it to a state of exertion, even though by rousing 
 passions in themselves painful, as in the instance of 
 tragedy, a positive pleasure. Monsieur Fontenelle has 
 given us a more satisfactory account. He tells us that 
 pleasure and pain, two sentiments so different in them- 
 selves, do not differ so much in their cause ; — that pleas- 
 ure, carried too far, becomes pain ; and pain, a little 
 moderated, becomes pleasure. Hence that the pleasure 
 we derive from tragedy is a pleasing sorrow, a modula- 
 ted pain. David Hume, who has also written upon this 
 subject, unites the two systems, with this addition, that 
 the painful emotions excited by the representation of 
 melancholy scenes, are further tempered, and the pleas- 
 ure is proportionably heightened by the eloquence dis- 
 played in the relation — the art shown in collecting the 
 pathetic circumstances, and the judgment evinced in 
 their happy disposition. 
 
 But even now I do not conceive the difficulty to be 
 satisfactorily done away. Admitting the postulatum 
 which the Abbe Du Bos assumes, that languor is so dis- 
 agreeable to the mind, as to render its removal positive 
 pleasure, to be true ; yet, when we recollect, as Mr. 
 Hume has before observed, that were the same objects 
 of distress which give us pleasure in tragedy set before 
 our eyes in reality, though they would effectually re- 
 move listlessness, they would excite the most unfeigned 
 uneasiness, we shall hesitate in applying this solution in 
 its full extent to the present subject. M. Fontenelle's 
 reasoning is much more conclusive ; yet I think he errs 
 egregiously in his premises, if he means to imply that 
 any modulation of pain is pleasing, because, in whatever 
 degree it may be, it is still pain, and remote from either 
 ease or positive pleasure ; and if, by moderated pain, he 
 means any uneasy sensation abated, though not totally 
 banished, he is no less mistaken in the application of 
 them to the subject before us. — Pleasure may very well 
 be conceived to be painful, when carried to excess, 
 because it there becomes exertion, and is inconvenient. 
 We may also form some idea of a pleasure arising from 
 moderated pain, or the transition from the disagreeable 
 to the less disagreeable ; but this cannot in any-wise be 
 applied to the gratification we derive from a tragedy, for 
 
358 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 there no superior degree of pain is left for an inferior. 
 As to Mr. Hume's addition of the pleasure we derive 
 from the art of the poet, for the introduction of which he 
 has written his whole dissertation on tragedy, it merits 
 little consideration. The self-recollection necessary to 
 render this art a source of gratification must weaken 
 the illusion ; and whatever weakens the illusion dimin- 
 ishes the effect. 
 
 In these systems it is taken for granted that all those 
 passions are excited which are represented in the dra- 
 ma. This I conceive to have been the primary cause 
 of error ; for to me it seems very probable that the only 
 passion or ajffection which is excited, is that of sympathy, 
 which partakes of the pleasing nature of pity and com- 
 passion, and includes in it so much as is pleasing of 
 hope and apprehension, joy and grief. 
 
 The pleasure we derive from the afflictions of a friend 
 is proverbial — every person has felt, and wondered why 
 he felt, something soothing in the participation of the 
 sorrows of those dear to his heart ; and he might with 
 as much reason have questioned why he was delighted 
 with the melancholy scenes of tragedy. Both pleasures 
 are equally singular ; they both arise from the same 
 source. Both originate in sympathy. 
 
 It would seem natural that an accidental spectator of 
 a cause in a court of justice, with which he is perfectly 
 unacquainted, would remain an uninterested auditor of 
 what was going forward. Experience tells us, however, 
 the exact contrary. He immediately, even before he 
 is well acquainted with the merits of the case, espouses 
 one side of the question, to which he uniformly adheres, 
 participates in all its advantages, and sympathizes in its 
 success. There is no denying that the interest this man 
 takes in the business is a source of pleasure to him ; but 
 we cannot suppose one of the parties in the cause, 
 though his interest must be infinitely more lively, to feel 
 an equal pleasure, because the painful passions are in 
 him really roused, while in the other sympathy alone is 
 excited, which is in itself pleasing. It is pretty much 
 the same with the spectator of a tragedy. And, if the 
 sympathy is the more pleasing, it is because the actions 
 are so much the more calculated to entrap the attention, 
 and the object so much the more worthy. The pleasure 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 
 
 is heightened also in both instances by a kind of intuitive 
 recollection, which never forsakes the spectator, that 
 no bad consequences will result to him from the action 
 he is surveying. The recollection is the more predomi- 
 nant in the spectator of a tragedy, as it is impossible in 
 any case totally to banish from his memory that the 
 scenes are fictitious and illusive. In real life we always 
 advert to futurity, and endeavour to draw inferences of 
 the probable consequences ; but the moment we take off 
 our minds from what is passing on the stage to reason- 
 ings thereupon, the illusion is dispelled, and it again 
 recurs that it is all fiction. 
 
 If we compare the degrees of pleasure we derive from 
 the perusal of a novel and the representation of a trage- 
 dy, we shall observe a wonderful disparity. In both we 
 feel an interest, in both sympathy is excited. But in 
 the one, things are merely related to us as having passed^ 
 which it is not attempted to persuade us ever did in 
 reality happen, and from which, therefore, we never can 
 deceive ourselves into the idea that any consequences 
 whatever will result ; in the other, on the contrary, the 
 actions themselves pass before our eyes ; we are not 
 tempted to ask ourselves whether they did ever happen ; 
 we see them happen, we are the witnesses of them ; and 
 were it not for the meliorating circumstances before 
 mentioned, the sympathy would become so powerful as 
 to be in the highest degree painful. 
 
 In tragedy, therefore, everything which can strength- 
 en the illusion should be introduced, for there are a 
 thousand drawbacks on the effect, which it is impossi- 
 ble to remove, and which have always so great a force, 
 as to put it out of the power of the poet to excite sym- 
 pathy in a too painful degree. Everything that is im- 
 probable, everything which is out of the common course 
 of nature, should, for this reason, be avoided, as nothing 
 will so forcibly remind the spectator of the unrealness 
 of the illusion. 
 
 It is a mistaken idea, that we sympathize sooner with 
 the distresses of kings and illustrious personages, than 
 with those of common life. Men are, in fact, more in- 
 clined to commiserate the sufferings of their equals, than 
 of those whom they cannot but regard rather with awe 
 than pity, as superior beings, and to take an interest in 
 
360 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 incidents which might have happened to themselves 
 sooner than in those remote from their ov/n rank and 
 habits. It is for this reason that iEschylus censures 
 Euripides for introducing his kings in rags, as if they 
 were more to be compassionated than other men ; 
 
 Hqunov iisv rovg ^aaiXsvovrag qaxia^miaxoiv, iv avs?.ttiwi 
 Toig arSQtanoig ipaivow tivai. 
 
 Some will, perhaps, imagine that it is in the power 
 of the poet to excite our sympathy in too powerful a 
 degree, because, at the representation of certain scenes, 
 the spectators are frequently affected so as to make them 
 shriek out with terror. But this is not sympathy ; it is 
 horror, it is disgust, and is only witnessed when some 
 act is committed on the stage so cruel and bloody, as to 
 make it impossible to contemplate it, even in idea, with- 
 out horror. 
 
 Nee pueros coram populo Medea trucidet, 
 Aut humana palain coquat exta nefarius Atreus. 
 
 Hor. Ars Poet. 1. 185. 
 
 It is for this reason, also, that many fine German 
 dramas cannot be brought on the English stage, such as 
 the Robbers of Schiller, and the Adelaide of Wulfingen, 
 by Kotzebue : they are too horrible to be read without 
 violent emotions, and Horace will tell you what an im- 
 mense difference there is in point of effect between a 
 relation and a representation. >» 
 
 Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurera, 
 
 Quam qua; sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quse 
 
 Ipse sibi tradit spectator. Ars Poet. 1. ISO. 
 
 I shall conclude these desultory remarks, strung to- 
 gether at random, without order or connexion, by ob- 
 serving what little foundation there is for the general 
 outcry in the literary world, against the prevalence of 
 German dramas on our stage. Did they not possess 
 uncommon merit, they would not meet with such gen- 
 eral approbation. Fashion has but a partial influence, 
 but they have drawn tears from an audience in a barn 
 as well as in a theatre royal ; they have been welcomed 
 with plaudits in every little market-town in the three 
 kingdoms, as well as in the metropolis. Nature speaks 
 but one language ; she is alike intelligible to the peasant 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 361 
 
 and the man of letters, the tradesman and the man of 
 fashion. While the Muse of Germany shall continue to 
 produce such plays as the Stranger and Lovers' Vows,* 
 who will not rejoice that translation is able to naturalize 
 her efforts in our language ? 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 (XO. I.) 
 
 -There is a mood 
 
 (I sing not to the vacant and the young) 
 
 There is a kindly mood of Melancholy, 
 
 That wings the soul and points her to the skies. 
 
 Dysa 
 
 Philosophers have divested themselves of their natu- 
 ral apathy, and poets have risen above themselves, in 
 descanting on the pleasures of Melancholy. There is 
 no mind so gross, no understanding so uncultivated, as 
 to be incapable, at certain moments, and amid certain 
 combinations, of feeling that sublime influence upon the 
 spirits which steals the soul from the petty anxieties of < 
 the world, 
 
 ' And fits it to hold converse with the gods.' 
 
 I must confess, if such there be who never felt the di- 
 vine abstraction, I envy them not their insensibility. 
 For my own part, it is from the indulgence of this sooth- 
 ing power that I derive the most exquisite of gratifica- 
 tions ; at the calm hour of moonlight, amid all the sub- 
 lime serenity, the dead stillness of the night ; or when 
 the howling storm rages in the heavens, the rain pelts 
 on my roof, and the winds whistle through the crannies 
 of my apartment, I feel the divine mood of melancholy 
 upon me ; I imagine myself placed upon an eminence, 
 above the crowds who pant below in the dusty tracks 
 of wealth and hoiior. The black catalogue of crimes 
 
 * I speak of these plays only as adapted to our stage by the elegant pens of Mr. 
 Thompson and Mrs. Inchbald. 
 
 31 
 
COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 and of vice ; the sad tissue of wretchedness and wo, 
 passes in review before me, and I look down upon man 
 with an eye of pity and commiseration. Though the 
 scenes which I survey be mournful, and the ideas they 
 excite equally sombre ; though the tears gush as I con- 
 template them, and my heart feels heavy with the sor- 
 rowful emotions which they inspire ; yet are they not 
 unaccompanied with sensations of the purest and most 
 ecstatic bliss. 
 
 It is to the spectator alone that Melancholy is forbid- 
 ding ; in herself she is soft and interesting, and capable 
 of affording pure and unalloyed delight. Ask the lover 
 why he muses by the side of the purling brook, or plun- 
 ges into the deep gloom of the forest ? Ask the unfortu- 
 nate why he seeks the still shades of solitude .'' or the 
 man who feels the pangs of disappointed ambition, why 
 he retires into the silent walks of seclusion .'' and he will 
 tell you that he derives a pleasure therefrom, which no- 
 thing else can impart. It is the delight of Melancholy ; 
 "but the melancholy of these beings is as far removed 
 from that of the philosopher, as are the narrow and con- 
 tracted complaints of selfishness from the mournful re- 
 grets of expansive philanthropy ; as are the desponding 
 intervals of insanity from the occasional depressions of 
 benevolent sensibility. 
 
 The man who has attained that calm equanimity which 
 qualifies him to look down upon the petty evils of life 
 with indifference ; who can so far conquer the weakness 
 of nature, as to consider the sufferings of the individual 
 of little moment, when put in competition with the wel- 
 fare of the community, is alone the true philosopher. 
 His melancholy is not excited by the retrospect of his 
 own misfortunes ; it has its rise from the contemplation 
 of the miseries incident to life, and the evils which ob- 
 trude themselves upon society, and interrupt the har- 
 mony of nature. It would be arrogating too much merit 
 to myself, to assert that I have a just claim to the title 
 of a philosopher, as it is here defined ; or to say that the 
 epeculations of my melancholy hours are equally disin- 
 terested : be this as it may, I have determined to present 
 my solit-ary effusions to the public; they will at least 
 have the merit of novelty to recommend them, and may 
 possibly, in some measure, be instrumental in the meli- 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 
 
 oration of the human heart, or the correction of false 
 prepossessions. This is the height of my ambition ; this 
 once attained, and my end will be fully accomplished. 
 One thing I can safely promise, though far from being 
 the coinages of a heart at ease, they will contain neither 
 the querulous captiousness of misfortune, nor the bitter 
 taunts of misanthropy. Society is a chain of which I am 
 merely a link : all men are my associates in error, and 
 though some may have gone farther in the ways of guilt 
 than myself, yet it is not in me to sit in judgment upon 
 them ; it is mine to treat them rather in pity than in anger, 
 to lament their crimes and to weep over their sufferings. 
 As these papers will be the amusement of those hours 
 of relaxation, when the mind recedes from the vexations 
 of business, and sinks into itself for a moment of solitary 
 ease, rather than the efforts of literary leisure, the reader 
 will not expect to find in them unusual elegance of lan- 
 guage, or studied propriety of style. In the short and 
 necessary intervals of cessation from the anxieties of an 
 irksome employment, one finds little time to be solicitous 
 about expression. If, therefore, the fervor of a glowing 
 mind expresses itself in too warm and luxuriant a man- 
 ner for the cold ear of dull propriety, let the fastidious 
 critic find a selfish pleasure in decrying it. To criticism 
 melancholy is indifferent. If learning cannot be better 
 employed than in declaiming against the defects, while 
 it is insensible to the beauties of a performance, well 
 may we exclaim with the poet, 
 
 S2 svfiivtjc ayroia 05 auwfiog ti? «» 
 Qrav 01 av ov sjfoi; ovxws a' ovz oyvost, 
 
 W. 
 
364 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 ( NO. II. ) 
 
 But ( well-a-day !) who loves the Muses now ? 
 Or helpes the ciiinber of the sacred hyll ? 
 Vone leane to them ; but strive to disalow 
 All heavenly dewes the goddesses distill. 
 
 IVm. Brown's S/tejiheard's Pip*. Eg. 5. 
 
 It is a melancholy reflection, and a reflection which 
 often sinks heavily on my soul, that the Sons of Genius 
 generally seem predestined to encounter the rudest 
 storms of adversity, to struggle, unnoticed, with poverty 
 and misfortune. The annals of the world present us 
 with many corroborations of this remark ; and, alas ! wlio 
 can tell how many unhappy beings, who might have 
 shone with distinguished lustre among the stars which 
 illumine our hemisphere, may have sunk unknown be- 
 neath the pressure of untoward circumstances ; who 
 knows how many may have shrunk, with all the exquisite 
 sensibility of genius, from the rude and riotous discord 
 of the world, into the peaceful slumbers of death. 
 Among the number of those whose talents might have 
 elevated them to the first rank of eminence, but who 
 have been overwhelmed with the accumulated ills of 
 poverty and misfortune, I do not hesitate to rank a 
 young man whom I once accounted it my greatest hap- 
 piness to be able to call my friend. 
 
 Charles Wanely was the only son of an humble vil- 
 lage rector, who just lived to give him a liberal educa- 
 tion, and then left him unprovided for and unprotected, 
 to struggle through the world as well as he could. 
 With a heart glowing with the enthusiasm of poetry and 
 romance, with a sensibility the most exquisite, and with 
 an indignant pride, which swelled in his veins, and told 
 him he was a man, my friend found himself cast upon 
 the wide world at the age of sixteen, an adventurer, 
 without fortune and without connexion. As his inde- 
 pendeiit spirit could not brook the idea of being a burden 
 to those whom his father had taught him to consider 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 365 
 
 only as allied by blood, and not by affection, he looked 
 about him for a situation which could ensure to him, by 
 his own exertions, an honorable competence. It was 
 not long before such a situation offered, and Charles 
 precipitately articled himself to an attorney, without 
 giving himself time to consult his own inclinations, or 
 the disposition of his master. The transition from Sopho- 
 cles and Euripides, Theocritus and Ovid, to Finche and 
 Wood, Coke and Wynne, was striking and difficult ; but 
 Charles applied himself with his wonted ardor to his 
 new study, as considering it not only his interest, but 
 his duty so to do. It was not long, however, before he 
 discovered that he disliked the law, that he disliked his 
 situation, and that he despised his master. The fact 
 was, my friend had many mortifications to endure, 
 which his haughty soul could ill brook. The attorney 
 to whom he was articled, was one of those narrow- 
 minded beings who consider wealth as alone entitled to 
 respect. He had discovered that his clerk was very 
 poor, and very destitute of friends, and thence he very 
 naturally concluded that he might insult him with impu- 
 nity. It appears, however, that he was mistaken in his 
 calculations. I one night remarked that my friend was 
 unusually thoughtful. I ventured to ask him whether 
 he had met with anything particular to ruffle his spirits. 
 He looked at me for some moments significantly, then, 
 as if roused to fury by the recollection — ' I have,' said 
 he vehemently, ' I have, I have. He has insulted me 
 grossly, and I will bear it no longer.' He now walked 
 up and down the room with visible emotion. — Presently 
 he sat down. — He seemed more composed. ' My friend,' 
 said he, ' I have endured much from this man. I con- 
 ceived it my* duty to forbear, but I have forborne until 
 forbearance is blamable, and, by the Almighty, I will 
 never again endure what I have endured this day. But 
 not only this man ; every one thinks he may treat me 
 with contumely, because I am poor and friendless. But 
 I am a man, and will no longer tamely submit to be the 
 sport of fools, and the foot-ball of caprice. In this spot 
 of earth, though it gave me birth, I can never taste of 
 ease. Here I must be miserable. The principal end of 
 man is to arrive at happiness. Here I can never attain 
 it ; and here therefore I will no longer remain. My ob- 
 31* 
 
SQ6 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 ligations to the rascal, who calls himself my master, are 
 cancelled by his abuse of the authority I rashly placed in 
 his hands. I have no relations to bind me to this partic- 
 ular place.' The tears started in his eyes as he spoke. 
 ' I have no tender ties to bid me stay, and why do I 
 stay .'* The world is all before me. My inclination 
 leads me to travel ; I will pursue that inclination ; and, 
 perhaps, in a strange land I may find that repose which 
 is denied to me in the place of my birth. My finances, 
 it is true, are ill able to support the expenses of travel- 
 ling : but what then — Goldsmith, my friend,' with rising 
 enthusiasm, ' Goldsmith traversed Europe on foot, and I 
 am as hardy as Goldsmith. Yes, I will go, and perhaps, 
 ere long, I may sit me down on some towering mountain, 
 and exclaim with him, while a hundred realms lie in 
 perspective before me, 
 
 ' Creation's heir, tlie world, the world i« mine.' 
 
 It was in vain I entreated him to reflect maturely, ere 
 he took so bold a step ; he was deaf to my importunities, 
 and the next morning I received a letter informing me 
 of his departure. He was observed about sun-rise, sit- 
 ting on the stile, at the top of an eminence which com- 
 manded a prospect of the surrounding country, pensively 
 looking towards the village. I could divine his emotions, 
 on thus casting probably a last look on his native place. 
 The neat white parsonage-house, with the honey-suckle 
 mantling on its wall, I knew would receive his last 
 glance ; and the image of his father would present itself 
 to his mind, with a melancholy pleasure, as he was thus 
 hastening, a solitary individual, to plunge himself into 
 the crowds of the world, deprived of that fostering hand 
 which would otherwise have been his support and 
 guide. 
 
 From this period Charles Wanely was never heard of 
 
 at ,L , and, as his few relations cared little about 
 
 him, in a short time it was almost forgotten that such a 
 being had ever been in existence. 
 
 About five years had elapsed fi-om this period, v/hen 
 my occasions led me to the continent. I will confess I 
 was not .without a romantic hope, that I might again 
 meet with my lost friend ; and that often, with that idea, 
 I scrutinized the features of the passengers. One fine 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 367 
 
 moonlight night, as I was strolling down the grand Italian 
 Strada di Toledo, at Naples, 1 observed a crowd assem- 
 bled round a man, who, with impassioned gestures, 
 seemed to be vehemently declaiming to the multitude. 
 It was one of the Improvisatori, who recite extempore 
 verses in the streets of Naples, for what money they can 
 collect from the hearers. I stopped to listen to the 
 man's metrical romance, and had remained in the atti*. 
 tude of attention sometime, when, happening to turn 
 round, I beheld a person very shabbily dressed, stead- 
 fastly gazing at me. The moon shone full in his face. 
 I thought his features were familiar to me. He was 
 pale and emaciated, and his countenance bore marks of 
 the deepest dejection. Yet, amidst all these changes, I 
 thought I recognised Charles Wanely. I stood stupified 
 with surprise. My senses nearly failed me. On recover- 
 ing myself, I looked again, but he had left the spot the 
 moment he found himself observed. I darted through 
 the crowd, and ran every way which I thought he could 
 have gone, but it was all to no purpose. Nobody knew 
 him. Nobody had even seen such a person. The two 
 following days I renewed my inquiries, and at last dis- 
 covered the lodgings where a man of his description had 
 resided. But he had left Naples the morning after his 
 form had struck my eyes. 1 found he gained a subsist- 
 ence by drawing rude figures in chalks and vending them 
 among the peasantry. I could no longer doubt it was my 
 friend, and immediately perceived that his haughty spirit 
 could not bear to be recognised in such degrading circum- 
 stances, by one who had known him in better days. La- 
 menting the misguided notions which had thus again 
 thrown him from me, I left Naples, now grown hateful 
 to my sight, and embarked for England. It is now 
 nearly twenty years since this rencounter, during which 
 period he has not been heard of; and there can be little 
 doubt that this unfortunate young man has found, in 
 some remote corner of the continent, an obscure and an 
 unlamented grave. 
 
 Thus, those talents which were formed to do honor 
 to human nature, and to the country which gave them 
 birth, have been nipped in the bud by the frosts of pov- 
 erty and scorn, and their unhappy possessor lies in an 
 
368 COMPLETE WQRKS 
 
 unknown and nameless tomb, who might, under happier 
 circumstances, have risen to the highest pinnacle of 
 ambition and renown. W. 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 (NO. III.) 
 
 Few know that elegance of soul refined, 
 Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy 
 From melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride 
 Of tasteless splendor and magnificence 
 Can e'er afford. 
 
 Tfarton's Melancholy 
 
 In one of my midnight rambles down the side of the 
 Trent, the river which waters the place of my nativity, 
 as I was musing on the various evils which darken the 
 life of man, and which have their rise in the malevolence 
 and ill-nature of his fellows, the sound of a flute from an 
 adjoining copse attracted my attention. The tune it 
 played was mournful, yet soothing. It was suited to 
 the solemnity of the hour. As the distant notes came 
 wafted at intervals on my ear, now with gradual swell, 
 then dying away on the silence of the night, I felt the 
 tide of indignation subside within me, and give place to 
 the solemn calm of repose. I listened for sometime in 
 breathless ravishment. The strain ceased, yet the sounds 
 still vibrated on my heart, and the visions of bliss which 
 they excited, still glowed on my imagination. I was 
 then standing in' one of my favorite retreats. It was a 
 little alcove, overshadowed with willows, and a mossy 
 seat at the back invited to rest. I laid myself listlessly 
 on the bank. The Trent murmured softly at my feet, 
 and the willows sighed as they waved over my head. 
 It was the holy moment of repose, and I soon sunk into 
 a deep sleep. The operations of fancy in a slumber, 
 induced by a combination of circumstances so powerful 
 and uncommon, could not fail to be wild and romantic in 
 
Op h. k. white. 369 
 
 the extreme. Methought I found myself in an extensive 
 area, filled with an immense concourse of people. At 
 one end was a throne of adamant, on which sat a female, 
 in whose aspect I immediately recognised a divinity. 
 She was clad in a garb of azure, on her forehead she 
 bore a sun, whose splendor the eyes of many were una- 
 ble to bear, and whose rays illumined the whole space, 
 and penetrated into the deepest recesses of darkness. 
 The aspect of the goddess at a distance was forbidding, 
 but on a nearer approach, it was mild and engaging. 
 Her eyes were blue and piercing, and there was a fasci- 
 nation in her smile which charmed as if by enchantment. 
 The air of intelligence which beamed in her look, made 
 the beholder shrink into himself with the consciousness 
 of inferiority ; yet the affability of her deportment, and 
 the simplicity and gentleness of her manners, soon reas- 
 sured him, while the bewitching softness which she 
 could at times assume, won his permanent esteem. On 
 inquiry of a by-stander who it was that sat on the throne, 
 and what was the occasion of so uncommon an assembly, 
 he informed me that it was the Goddess of Wisdom, who 
 had at last succeeded in regaining the dominion of the 
 earth, which Folly had so long usurped. That she sat 
 there in her judicial capacity, in order to try the merits 
 of many who were supposed to be the secret emissaries 
 of Folly. In this way I understood Envy and Malevo- 
 lence had been sentenced to perpetual banishment, 
 though several of their adherents yet remained among 
 men, whose minds were too gross to be irradiated with 
 the light of wisdom. One trial I understood was just 
 ended, and another supposed delinquent was about to 
 be put to the bar. With much curiosity I hurried for- 
 wards to survey the figure which now approached. She 
 was habited in black, and veiled to the waist. Her 
 pace was solemn and majestic, yet in every movement 
 ivas a winning gracefulness. As she approached to the 
 bar, I got a nearer view of her, when, what was my 
 astonishment to recognise in her the person of my favor- 
 ite goddess. Melancholy. Amazed that she, whom I had 
 always looked upon as the sister and companion of Wis- 
 dom, should be brought to trial as an emissary and an 
 adherent of Folly, I waited in mute -impatience for the 
 accusation which could be framed against her. — On 
 
S70 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 looking towards the centre of the area, I was much 
 surprised to see a bustling little Cit of my acquaintance, 
 who, by his hemming and clearing, I concluded waa 
 going to make the charge. As he was a self-important 
 little fellow, full of consequence and business, and total- 
 ly incapable of all the finer emotions of the soul, I could 
 not conceive what ground of complaint he could have 
 against Melancholy, who, I was persuaded, would never 
 have deigned to take up her residence for a moment ii^ 
 hi-s breast. When I recollected, however, that he had 
 some sparks of ambition in his composition, and that he 
 was an envious, carping little mortal, who had formed 
 the design of shouldering himself into notice by decrying 
 the defects of others, while he was insensible to his own, 
 my amazement and my apprehensions vanished, as I 
 perceived he only wanted to make a display of his own 
 talent, in doing which I did not fear his making himself 
 sufficiently ridiculous. 
 
 After a good deal of irrelevant circumlocution, he 
 boldly began the accusation of Melancholy. I shall not 
 dwell upon many absurd and many invidious parts of 
 his speech, nor upon the many blunders in the misappli- 
 cation of words, such as ^ deduce^ for 'c^efraci,' and oth- 
 ers of a similar nature, which my poor friend committed 
 in the course of his harangue, but shall only dwell upon 
 the material parts of the charge. 
 
 He represented the prisoner as the offspring of Idleness 
 and Discontent, who was at all times a sulky, sullen, and 
 ^eminently useless^ member of the community, and not 
 imfrequently a very dangerous one. He declared it to 
 be his opinion, that in case she were to be suffered to 
 prevail, mankind would soon become ' too idle to go,'' and 
 would all lie down and perish through indolence, or 
 through forgetting that sustenance was necessary for 
 the preservation of existence ; and concluded with paint- 
 ing the horrors which would attend such a depopulation 
 of the earth, in such colors as made many weak minds 
 regard the goddess with fear and abhorrence. 
 
 Having concluded, the accused was called upon for 
 her defence. She immediately, with a graceful gesture, 
 lifted up the veil which concealed her face, and discov- 
 ered a countenance so soft, so lovely, and so sweetly 
 -expressive, as to strike the beholders with involuntary 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 371 
 
 admiration, and which, at one glance overturned all the 
 flimsy sophistry of my poor friend the citizen ; and when 
 the silver tones of her voice were heard, the murmurs, 
 which until then had continually arisen from the crowd 
 were hushed to a dead still, and the whole multitude 
 stood transfixed in breathless attention. As near as I 
 can recollect, these were the words in which she ad- 
 dressed herself to the throne of wisdom. 
 
 / shall not deign to give a direct answer to the various in- 
 sinuations which have been thrown out against me by my accuser. 
 Let it suffice that I declare my true history, in opposi- 
 tion to that which has been so artfully fabricated to my 
 disadvantage. In that early age of the world, when 
 mankind followed the peaceful avocations of a pastoral 
 life only, and contentment and harmony reigned in every 
 vale, I was not known among men ; but when, in pro- 
 cess of time, Ambition and Vice, with their attendant 
 evils, were sent down as a scourge to the human race, 
 I made my appearance. I am the offspring of Misfor- 
 tune and Virtue, and was sent by Heaven to teach my 
 parents how to sapport their afflictions with magnanimi- 
 ty. As I grew up, I became the intimate friend of the 
 wisest among men. I was the bosom friend of Plato, 
 and other illustrious sages of antiquity, and was then 
 often known by the name of Philosophy, though, in 
 present times, when that title is usurped by mere mak- 
 ers of experiments, and inventors of blacking-cakes, I 
 am only known by the appellation of Melancholy. So 
 far from being of a discontented disposition, my very 
 essence is pious and resigned contentment. I teach my 
 votaries to support every vicissitude of fortune with 
 calmness and fortitude. It is mine to subdue the stormy 
 propensities of passion and vice, to foster and encourage 
 the principles of benevolence and philanthropy, and to 
 cherish and bring to perfection the seeds of virtue and 
 wisdom. Though feared and hated by those who, like 
 my accuser, are ignorant of my nature, I am courted 
 and cherished by all the truly wise, the good, and the 
 great ; the poet woos me as the goddess of inspiration ; 
 the true philosopher acknowledges himself indebted to 
 me for his most expansive views of human nature ; the 
 good man owes to me that hatred of the wrong and love 
 of the right, and that disdain for the consequences which 
 
372 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 may result from the performance of his duties, which, 
 keeps him good ; and the religious flies to me for the 
 only clear and unencumbered view of the attributes and 
 perfections of the Deity. So far from being idle, my 
 mind is ever on the wing in the regions of fancy, or that 
 true philosophy which opens the book of human nature, 
 and raises the soul above the evils incident to life. If I 
 am useless, in the same degree were Plato and Socrates, 
 Locke and Paley, useless ; it is true that my immediate 
 influence is confined, but its effects are disseminated by 
 means of literature over every age and nation, and man- 
 kind, in every generation, and in every clime, may look 
 to me as their remote illuminator, the original spring of 
 the principal intellectual benefits they possess. But as 
 there is no good without its attendant evil, so I have an 
 elder sister, called Phrensy, for whom I have often been 
 mistaken, who sometimes follows close on my steps, and 
 to her I owe much of the obloquy which is attached to 
 my name ; though the puerile accusation which has just 
 been brought against me turns on points which apply 
 more exclusively to myself. 
 
 She ceased, and a dead pause ensued. The multitude 
 seemed struck with the fascination of her utterance and 
 gesture, and the sounds of her voice still seemed to vi- 
 brate on every ear. The attention of the assembly, 
 however, was soon recalled to the accuser, and their in- 
 dignation at his baseness rose to such a height as to 
 threaten general tumult, when the Goddess of Wisdom 
 arose, and, waving her hand for silence, beckoned the 
 prisoner to her, placed her on her right hand, and, with 
 a sweet smile, acknowledged her for her old companion 
 and friend. She then turned to the accuser, with a 
 frown of severity so terrible, that I involuntarily started 
 with terror from my poor misguided friend, and with 
 the violence of the start I awoke, and, instead of the 
 throne of the Goddess of Wisdom, and the vast assem- 
 bly of people, beheld the first rays of the morning peep- 
 ing over the eastern cloud ; and, instead of the loud mur- 
 murs of the incensed multitude, heard nothing but the 
 soft gurgling of the river at my feet^ and the rustling 
 wing of .the skylark, who was now beginning his first 
 matin-sonof. , W. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 373 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 (NO. IV.) 
 
 Sxonotioauevog iVQiaxov ovSa^wg av aiXwg oi/rog Sia7iQa^af.iBvos. IsoCR. 
 
 The world has often heard of fortune-hunters, legacy- 
 hunters, popularity-hunters, and hunters of various de- 
 scriptions — one diversity, however, of this very exten- 
 sive species has hitherto eluded public animadversion ; 
 I allude to the class of friend-hunters — men who make 
 it the business of their lives to acquire friends, in the 
 hope, through their influence, to arrive at some desira- 
 ble point of ambitious eminence. Of all the mortifica- 
 tions and anxieties to which mankind voluntarily subject 
 themselves, from the expectation of future benefit, there 
 are, perhaps, none more galling, none more insupportable, 
 than those attendant on friend-making. — Show a man 
 that you court his society, and it is a signal for him to 
 treat you with neglect and contumely. Humor his pas- 
 sions, and he despises you as a sycophant. Pay implicit 
 deference to his opinions, and he laughs at you for your 
 folly. In all, he views you with contempt, as the crea- 
 ture of his will, and the slave of his caprice. I remem- 
 ber I once solicited the acquaintance and coveted the 
 friendship of one man, and, thank God, I can yet say 
 (and I hope on my death-bed I shall be able to say the 
 same) of only one man. 
 
 Germanicus was a character of considerable eminence 
 in the literary world. He had the reputation not only 
 of an enlightened understanding and refined taste, but 
 of openness of heart and goodness of disposition. His 
 name always carried with it that weight and authority 
 which are due to learning and genius in every situation. 
 His manners were polished, and his conversation elegant. 
 In short, he possessed every qualification which could 
 render him an enviable addition to the circle of every 
 man's friends. With such a character, as I was then 
 22 
 
374 
 
 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 very young-, I could not fail to feel an ambition of becom- 
 ing acquainted, when the opportunity offered, and in a 
 short time we were upon terms of familiarity. To ripen 
 this familiarity into friendship, as far as the most awkward 
 diffidence would permit, was my strenuous endeavour. 
 If his opinions contradicted mine, I immediately, with- 
 out reasoning on the subject, conceded the point to him 
 as a matter of course that he must be right, and by con- 
 sequence that I must be wrong. Did he utter a witti- 
 cism, I was sure to laugh ; and if he looked grave, though 
 nobody could tell why, it was mine to groan. By thus 
 conforming myself to his humor, I flattered myself I was 
 making some progress in his good graces, but I was soon 
 undeceived. A man seldom cares much for that which 
 costs him no pains to procure. Whether Germanicus 
 found me a troublesome visiter, or whether he was really 
 displeased with something I had unwittingly said or 
 done, certain it is, that when I met him one day, in 
 company with persons of apparent figure, he had lost all 
 recollection of my features. I called upon him, but 
 Germanicus was not at home. Again and again I gave 
 a hesitating knock at the great man's door — all was to 
 no purpose. He was still not at home. The sly mean- 
 ing, however, which was couched in the sneer of the 
 servant the last time that, half ashamed of my errand, I 
 made my inquiries at his house, convinced me of what I 
 ought to have known before, that Germanicus was at 
 home to all the world save me. I believe, with all my 
 seeming humility, I am a confounded proud fellow at 
 bottom ; my rage at this discovery, therefore, may be 
 better conceived than described. Ten thousand curses 
 did I imprecate on the foolish vanity which led me to 
 solicit the friendship of my superior, and again and 
 again did I vow down eternal vengeance on my head, if 
 I evermore condescended thus to court the acquaintance 
 of man. To this resolution I believe I shall ever adhere. 
 If I am destined to make any progress in the world, it 
 will be by my own individual exertions. As I elbow my 
 way through the crowded vale of life, I will never, in any 
 emergency, call on my selfish neighbour for assistance. 
 If my strength give way beneath the pressure of calami- 
 ty, I shall sink without his whine of hypocritical condo- 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 375 
 
 lence ; and if I do sink, let him kick me into a ditch, 
 and g-o about his business. I asked not his assistance 
 while living, it will be of no service to me when dead. 
 
 Beheve me, reader, whoever thou mayst be, there 
 are few among- mortals whose friendship, when acquired, 
 will repay thee for the meanness of solicitation. If a 
 man voluntarily holds out his hand to thee, take it with 
 caution. If thou find him honest, be not backward to 
 receive his proffered assistance, and be anxious, when 
 occasion shall require, to yield to him thine own. A 
 real friend is the most valuable blessing- a man can 
 possess, and, mark me, it is by far the most rare. It ia 
 a black swan. But, whatever thou mayst do, solicit not 
 friendship. If thou art young, and would make thy way 
 in the world, bind thyself a seven years' apprentice to a 
 city tallow-chandler, and thou mayst in time come to 
 be lord mayor. Many people have made their fortunes 
 at a tailor's board. Periwig-makers have been known 
 to buy theii* country-seats, and bellows-menders have 
 started their curricles ; but seldom, very seldom, has the 
 man who placed his dependence on the friendship of his 
 fellow-men arrived at even the shadow of the honors 
 to which, through that medium, he aspired. Nay, even 
 if thou shouldst find a friend ready to lend thee a help- 
 ing hand, the moment, by his assistance, thou hast gain- 
 ed some little eminence, he will be the first to hurl thee 
 down to thy primitive, and now, perhaps, irremediable 
 obscurity. 
 
 Yet I see no more reason for complaint on the ground 
 of the fallacy of human friendship, than I do for any 
 other ordinance of nature, which may appear to run 
 counter to our happiness. Man is naturally a selfish 
 creature, and it is only by the aid of philosophy that he 
 can so far conquer the defects of his being, as to be 
 capable of disinterested friendship. IVho, then, can 
 expect to find that benign disposition, which manifests 
 itself in acts of disinterested benevolence and spontane- 
 ous aflfection, a common visiter ? Who can preach phi- 
 losophy to the mob .'' 
 
 The recluse, who does not easily assimilate with the 
 herd of mankind, and whose manners with difficulty 
 bend to the peculiarites of others, is not likely to have 
 
3*76 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 many real fnends. His enjoyments, therefore, must be 
 solitary, lone, and melancholy. His only friend is him- 
 self. As he sits immersed in revery by his midnight 
 fire, and hears without the wild gusts of wind fitfully 
 careering over the plain, he listens sadly attentive ; and 
 as the varied intonations of the howling blast articulate 
 to his enthusiastic ear, he converses with the spirits of 
 the departed, while, between each dreary pause of the 
 storm, he holds solitary communion with himself. Such 
 is the social intercourse of the recluse ; yet he frequent- 
 ly feels the soft consolations of friendship. A heart 
 formed for the gentler emotions of the soul, often feels 
 as strong an interest for what are called brutes, as most 
 bipeds affect to feel for each other. Montaigne had 
 his cat ; I have read of a man whose only friend was a 
 large spider ; and Trenck, in his dungeon, would sooner 
 have lost his right hand than the poor little mouse, 
 which, grown confident with indulgence, used to beguile 
 the tedious hours of imprisonment with its gambols. 
 For my own part, I believe my dog, who, at this mo- 
 ment, seated on his hinder legs, is wistfully surveying 
 me, as if he was conscious of all that is passing in my 
 mind : — my dog, I say, is as sincere, and, whatever the 
 world may say, nearly as dear a friend, as any I possess ; 
 and, when I shall receive that summons which may not 
 now be far distant, he will whine a funeral requiem over 
 my grave, more piteously than all the hired mourners in 
 Christendom. Well, well, poor Bob has had a kind 
 master of me, and, for my own part, I verily believe 
 there are few things on this earth I shall leave with 
 more regret than this faithful companion of the happy 
 /hours of my infancy. 
 
 W. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. $77 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. ' 
 
 (NO. V. 
 
 Un Sannet sans defaut vaut seul un long poeme, „ 
 Jitais en vain mille auteurs y pensent arriver ; 
 
 A peine 
 
 .peut-on admirer deux ou, trois entre mille. 
 
 BolLBAV. 
 
 There is no species of poetry which is better adapt- 
 ed to the taste of a melancholy man than the sonnet. 
 While its brevity precludes the possibility of its becom- 
 ing tiresome, and its full and expected close accords well 
 with his dejected, and perhaps somewhat languid tone 
 of mind, its elegiac delicacy and querimonious plaintive- 
 ness come in pleasing consonance with his feelings. 
 
 This elegant little poem has met with a peculiar fate 
 in this country : half a century ago it was regarded as 
 utterly repugnant to the nature of our language, while 
 at present it is the popular vehicle of the most admired 
 sentiments of our best living poets. This remarkable 
 mutation in the opinions of our countrymen, may, how- 
 ever, be accounted for on plain and common principles. 
 The earlier English sonneteers confined themselves in 
 general too strictly to the Italian model, as well in the 
 disposition of the rhymes, as in the cast of the ideas. 
 A sonnet with them was only another word for some 
 metaphysical conceit or clumsy antithesis, contained in 
 fourteen harsh lines, full of obscure inversions and ill- 
 managed expletives. They bound themselves down to 
 a pattern which was in itself faulty, and they met with 
 the common fate of servile imitators, in retaining all the 
 defects of their original, while they suffered the beauties 
 to escape in the process. Their sonnets are like copies 
 of a bad picture, however accurately copied, they are 
 still bad. Our contemporaries, on the contrary, have 
 given scope to their genius in the sonnet without re- 
 straint, sometimes even growing licentious in their liber- 
 ty, setting at defiance those rules which form its distin- 
 guishing peculiarity, and, under the name of sonnet, 
 32* 
 
378 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 soaring or falling- into ode or elegy. Their compositions, 
 of course, are impressed with all those excellences which 
 would have marked their respective productions in any 
 similar walk of poetry. 
 
 It has never been disputed that the sonnet first arriv- 
 ed at celebrity in the Italian : a language which, as it 
 abounds in a musical similarity of terminations, is more 
 eminently qualified to give ease and eloquence to the 
 legitimate sonnet, restricted as it is to stated and fre- 
 quently-recurring rhymes of the same class. As to the 
 inventors of this little structure of verse, they are involv- 
 ed in impenetrable obscurity. Some authors have as- 
 cribed it singly to Guitone D' Arezzo, an Italian poet of 
 the thirteenth century, but they have no sort of authori- 
 ty to adduce in support of their assertions. Arguing 
 upon probabilities, with some slight coincidental corro- 
 borations, I should be inclined to maintain that its ori- 
 gin may be referred to an earlier period ; that it may be 
 looked for among the Provencals, who left scarcely any 
 combination of metrical sounds unattempted ; and who, 
 delighting as they did in sound and jingle, might very 
 possibly strike out this harmonious stanza of fourteen 
 lines. Be this as it may, Dante and Petrarch were the 
 first poets who rendered it popular, and to Dante and 
 Petrarch therefore we must resort for its required rules. 
 
 In an ingenious paper of Dr. Drake's ' Literary Hours,' 
 a book which I have read again and again with undi- 
 minished pleasure, the merits of the various English 
 writers in this delicate mode of composition are appreci- 
 ated with much justice and discrimination. His venera- 
 tion for Milton, however, has, if I may venture to oppose 
 my judgment to his, carried him too far in praise of his 
 sonnets. Those to the Nightingale and to Mr. Lawrence 
 are, I think, alone entitled to the praise of mediocrity, 
 and, if my memory fail me not, my opinion is sanctioned 
 by the testimony of our late illustrious biographer of 
 the poets. 
 
 The sonnets of Drummond are characterized as ex- 
 quisite. It is somewhat strange, if this description be 
 just, that they should so long have sunk into utter obliv- 
 ion, to be revived only by a species of black-letter mania, 
 which prevailed during the latter half of the eighteenth 
 century, and of which some vestiges yet remain ; the 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 379 
 
 more especially as Dr. Johnson, to whom they could 
 scarcely be unknown, tells us, that ' The fabric of the 
 sonnet has never succeeded in our language.' For my 
 own part I can say nothing of them. I have long sought 
 a copy of Drummond's works, and I have sought it in 
 vain ; but from specimens wliich I have casually met 
 with, in quotations, I am forcibly inclined to favor the 
 idea, that, as they possess natural and pathetic senti- 
 ments, clothed in tolerably harmonious language, they 
 are entitled to the praise which has been so liberally be- 
 stowed on them. 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney's Astrophel and Stella consists of a 
 number of sonnets, which have been unaccountably 
 passed over by Dr. Drake, and all our other critics who 
 have written on this subject. Many of them are emi- 
 nently beautiful. The works of this neglected poet may 
 occupy a future number of my lucubrations. 
 
 Excepting these two poets, I believe there is scarcely 
 a writer who has arrived at any degree of excellence in 
 the sonnet, until of late years, when our vernacular 
 bards have raised it to a degree of eminence and digni- 
 ty among the various kinds of poetical composition, 
 which seems almost incompatible with its very circum- 
 scribed limits. 
 
 Passing over the classical compositions of Warton, 
 wliich are formed more on the model of the Greek epi- 
 gram, or epitaph, than the Italian sonnet, Mr. Bowles 
 and Charlotte Smith are the first modern writers who 
 have met with distinguished success in the sonnet. 
 Those of the former, in particular, are standards of 
 excellence in this department. To much natural and 
 accurate description, they unite a strain of the most 
 exquisitely tender and delicate sentiment ; and, with a 
 nervous strength of diction, and a wild freedom of versi- 
 fication, they combine an euphonious melody, and con- 
 sonant cadence, unequalled in the English language. 
 While they possess, however, the superior merit of an 
 original style, they are not unfrequently deformed by 
 instances of that ambitious singularity which is but too 
 frequently its concomitant. Of these the introduction 
 of rhymes long since obsolete, is not the least striking. 
 Though, in some cases, these revivals of antiquated 
 phrase have a pleasing effect, yet they are oftentimes 
 
S8(y ' COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 uncouth and repulsive. Mr. Bowles has almost always 
 thrown aside the common rules of the sonnet : his pieces 
 have no more claim to that specific denomination, than 
 that they are confined to fourteen lines. How far this 
 deviation from established principle is justifiable, may 
 be disputed : for if, on the one hand, it be alleged that 
 the confinement to the stated repetition of rhymes, so 
 distant and frequent, is a restraint which is not compen- 
 sated by an adequate effect on the other, it must be 
 conceded, that these little poems are no longer sonnets 
 than while they conform to the rules of the sonnet, and 
 that the moment they forsake them, they ought to re- 
 sign the appellation. 
 
 The name bears evident affinity to the Italian sonaircj 
 'to resound^ — ^ sirig around,^ which originated in the Lat- 
 in sonans, — sounding, jingling, ringing : or, indeed, it may 
 come immediately from the French sonner, to sound, or 
 ring, in which language, it is observable, we first meet 
 with the word sonnette, where it signifies a little bell, and 
 sonnettier, a maker of little bells ; and this derivation 
 affords a presumption, almost amounting to certainty, 
 that the conjecture before advanced, that the sonnet 
 originated with the Proven9als, is well founded. It is 
 somewhat strange that these contending derivations 
 have not been before observed, as they tend to settle a 
 question, which, however intrinsically unimportant, is 
 curious and has been much agitated. 
 
 But, w^herever the name originated, it evidently bears 
 relation only to the peculiarity of a set of chiming and 
 jingling terminations, and of course can no longer be 
 applied with propriety where that peculiarity is not 
 preserved. 
 
 The single stanza of fourteen lines, properly varied in 
 their correspondent closes, is, notwithstanding, so well 
 adapted for the expression of any pathetic sentiment, 
 and is so pleasing and satisfactory to the ear when once 
 accustomed to it, that our poetry would suffer a material 
 loss were it to be disused through a rigid adherence to 
 mere propriety of name. At the same time, our lan- 
 guage does not supply a sufficiency of similar terminations 
 to render the strict observance of its rules at all easy, or 
 compatible with ease or elegance. The only question, 
 therefore, is, whether the musical effect produced by the 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 381 
 
 adherence to this difficult structure of verse overbalance 
 the restraint it imposes on the poet, and in case we 
 decide in the negative, whether we ought to preserve 
 the denomination of sor.net, when we utterly renounce 
 the very peculiarities which procured it that cognomen. 
 
 In the present enlightened age, I think it will not 
 be disputed that mere jingle and sound ought invariably 
 to be sacrificed to sentiment and expression. Musical 
 effect is a very subordinate consideration ; it is the gild- 
 ing to the cornices of a Vitruvian edifice ; the coloring 
 to a shaded design of Michael Angelo. In its place, it 
 adds to the effect of the whole ; but, when rendered a 
 principal object of attention, it is ridiculous and disgust- 
 ing. Rhyme is no necessary adjunct of true poetry. 
 Southey's Thalaba is a fine poem, with no rhyme, and 
 very little measure or metre ; and the production which 
 is reduced to mere prose, by being deprived of its jingle, 
 could never possess, in any state, the marks of inspiration. 
 
 So far, therefore, I am of opinion that it is advisable 
 to renounce the Italian fabric altogether. We have al- 
 ready sufficient restrictions laid upon us by the metrical 
 laws of our native tongue, and I do not see any reason, 
 out of a blind regard for precedent, to tie ourselves to a 
 difficult structure of verse, which probably originated 
 with the Troubadours, or wandering bards of France and 
 Normandy, or with a yet ruder race, one which is not 
 productive of any rational effect, and which only pleases 
 the ear by frequent repetition, as men who have once 
 had the greatest aversion to strong wines and spirituous 
 liquors, are, by habit, at last brought to regard them as 
 delicacies. 
 
 In advancing this opinion, I am aware that I am oppo- 
 sing myself to the declared sentiments of many individuals 
 whom I greatly respect and admire. Miss Seward (and 
 Miss Seward is in herself a host) has, both theoretically 
 and practically, defended the Italian structure. Mr. 
 Capel Lofft has likewise favored the world with many 
 sonnets, in which he shows his approval of the legitimate 
 model by his adherence to its rules, and many of the 
 beautiful poems of Mrs. Lofft, published in the Monthly 
 Mirror, are likewise successfully formed by those rules. 
 Much, however, as I admire these writers, and ample as 
 is the credence I give to their critical discrimination, I 
 
COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 cannot, on mature reflection, subscribe to their position 
 of the expediency of adopting this structure in our 
 poetry, and I attribute their success in it more to their 
 individual powers, which would have surmounted much 
 greater difficulties, than to the adaptability of this for- 
 eign fabric to our stubborn and intractable language. 
 If the question, however, turn only on the propriety 
 of giving to a poem a name which must be acknow- 
 ledged to be entirely inappropriate, and to which it can 
 have no sort of claim, I must confess that it is manifest- 
 ly indefensible ; and we must then either pitch upon 
 another appellation for our quatorzain, or banish it from 
 aur language ; a measure which every lover of true 
 poetry must sincerely lament. 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 (NO. TI.) 
 
 Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Poetry is a blossom of very delicate growth ; it re- 
 quires the maturing influence of vernal suns, and every 
 encouragement of culture and attention, to bring it to its 
 natural perfection. The pursuits of the mathematician, 
 or the mechanical genius, are such as require rather 
 strength and insensibility of mind, than that exquisite 
 and finely-wrought susceptibility, which invariably marks 
 the temperament of the true poet ; and it is for this 
 reason, that, while men of science have not unfrequently 
 arisen from the abodes of poverty and labor, very few 
 legitimate children of the Muse have ever emerged from 
 the shades of hereditary obscurity. 
 
 It is painful to reflect how many a bard now lies 
 nameless and forgotten, in the narrow house, who, had 
 he been born to competence and leisure, might have 
 usurped the laurels from the most distinguished person- 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 383 
 
 ag'es in the temple of F9,me. The very consciousness 
 of merit itself often acts in direct opposition to a stimu- 
 lus to exertion, by exciting- that mournful indignation 
 at supposititious neglect, which urges a sullen conceal- 
 ment of talent, and drives its possessor to that misan- 
 thropic discontent which preys on the vitals, and soon 
 produces untimely mortality. A sentiment like this has, 
 no doubt, often actuated beings, who attracted notice, 
 perhaps, while they lived, only by their singularity, and 
 who were forgotten almost ere their parent earth had 
 closed over their heads, — beings who lived but to mourn 
 and to languish for what they were never destined to 
 enjoy, and whose exalted endowments were buried with 
 them in their graves, by the want of a little of that su- 
 perfluity which serves to pamper the debased appetites 
 of the enervated sons of luxury and sloth. 
 
 The present age, however, has furnished us with two 
 illustrious instances of poverty bursting through the 
 cloud of surrounding impediments into the full blaze of 
 notoriety and eminence. I allude to the two Bloomfields, 
 bards who may challenge a comparison with the most 
 distinguished favorites of the Muse, and who both passed 
 the day-spring of life, in labor, indigence, and obscurity. 
 
 The author of the Farmer's Boy hath already received 
 the applause he justly deserved. It yet remains for the 
 Essay on War to enjoy all the distinction it so richly 
 merits, as well from its sterling worth, as from the cir- 
 cumstance of its author. Whether the present age will 
 be inclined to do it full justice, may indeed be feared. 
 Had Mr. Nathaniel Bloomfield made his appearance in 
 the horizon of letters prior to his brother, he would un- 
 doubtedly have been considered as a meteor of uncom- 
 mon attraction ; the critics would have admired, because 
 it would have been the fashion to admire. But it is to 
 be apprehended that our countrymen become inured to 
 phenomena ; — it is to be apprehended that the frivolity 
 of the age cannot endure a repetition of the uncommon 
 — that it will no longer be the rage to patronise indigent 
 merit : that the beau moncle will therefore neglect, and 
 that, by a necessary consequence, the critics will sneer !! 
 
 Nevertheless, sooner or later, merit will meet with 
 its reward ; and though the popularity of Mr. Bloomfield 
 may be delayed, he must, at one time or other, receive 
 
384 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 the meed due to its deserts. Posterity will judge impar- 
 tially ; and if bold and vivid images, and original con- 
 ceptions, luminously displayed, and judiciously apposed, 
 have any claim to the regard of mankind, the name of 
 Nathaniel Bloomfield will not be without its high and 
 appropriate honors. 
 
 Rosseau very truly observes, that with whatever 
 talent a man may be born, the art of writing is not easily 
 obtained. If this be applicable to men enjoying every 
 advantage of scholastic initiation, how much more forci- 
 bly must it apply to the offspring of a poor village tailor, 
 untaught, and destitute both of the means and the time 
 necessary for the cultivation of the mind ! If the art of 
 writing be of difficult attainment to those who make it 
 the study of their lives, what must it be to him, who, 
 perhaps, for the first forty years of his life, never enter- 
 tained a thought that anything he could write would be 
 deemed worthy the attention of the public ! — whose only 
 time for rumination was such as a sedentary and sickly 
 employment would allow ; on the tailor's board, sur- 
 rounded with men, perhaps, of depraved and rude habits, 
 and impure conversation ! 
 
 And yet, that Mr. N. Bloomfield's poems display acute? 
 ness of remark, and delicacy of sentiment, combined 
 with much strength, and cofisiderable selection of diction, 
 few will deny. The Peean to Gunpowder would alone 
 prove both his power of language, and the fertility of 
 his imagination ; and the following extract presents him 
 to us in the still higher character of a bold and vivid 
 painter. Describing the field after a battle, he says, 
 
 Now here and there, about the horrid field. 
 Striding across the dying and the dead, 
 Stalks up a man, by strength superior, 
 Or skill and prowess in the arduous fight, 
 Preserv'd alive : — fainting he looks around; 
 Fearing pursuit — not caring to pursue. 
 The supplicating voice of bitterest moans, 
 , Contortions of excruciating pain. 
 
 The shriek of torture, and the groan of death. 
 Surround him ; — and as Night her mantle spreads, 
 To veil the horrors of the mourning field. 
 With cautious step shaping his devious way. 
 He seeks a covert where to hide and rest : 
 At every leaf that rustles in the breeze 
 Starting, he grasps his sword : and every nerve 
 Is ready straiu'd, for combat or for flight. 
 
 P. 12. JEssay on War. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 385 
 
 If Mr. Bloomfield had written nothing besides the 
 Elegy on the Enclosure of Honington Green, he would 
 have had a right to be considered as a poet of no mean 
 excellence. The heart which can read passages like 
 the following without a sympathetic emotion, must be 
 dead to every feeling of sensibility. 
 
 STANZA VI. 
 
 The proud city's gay wealthy train, 
 
 Who nought but refinement adore. 
 May wonder to hear me complain 
 
 That Honington Green is no more ; 
 But if to the cTiurch you e'er went. 
 
 If you knew what tlie village has been. 
 You will sympathize while I lament 
 
 The enclosure of Honington Green. 
 
 VII. 
 
 . That no more upon Honington Green 
 
 Dwells the matron whom most I revere. 
 If by pert Observation unseen, 
 
 I e'en now could indulge a ibnd tear. 
 Ere her bright morn of life was o'ercast. 
 
 When my senses first woke to the scene, 
 Some short happy hours she had past 
 
 On the margin of Honington Green. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Her parents with plenty were blest. 
 
 And num'rous her children, and young. 
 Youth's blossoms her cheek yet possest, 
 
 And melody woke when she sung : 
 A widow so youthful to leave, 
 
 ( Early clos'd the blest days he had seen,) 
 My father was laid in his grave. 
 
 In the church-yai-d on Honington Green. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Dear to me was the wild thorny hill. 
 And dear the brown heath's sober scene ; 
 
 And youth shall find happiness still. 
 Though he rove not on common or green. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 So happily flexile man's make, 
 " So pliantly docile his mind. 
 
 Surrounding impressions we take, 
 
 And bliss in each circuiastance find. 
 The youths of a more polish'd age 
 
 Shall not wish these rude commons to see ; 
 To the bird that's inur'd to the cage. 
 
 It would not be bliss to be free. 
 
 There is a sweet and tender melancholy pervades the 
 33 
 
386 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 elegiac ballad efforts of Mr. Bloomfield, which has the 
 most indescribable effects on the heart. Were the ver- 
 sification a little more polished, in some instances, they 
 would be read with unmixed delight. It is to be hoped 
 that he will cultivate this engaging species of composi- 
 tion, and, (if I may venture to throw out the hint,) if 
 judgment may be formed from the poems he has pub- 
 lished, he would excel in sacred poetry. Most heartily 
 do I recommend the lyre of David to this engaging bard. 
 Divine topics have seldom been touched upon with suc- 
 cess by our modern Muses : they afford a field in which 
 he would have few competitors, and it is a field worthy 
 of his abilities. W. 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 (NO. VII.*) 
 
 If the situation of man, in the present life, be consid- 
 ered in all its relations and dependences, a. striking in- 
 consistency will be apparent to a very cursory observer. 
 We have sure warrant for believing that our abode here 
 is to form a comparatively insignificant part of our exis- 
 tence, and that on our conduct in this life will depend 
 the happiness of the life to come ; yet our actions daily 
 give the lie to this proposition, inasmuch as we common- 
 ly act like men who have no thought but for the present 
 scene, and to whom the grave is the boundary of antici- 
 pation. But this is not the only paradox which humani- 
 ty famishes to the eye of a thinking man. It is very 
 generally the case, that we spend our whole lives in the 
 pursuit of objects, which common experience informs us 
 are not capable of conferring that pleasure and satisfac- 
 tion which we expect from their enjoyment. Our views 
 are uniformly directed to one point : — happiness in what- 
 ever garb it be clad, and under whatever figure shadow- 
 
 * My predecessor, the Spectator, considering that the seventh part of our time is 
 set apart for religious purposes, devoted every seventh lucubration to matters con- 
 nected with Christianity, and the severer pai't of morals : I trust none of my read- 
 ers will regret that, in this instance, I follow so good an example. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 387 
 
 ed, is the ^eat aim of the busy multitudes, whom we 
 behold toiling through the vale of life, in such an infin- 
 ite diversity of 'occapation, and disparity of views. But 
 the misfortune is, that we seek for Happiness where she 
 is not to be found, and the cause of wonder, that the 
 experience of ages should not have guarded us against 
 so fatal and so universal an error. 
 
 It would be an amusing speculation to consider the 
 various points after which our fellow mortals are inces- 
 santly straining, and in the possession of which they 
 have placed that imaginary chief good which we are all 
 doomed to covet, but which, perhaps, none of us, in this 
 sublunary state, can attain. At present, however, we 
 are led to considerations of a more important nature. 
 We turn from the inconsistencies observable in the 
 prosecution of our subordinate pursuits, from the partial 
 follies of individuals, to the general delusion which seems 
 to envelope the whole human race : — the delusion under 
 whose influence they lose sight of the chief end of their 
 being, and cut down the sphere of their hopes and en- 
 joyments to a few rolling years, and that, too, in a scene 
 where they know there is neither perfect fruition nor 
 permanent delight. 
 
 The faculty of contemplating mankind in the abstract, 
 apart from those prepossessions which, both by nature 
 and the power of habitual associations, would intervene 
 to cloud our view, is only to be obtained by a life of vir- 
 tue and constant meditation, by temperance, and purity 
 of thought. Whenever it is attained, it must greatly 
 tend to correct our motives — to simplify our desires — 
 and to excite a spirit of contentment and pious resigna- 
 tion. We then, at length, are enabled to contemplate 
 our being, in all its bearings, and in its full extent, and 
 the result is, that superiority to common views, and in- 
 difference to the things of this life, which should be the 
 fruit of all true philosophy, and which, therefore, are the 
 more peculiar fruits of that system of philosophy which 
 is called the Christian. 
 
 To a mind thus sublimed, the great mass of mankind 
 will appear like men led astray by the workings of wild 
 and distempered imaginations — visionaries who are wan- 
 dering after the phantoms of their own teeming brains, 
 and their anxious solicitude for mere matters of worldly 
 
388 ' COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 accommodation and ease will seem more like the effects 
 of insanity than of prudent foresight, as they are esteem- 
 ed. To the awful importance of futurity he will observe 
 them utterly insensible ; and he will see with astonish- 
 ment the few allotted years of human life wasted in pro- 
 viding abundance they will never enjoy, while the eter- 
 nity they are placed here to prepare for, scarcely em- 
 ploys a moment's consideration. And yet the mass of 
 these poor wanderers in the ways of error, have the 
 light of truth shining on their very foreheads. They 
 have the revelation of Almighty God himself, to declare 
 to them the folly of worldly cares, and the necessity for 
 providing for a future state of existence. They know 
 by the experience of every preceding generation, that a 
 very small portion of joy is allowed to the poor sojourn- 
 ers in this vale of tears, and that, too, imbittered with 
 much pain and fear, and yet every one is willing to flat- 
 ter himself that he shall fare better than his predecessor 
 in the same path, and that happiness will smile on him 
 which hath frowned on all his progenitors. 
 
 Still it would be wrong to deny the human race all 
 claim to temporal felicity. There may be comparative, 
 although very little positive happiness ; — whoever is 
 more exempt from the cares of the world and the ca- 
 lamities incident to humanity — whoever enjoys more 
 contentment of mind, and is more resigned to the dispen- 
 sations of Divine Providence — -in a word, whoever pos- 
 sesses more of the true spirit of Christianity than his 
 neighbours, is comparatively happy. But the number of 
 these, it is to be feared, is very small. Were all men 
 equally enlightened by the illuminations of truth, as 
 emanating from the spirit of Jehovah himself, they would 
 all concur in the pursuit of virtuous ends by virtuous 
 means — as there would be no vice, there would be very 
 little infelicity. Every pain would be met with forti- 
 tude, every affliction with resignation. We should then 
 all look back to the past with complacency, and to the 
 future with hope. Even this unstable state of being 
 would have many exquisite enjoyments — the principal 
 of which would be the anticipation of that approaching 
 state of beatitude to which we might then look with con- 
 fidence, through the medium of that atonement of which 
 we should be partakers, and our acceptance, by virtue 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 389 
 
 of which, would be sealed by that purity of mind of 
 which human nature is, of itself, incapable. But it is 
 from the mistakes and miscalculations of mankind, to 
 which their fallen natures are continually prone, that 
 arises that flood of misery which overwhelms the whole 
 race, and resounds wherever the footsteps of man have 
 penetrated. It is the lamentable error of placing hap- 
 piness in vicious indulgences, or thinking to pursue it by 
 vicious means. It is the blind folly of sacrificing the 
 welfare of the future to the opportunity of immediate 
 guilty gratification, which destroys the harmony of so- 
 ciety, and poisons the peace, not only of the immediate 
 procreators of the errors — not only of the identical actors 
 of the vices themselves, but of all those of their fellows 
 who fall within the reach of their influence or example, 
 or who are in any-wise connected with theni by the ties 
 of blood. 
 
 I would therefore exhort you earnestly — you who are 
 yet unskilled in the ways of the world — to beware on 
 what object you concentre your hopes. Pleasures may 
 allure — pride or ambition may stimulate, but their fruits 
 are hollow and deceitful, and they afford no sure, no solid 
 satisfaction. You are placed on the earth in a state of 
 probation — your continuance here will be, at the longest, 
 a very short period, and when you are called from hence 
 you plunge into an eternity, the completion of which 
 will be in correspondence to your past life, unutterably 
 happy or inconceivably miserable. Your fate will proba- 
 bly depend on your early pursuits — it will be these 
 which will give the turn to your character and to your 
 pleasures. I beseech you, therefore, with a meek and 
 lowly spirit, to read the pages of that Book, which the 
 wisest and best of men have acknowledged to be the 
 word of God. You will there find a rule of moral con- 
 duct, such as the world never had any idea of before its 
 divulgation. If you covet earthly happiness, it is only 
 to be found in the path you will find there laid down, 
 and I can confidently promise you, in a life of simplicity 
 and purity, a life passed in accordance with the divine 
 word, such substantial bliss, such unruffled peace, as is 
 nowhere else to be found. All other schemes of earthly 
 pleasure are fleeting and unsatisfactory. They all entail 
 upon them repentance and bitterness of thought. This 
 
390 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 alone endureth forever — this alone embraces equally the 
 present and the future — this alone can arm a man against 
 every calamity — can alone shed the balm of peace over 
 that scene of life v/hen pleasures have lost their zest, 
 and the mind can no longer look forward to the dark and 
 mysterious future. Above all, beware of the ignusfatuus 
 of false philosophy: that must be a very defective system 
 of ethics which will not bear a man through the most 
 trying stage of his existence, and I know of none that 
 will do it but the Christian. W. 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 (NO. VIII.) 
 
 Oarig Xoyovg yaq 7TaQccy,ara9tjXJp' tug ka^av 
 E^ti X£V adixog sariv, t] ax^arij? ayat, 
 lOiog Se Y tioiv rafttporsQoi xaxoi. 
 
 ANAIAnDHIDES APUD SuiDAM 
 
 Much has been said of late on the subject of inscriptive 
 toriting, and that, in my opinion, to very little purpose. 
 Dr. Drake, when treating on this topic, is, for once, in- 
 conclusive ; but his essay does credit to his discernm_ent, 
 however little it may honor him as a promulgator of the 
 laws of criticism : the exquisite specimens it contains 
 prove that the doctor has a feeling of propriety and 
 general excellence, although he may be unhappy in 
 defining them. Boileau says, briefly, ' Les inscriptions 
 doivent etre simples, courtes, et familiares.'' We have, how- 
 ever, many examples of this kind of writing in our 
 language, which although they possess none of these 
 qualities, are esteemed excellent. Akenside's classic 
 imitations are not at all simple, nothing short, and the 
 very reverse of familiar, yet who can deny that they are 
 beautiful, and in some instances appropriate ? South- 
 ey's inscriptions are noble pieces ; — for the opposite 
 qualities of tendernessv and dignity, sweetness of im- 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 391 
 
 agery and terseness of moral, unrivalled ; they are per- 
 haps wanting in propriety, and (which is the criterion) 
 produce a much better eifect in a book, than they would 
 on a column or a cenotaph. There is a certain chaste 
 and majestic gravity expected from the voice of tombs 
 and monuments, which probably would displease in 
 epitaphs never intended to be engraved, and inscriptions 
 for obelisks which never existed. 
 
 When a man visits the tomb of an illustrious charac- 
 ter, a spot remarkable for some memorable deed, or a 
 scene connected by its natural sublimity with the higher 
 feelings of the breast, he is in a mood only for the ner- 
 vous, the concise, and the impressive ; and he will turn 
 with disgust alike from the puerile conceits of the epi- 
 grammatist and the tedious prolixity of the herald. It 
 is a nice thing to address the mind in the workings of 
 generous enthusiasm. As words are not capable of 
 exciting such an effervescence of the sublimer affections, 
 so they can do little towards increasing it. Their office 
 is rather to point these feelings to a beneficial purpose, 
 and by some noble sentiment, or exalted moral, to im- 
 part to the mind that pleasure which results from warm 
 emotions when connected with the virtuous and the 
 generous. 
 
 In the composition of inscriptive pieces, great atten- 
 tion must be paid to local and topical propriety. The 
 occasion, and the place, must not only regulate the 
 tenor, but even the style of an inscription : for what, in 
 one case, would be proper and agreeable, in another 
 would be impertinent and disgusting. But these rules 
 may always be taken for granted, that an inscription 
 should be unaffected and free from conceits ; that no 
 sentiment should be introduced of a trite or hackneyed 
 nature ; and that the design and the moral to be incul- 
 cated should be of sufficient importance to merit the 
 reader's attention, and ensure his regard. Who would 
 think of setting a stone up in the wilderness to tell the 
 traveller what he knew before, or what, when he had 
 learned for the first time, was not worth the knowing ? 
 It would be equally absurd to call aside his attention to 
 a simile or an epigrammatic point. Wit on a monument, 
 is like a jest from a judge, or a philosopher cutting ca- 
 pers. It is a severe mortification to meet with flippancy 
 
392 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 where we looked for solemnity, and meretricious ele- 
 gance where the occasion led us to expect the unadorn- 
 ed majesty of truth. 
 
 That branch of inscriptive writing" which commemo- 
 rates the virtues of departed worth, or points out the 
 ashes of men who yet live in the admiration of their 
 posterity, is, of all others, the most interesting, and, if 
 properly managed, the most useful. 
 
 It is not enough to proclaim to the observer that he is 
 drawing near to the relics of the deceased genius, — 
 the occasion seems to provoke a few reflections. If 
 these be natural, they will be in unison with the feelings 
 of the reader, and, if they tend where they ought to 
 tend, they will leave him better than they found him. 
 But these reflections must not be too much prolonged. 
 They must rather be hints than dissertations. It is suf- 
 ficient to start the idea, and the imagination of the read- 
 er will pursue the train to much more advantage than 
 the writer could do by words. 
 
 Panegyric is seldom judicious in the epitaphs on pub- 
 lic characters, for, if it be deserved, it cannot need publi- 
 cation, and if it be exaggerated, it will only serve to ex- 
 cite ridicule. When employed in memorizing the retired 
 virtues of domestic life, and qualities which, though they 
 only served to cheer the little circle of privacy, still de- 
 served, from their unfrequency, to triumph, at least, for 
 a while, over the power of the grave, it may be interest- 
 ing and salutary in its effects. To this purpose, how- 
 ever, it is rarely employed. An epitaph-book will sel- 
 dom supply the exigencies of character ; and men of 
 talents are not always, even in these favored times, at 
 hand to eternize the virtues of private Hfe. 
 
 The following epitaph, by Mr. Hayley, is inscribed on 
 a monument to the memory of Cowper, in the church 
 of East Dereham : 
 
 ' Ye who with warmth the public triumph feel 
 Of talents dignified by sacred zeal, 
 Here to Devotion's bard devoutly just. 
 Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust ! 
 England, exulting in his spotless fame, 
 Ranks with her dearest sons his favorite name 
 Sense, Fancy, Wit, conspire not all to raise 
 So clear a title to Affection's praise : 
 His highest honors to the heart belong ; 
 His virtues formed the magic of his song.' 
 
OF H. E. WHITE. 393 
 
 'This epitaph,' says a periodical critic,* 'is simply 
 elegant, and appropriately just.' I regard this sentence 
 as peculiarly unfortunate, for the epitaph seems to me 
 to be elegant without simplicity, and just without propriety. 
 No one will deny that it is correctly written, and that it 
 is not destitute of grace ; but in what consists its sim- 
 plicity I am at a loss to imagine. The initial address is 
 labored and circumlocutory. There is something artifi- 
 cial rather than otherwise in the personification of En- 
 gland, and her ranking the poet's name ' with her dear- 
 est sons,' instead of with those of her dearest sons, is like 
 ranking poor John Doe with a proper bona fide son of 
 Adam, in a writ of arrest. Sense, Fancy, and Wit, 
 'raising a title,' and that to 'Afl'ection's praise,' is not 
 very simple, and not over intelligible. Again, the epi- 
 taph is just because it is strictly true ; but it is by no 
 means, therefore, appropriate. Who that would turn 
 aside to visit the ashes of Cowper, would need to be told 
 that England ranks him with her favorite sons, and that 
 sense, fancy, and wit, were not his greatest honors, for 
 that his virtues formed the magic of his song ; or who, 
 hearing this, would be the better for the information .'* 
 Had Mr. Hayley been employed in the monumental 
 praises of a private man, this might have been excusa- 
 ble, but speaking of such a man as Cowper, it is idle. 
 This epitaph is not appropriate, therefore, and we have 
 shown that it is not remarkable for simplicity. Perhaps 
 the respectable critics themselves may not feel inclined 
 to dispute this point very tenaciously. Epithets are 
 very convenient little things for rounding off a period ; 
 and it will not be the first time that truth has been sac- 
 rificed to verbosity and antithesis. 
 
 To measure lances with Hayley may be esteemed pre- 
 sumptuous ; but probably the following, although much 
 inferior as a composition, would have had more effect 
 than his polished and harmonious lines. 
 
 * The Monthly Reviewer. 
 
394 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 .NSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER. 
 
 Reader ! if with no vulgar sympathy 
 rhou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth. 
 Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot. 
 Here Cowper rests. Although renown have'made 
 His name familiar to thine ear, tliis stone 
 May tell thee that his virtues were above 
 The common portion : — that the voice, now hush'd 
 In death, was once serenely querulous 
 With pity's tones, and in the ear of wo 
 Spake music. Now forgetfol at thy feet 
 His tired head presses on its last long rest, 
 Still tenant of the tomb ; — and on the cheek. 
 Once warm with animation's lambent flush. 
 Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay. 
 Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part : 
 And these sad garments of mortality 
 Put off, we ti'ust, that to a happier land 
 He went a light and gladsome passenger 
 Sigh'st thou for honors, reader 1 Call to mind 
 That glory's voice is impotent to pierce 
 The silence of the tomb ! but virtue blooms 
 Even on tlie wreck of life, and mounts the skies ! 
 So gird thy loins with lowhness, and walk 
 With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ. 
 
 This inscription is faulty from its lengthy but if a 
 painter cannot get the requisite effect at one stroke, he 
 must do it by many. The laconic style of epitaphs is 
 the most difficult to be managed of any, inasmuch as 
 most is expected from it. A sentence standing alone on 
 a tomb, or a monument, is expected to contain some- 
 thing particularly striking : and when this expectation 
 is disappointed, the reader feels like a man who, having 
 been promised an excellent joke, is treated with a stale 
 conceit, or a vapid pun. The best specimen of this 
 kind, which I am acquainted with, is that on a French 
 general : 
 
 ' Siste, Viator; Heroetn calcas !^ 
 Stop, traveller ; thou treadest on a hero ! 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. S95 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 ( NO. IX. ) 
 
 Scires e sanguine natos. 
 
 Ovid. 
 
 It is common for busy and active men to behold the 
 occupations of the retired and contemplative person with 
 contempt. They consider his speculations as idle and 
 unproductive ; as they participate in none of his feelings, 
 they are strangers to his motives, his views, and his 
 delights ; they behold him elaborately employed on what 
 they conceive forwards none of the interests of life, con- 
 tributes to none of its gratifications, removes none of its 
 inconveniences : they conclude, therefore, that he is 
 led away by the delusions of futile philosophy, that 
 he labors for no good, and lives to no end. Of the va- 
 rious frames of mind which they observe in him, no 
 one seems to predominate more, and none appears to 
 them more absurd, than sadness, which seems, in some 
 degree, to pervade all his views, and shed a solemn tinge 
 over all his thoughts. Sadness, arising from no person- 
 al grief, and connected with no individual concern, they 
 regard as moonstruck melancholy, the effect of a mind 
 overcast with constitutional gloom, and diseased with 
 habits of vain and fanciful speculation. — ' We can share, 
 with the sorrows of the unfortunate,' say they, 'but 
 this monastic spleen merits only our derision : it tends 
 to no beneficial purpose, it benefits neither its possessor 
 nor society.' Those who have thought a little more on 
 this subject than the gay and busy crowd, will draw 
 conclusions of a different nature. That there is a sad- 
 ness, springing from the noblest and purest sources, a 
 sadness friendly to the human heart, and, by direct con- 
 
396 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 sequence, to human nature in general, is a truth which 
 a httle illustration will render tolerably clear, and which, 
 when understood in its full force, may probably convert 
 contempt and ridicule into respect. 
 
 I set out, then, with the proposition, that the man who 
 thinks deeply, especially if his reading be extensive, will, 
 unless his heart be very cold and very light, become 
 habituated to a pensive, or, with more propriety, a 
 mournful cast of thought. This will arise from two 
 more particular sources — from the view of human nature 
 in general, as demonstrated by the experience both of 
 past and present times, and from the contemplation of 
 individual instances of human depravity and of human 
 suffering. The first of these is, indeed, the last in the 
 order of time, for his general views of humanity are in a 
 manner consequential, or resulting from the special ; but 
 I have inverted that order for the sake of perspicuity. 
 
 Of those who have occasionally thought on these sub- 
 jects, I may, with perfect assurance of their reply, in- 
 quire what have been their sensations when they have, 
 for a moment, attained a more enlarged and capacious 
 notion of the state of man in all its bearings and depen- 
 dences. They have found, and the profoundest philoso- 
 phers have done no more, that they are enveloped in 
 mystery, and that the mystery of man's situation is not 
 without alarming and fearful circumstances. They have 
 discovered that all they know of themselves is that they 
 live, but that from whence they came, or whither they 
 are going, is by Nature altogether hidden ; that impene- 
 trable gloom surrounds them on every side, and that they 
 even hold their morrow on the credit of to-day, when it 
 is, in fact, buried in the vague and indistinct gulf of the 
 ages to come ! — These are reflections deeply interesting, 
 and lead to others so awful, that many gladly shut their 
 eyes on the giddy and unfathomable depths which seem 
 to stretch before them. The meditative man, however, 
 endeavours to pursue them to the farthest stretch of the 
 reasoning powers, and to enlarge his conceptions of the 
 mysteries of his own existence ; and the more he learns, 
 and the deeper he penetrates, the more cause does he 
 find for being serious, and the more inducements to be 
 continuaHy thoughtful. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 307 
 
 If, again, we turn from the condition of mortal exis- 
 tence, considered in the abstract, to the qualities and 
 characters of man, and his condition in a state of society, 
 we see things perhaps equally strange and infinitely 
 more affecting. — In the economy of creation, we per- 
 ceive nothing inconsistent with the power of an all- wise 
 and all-merciful God. A perfect harmony riins through 
 all the parts of the universe. Plato's sirens sing not 
 onlj'' from the planetary octave, but through all the 
 minutest divisions of the stupendous whole ; order, beau- 
 ty, and perfection, the traces of the great Architect, 
 glow through every particle of his work. At man, how- 
 ever, we stop : there is one exception. The harmony 
 of order ceases, and vice and misery disturb the beauti- 
 ful consistency of creation, and bring us first acquainted 
 with positive evil. We behold men carried irresistibly 
 away by corrupt principles and vicious inclinations, in- 
 dulging in propensities, destructive as well to themselves 
 as to those around them ; the stronger oppressing the 
 weaker, and the bad persecuting the good ! we see the 
 depraved in prosperity, the virtuous in adversity, the 
 guilty unpunished, the deserving overwhelmed with un- 
 provoked misfortunes. From hence we are tempted to 
 think, that He, whose arm holds the planets in their 
 course, and directs the comets along their eccentric or- 
 bits, ceases to exercise his providence over the affairs 
 of mankind, and leaves them to be governed and direct- 
 ed by the impulses of a corrupt heart, or the blind work- 
 ings of chance alone. Yet this is inconsistent both with 
 the wisdom and the goodness of the Deity. If God per- 
 mit evil, he causes it : the difference is casuistical. We 
 are led, therefore, to conclude, that it was not always 
 thus : that man was created in a far different and far 
 happier condition ; but that, by some means or other, he 
 has forfeited the protection of his Maker. Here then is 
 a mystery. The ancients, led by reasonings alone, per- 
 ceived it with amazement, but did not solve the problem. 
 They attempted some explanation of it by the lame fic- 
 tion of a golden age and its cession, where, by a circu- 
 lar mode of reasoning, they attribute the introduction of 
 vice to their gods having deserted the earth, and the 
 34 
 
398 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 desertion of the gods to the introduction of vice.* This, 
 however, was the logic of the poets ; the philosophers dis- 
 regarded the fable, but did not dispute the fact it was in- 
 tended to account for. They often hint at human degen- 
 eracy, and some unknown curse hanging over our being, 
 and even coming into the world along with us. Phny, in 
 the preface to his seventh book, has this remarkable 
 passage : ' The animal about to rule over the rest of 
 created animals lies weeping, bound hand and foot, 
 making his first entrance upon life with sharp pangs, 
 and this, for no other crime than that he is born man. ' — Cice- 
 ro, in a passage, for the preservation of which we are 
 indebted to St. Augustine, gives a yet stronger idea of 
 an existing degeneracy in human nature : — ' Man,' says 
 he, ' comes into existence, not as from the hands of a 
 mother, but of a step-dame nature, with a body feeble, 
 naked, and fragile, and a mind exposed to anxiety and 
 care, abject in fear, unmeet for labor, prone to licen- 
 tiousness, in which, however, there still dwell ^some 
 sparks of the divine mind, though obscured, and, as it 
 were, in ruins.' And, in another place, he intimates it 
 as a current opinion, that man comes into the world as 
 into a state of punishment expiatory of crimes commit- 
 ted in some previous stage of existence, of which we 
 now retain no recollection. 
 
 From these proofs, and from daily observation and 
 experience, there is every ground for concluding that 
 man is in a state of misery and depravity quite incon- 
 sistent with the happiness for which, by a benevolent 
 God, he must have been created. We see glaring marks 
 
 * Kai roTs 6r] Ttqog oXvuTtov ano x^ovog tv^vodsirig, 
 yliVKoiffiv (paQesaai y.aXvxpauEvtn XQ'^^ xaXor, 
 ^■9avccro)v usrei (pvXov iTov, nQoXtTCovr' av-&Qw7tovg 
 uiiSoigfxai N^fuai?' ra Sb Xsixfjsrai. aXyta XvyQa 
 Qryytoig av-dQwnoiai, y.axov S' ovx caasrai aXxij. 
 
 Hesiod. Opera et Dies. Lib. 1. 195. 
 
 Victa jacet Pietas : et Virgo caede madentes, 
 Ultima coelestum terras Astraea re'iquit. O 
 
 Ovid. Metamor. L. 1. Fab. 4 
 
 Paulatim deinde ad Superos Astraea recessit, 
 Hac comite atque duae pariter fugere sorores. 
 
 Juvenal. Sat. vi. 1, 10. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 399 
 
 of this in our own times. Prejudice alone blinds us to 
 the absurdity and the horror of those systematic murders 
 which go by the name of wars, where man falls on man, 
 brother slaughters brother, where death, in every vari- 
 ety of horror, preys 'oh the Jinely-Jibred human frame,'' and 
 where the cry of the widow and the orphan rise up to 
 heaven long after the thunder of the fight and the clang 
 of arms have ceased, and the bones of sons, brothers, 
 and husbands slain are grown white on the field. Cus- 
 toms like these vouch, with most miraculous organs, 
 for the depravity of the human heart, and these are not 
 the most mournful of those considerations which pre- 
 sent themselves to the mind of the thinking man. 
 
 Private life is equally fertile in calamitous perversion 
 of reason, and extreme accumulation of misery. On the 
 one hand, we see a large proportion of men sedulously 
 employed in the eduction of their own ruin, pursuing 
 vice in all its varieties, and sacrificing the peace and 
 happiness of the innocent and unoffending to their own 
 brutal gratifications ; and, on the other, pain, misfortune, 
 and misery, overwhelming alike the good and the bad, 
 the provident and the improvident. But too general a 
 view would distract our attention : let the reader pardoQ 
 me if I suddenly draw him away from the survey of the 
 crowds of life to a few detached scenes. We will select 
 a single picture at random. The character is common. 
 
 Behold that beautiful female, who is rallying a well- 
 dressed young man with so much gayety and humor. 
 Did you ever see so lovely a countenance ? There is an 
 expression of vivacity in her fine dark eye which quite 
 captivates one ; and her smile, were it a little less bold, 
 would be bewitching. How gay and careless she seems I 
 One would suppose she had a very light and happy heart. 
 Alas ! how appearances deceive ! This gayety is all 
 feigned. It is her business to please, and beneath a 
 fair and painted outside she conceals an unquiet and 
 forlorn breast. When she was yet very young, an en- 
 gaging but dissolute young man took advantage of her 
 eimplicity, and of the affection with which he had in- 
 spired her, to betray her virtue. At first her infamy 
 cost her many tears ; but habit wore away this remorse, 
 leaving only a kind of indistinct regret, and, as she 
 
400 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 fondly loved her betrayer, she experienced, at times, a 
 mingled pleasure even in this abandoned situation. But 
 this was soon over. Her lover, on pretence of a journey 
 into the country, left her forever. She soon afterwards 
 heard of his marriage, with an agony of grief which few 
 can adequately conceive, and none describe. The calls 
 of want, however, soon subdued the more distracting 
 ebullitions of anguish. She had no choice left ; all the 
 gates of virtue were shut upon her, and though she 
 really abhorred the course, she was obliged to betake 
 herself to vice for support. Her next keeper possessed 
 her person without her heart. She has since passed 
 through several hands, and has found, by bitter expe- 
 rience, that the vicious, on whose generosity she is 
 thrown, are devoid of all feeling but that of self-gratifi- 
 cation, and that even the wages of prostitution are re- 
 luctantly and grudgingly paid. She now looks on all 
 men as sharpers. She smiles but to entangle and de 
 stroy, and while she simulates fondness, is intent only 
 on the extorting of that, at best poor pittance, which 
 her necessities loudly demand. Thoughtless as she may 
 seem, she is not without an idea of her forlorn and 
 wretched situation, and she looks only to sudden death 
 as her refuge, against that time when her charms shall 
 cease to allure the eye of incontinence, when even the 
 lowest haunts of infamy shall be shut against her, and 
 without a friend or a hope, she must sink under the 
 pressure of want and disease. 
 
 But we will now shift the scene a little, and select 
 another object. Behold yon poor weary wretch, who, 
 with a child wrapped in her arms, with difficulty drags 
 along the road. The man, with a knapsack, who is 
 walking before her, is her husband, and is marching to 
 join his regiment. He has been spending, at a dram- 
 shop in the town they have just left, the supply which 
 the pale and weak appearance of his wife proclaims was 
 necessary for her sustenance. He is now half drunk, and 
 is venting the artificial spirits which intoxication excites 
 in the abuse of his weary helpmate behind him. She 
 seems to listen to his reproaches in patient silence. Her 
 face will tell you more than many words, as, with a wan 
 and meaning look, she surveys the little wretch who is 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 401 
 
 asleep on her arms. The turbulent brutality of the man 
 excites no attention : she is pondering on the future 
 chance of life, and the probable lot of her heedless little 
 one. 
 
 One other picture, and I have done. The man pacing 
 with a gl<;;iw step and languid aspect over yon prison 
 court, WitS once a fine dashing fellow, the admiration of 
 the ladies, and the envy of the men. He is the only 
 representative of a once respectable family, and is 
 brought to this situation by unlimited indulgence at 
 that time when the check is most necessary. He began 
 to figure in genteel life at an early age. His misjudging 
 mother, to whose sole care he was left, thinking no al- 
 liance too good for her darling, cheerfully supplied his 
 extravagance, under the idea that it would not last long, 
 and that it would enable him to shine in those circles 
 where she wished him to rise. But he soon found that 
 habits of prodigality, once well gained, are never eradi- 
 cated. His fortune, though genteel, was not adequate 
 to such habits of expense. His unhappy parent lived to 
 see him make a degrading alliance, and come in danger 
 of a gaol, and then died of a broken heart. His affairs 
 soon wound themselves up. His debts were enormous, 
 and he had nothing to pay them with. He has now 
 been in that prison many years, and since he is excluded 
 from the benefit of an insolvency act, he has made up 
 his mind to the idea of ending his days there. His wife, 
 whose beauty had decoyed him, since she found he 
 could not support her, deserted him for those who could, 
 leaving him without friend or companion, to pace, with 
 measured steps, over the court of a country gaol, and 
 endeavour to beguile the lassitude of imprisonment, 
 by thinking on the days that are gone, or counting the 
 squares in his grated window in every possible direction, 
 backwards, forwards, and across, till he sighs to find the 
 sum always the same, and that the more anxiously we 
 strive to beguile the moments in their course, the more 
 sluggishly they travel. 
 
 If these are accurate pictures of some of the varieties 
 
 of human suffering, and if such pictures are common 
 
 even to triteness, what conclusions must we draw as to 
 
 the condition of man in general, and what must be the 
 
 34* 
 
402 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 prevailing frame of mind of him who meditates much on 
 these subjects, and who, unbracing- the whole tissue of 
 causes and effects, sees Misery invariably the offspring of 
 Vice, and Vice existing in hostility to the intentions and 
 wishes of God ? Let the meditative man turn where 
 he will, he finds traces of the depraved state ''>f Nature, 
 and her consequent misery. History presents him with 
 little but murder, treachery, and crimes of every descrip- 
 tion. Biography only strengthens the view, by concen- 
 trating- it. The philosophers remind him of the existence 
 of evil, by their lessons how to avoid or endure it ; and 
 the very poets themselves afford him pleasure, not un- 
 connected with regret, as, either by contrast, exempli- 
 fication, . or deduction, they bring the world and its 
 circumstances before his eyes. 
 
 That such a one, then, is prone to sadness, who will 
 wonder ? If such meditations are beneficial, who will 
 blame them ? The, discovery of evil naturally leads us 
 to contribute our mite towards the alleviation of the 
 wretchedness it introduces. While we lament vice, we 
 learn to shun it ourselves and to endeavour, if possible, 
 to arrest its progress in those around us ; and in the 
 course of these high and lofty speculations, we are in- 
 sensibly led to think humbly of ourselves, and to lift up 
 our thoughts to Him who is alone the fountain of all 
 perfection and the source of all good. W, 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 (WO. X.) 
 
 La rime est une esclave, et ne doit qu'obeir. 
 
 Boilc.au L' Art Poctique. 
 
 Experiments in versification have not often been suc- 
 cessful. Sir Philip Sidney, with all his genius, great as 
 it undoubtedly was, could not impart grace to his hex- 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 403 
 
 ameters, or fluency to his sapphics. Spenser's stanza 
 was new, but his verse was familiar to the ear ; and 
 though his rhymes were frequent even to satiety, he 
 seems to have avoided the awkwardness of novelty, and 
 the difficulty of unpractised metres. Donne had not 
 music enoug-h to render his broken rhyming couplets 
 sufferable, and neither his wit nor his pointed satire 
 were sufficient to rescue him from that neglect which 
 his uncouth and rugged versification speedily superin- 
 duced. 
 
 In our times, Mr. Southey has given grace and melo- 
 dy to some of the Latin and Greek measures, and Mr. 
 Bowles has written rhyming heroics, wherein the sense 
 is transmitted from couplet to couplet, and the pauses 
 are varied with all the freedom of blank verse, without 
 exciting any sensation of ruggedness, or offending the 
 nicest ear. But these are minor efforts : the former of 
 these exquisite poets has taken a yet wider range, and 
 in his ' Thai aba the Destroyer,' has spurned at all the 
 received laws of metre, and framed a fabric of verse al- 
 together his own. 
 
 An innovation, so bold as that of Mr. Southey, was 
 sure to meet with disapprobation and ridicule. The 
 world naturally looks with suspicion on systems which 
 contradict established principles, and refuse to quadrate 
 with habits which, as they have been used to, men are 
 apt to think cannot be improved upon. The opposition 
 which has been made to the metre of Thalaba, is, there- 
 fore, not so much to be imputed to its want of harmony, 
 as to the operation of existing prejudices ; and it is fair 
 to conclude, that, as these prejudices are softened by 
 usage, and the strangeness of novelty wears off, the 
 peculiar features of this lyrical frame of verse will be 
 more candidly appreciated, and its merits more unre- 
 servedly acknowledged. 
 
 Whoever is conversant with the writings of this au- 
 thor, will have observed and admired that greatness of 
 mind, and comprehension of intellect, by which he is 
 enabled, on all occasions, to throw off" the shackles of 
 habit and prepossession. Southey never treads in the 
 beaten track : his thoughts, while they are those of na- 
 ture, carry that cast of originality which is the stamp 
 
404 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 and testimony of genius. He views things through a 
 peculiar phasis, and while he has the feelings of a man, 
 they are those of a man almost abstracted from mortali- 
 ty, and reflecting on, and painting the scenes of life, as 
 if he were a mere spectator, uninfluenced by his own 
 connexion with the objects he surveys. To this faculty 
 of bold discrimination I attribute many of Mr. Southey's 
 peculiarities as a poet. He never seems to inquire how 
 other men would treat a subject, or what may happen 
 to be the usage of the times ; but filled with that strong 
 sense of fitness, which is the result of bold and unshac- 
 kled thought, he fearlessly pursues that course which his 
 own sense of propriety points out. 
 
 It is very evident to me, and I should conceive to all 
 who consider the subject attentively, that the structure 
 of the verse, which Mr. Southey has promulgated in his 
 Thalaba, was neither adopted rashly, nor from any vain 
 emulation of originality. As the poet himself happily 
 observes, ' It is the arabesque ornament of an Arabian tale.^ 
 No one would wish to see the Joan of Arc in such a 
 garb ; but the wild freedom of the versification of Thala- 
 ba accords well with the romantic wildness of the story; 
 and I do not hesitate to say, that, had any other known 
 measure been adopted, the poem would have been de- 
 prived of half its beauty, and all its propriety. In blank 
 verse it would have been absurd ; in rhyme, insipid. 
 The lyrical manner is admirably adapted to the sadden 
 transitions and rapid connexions of an Arabian tale, 
 while its variety precludes tasdium, and its full, because 
 unshackled, cadence satisfies the ear with legitimate 
 harmony. At first, indeed, the verse may appear un- 
 couth, because it is new to the ear ; but I defy any man 
 who has any feeling of melody, to peruse the whole 
 poem without paying tribute to the sweetness of its flow, 
 and the gracefulness of its modulations. 
 
 In judging of this extraordinary poem, we should con- 
 sider it as a genuine lyric production, — we should con- 
 ceive it as recited to the harp, in times when such rela- 
 tions carried nothing incredible with them. Carrying 
 this idea along with us, the admirable art of the poet 
 will strike us with tenfold conviction ; the abrupt sublimi- 
 ty of his transitions, the sublime simplicity of his manner. 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 405 
 
 and thp delicate touches by which he connects the vari- 
 ous parts of his narrative, will then be more strongly 
 observable, and we shall, in particular, remark the un- 
 common felicity with which he has adapted his versifica- 
 tion ; and, in the midst of the wildest irregularity, left 
 nothing to shock the ear, or offend the judgment. 
 
 W. 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 (XO. XI.) 
 
 A 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Few histories would be more worthy of attention than 
 that of the progress of knowledge, from its first dawn 
 to the time of its meridian splendor, among the an- 
 cient Greeks. Unfortunately, however, the precautions 
 which, in this early period, were almost generally taken 
 to confine all knowledge to a particular branch of men, 
 and when the Greeks began to contend for the palm 
 among the learned nations, their backwardness to ack- 
 nowledge the sources from whence they derived the 
 first principles of their philosophy, have served to wrap 
 this interesting subject in almost impenetrable obscurity. 
 Few vestiges, except the Egyptian hieroglyphics, now 
 remain of the learning of the more ancient world. Of 
 the two millions of verses said to have been written by 
 the Chaldean Zoroaster, * we have no relics ; and the 
 oracles which go under his name are pretty generally 
 acknowledged to be spurious. 
 
 The Greeks unquestionably derived their philosophy 
 from the Egyptians and Chaldeans. Both Pythagoras 
 and Plato had visited those countries for the advantage 
 of learning ; and if we may credit the received accounts 
 of the former of these illustrious sages, he was regular- 
 ly initiated in the schools of Egypt, during the period of 
 twenty-two years that he resided in that country, and 
 became the envy and admiration of the Egyptians them- 
 
 * Pliny. 
 
406 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 selves. Of the Pythag-orean doctrines we have some 
 accounts remaining ; and nothing is wanting to render 
 the systems of Platonism complete and intelligible. In 
 the dogmas of these philosophers, therefore, we may be 
 able to trace the learning of these primitive nations, 
 though our conclusions must be cautiously drawn, and 
 much must be allowed to the active intelligence of two 
 Greeks. Ovid's short summary of the philosophy of 
 Pythagoras deserves attention. 
 
 -Isque, licet coeli regione remotos, 
 
 Mente Deos adiit : et, quK natura negabat 
 Visibus humanis, oculis ea pectoris hausit. 
 Cumque animo, et vigili perspexerat omnia cura ; 
 In medium discenda dabat : ctetumque silentum, 
 Dictaque mirantum, magni primordia mundi 
 Et rerum causas et quid natura docebat, 
 Quid Deus : unde nives : quse fulrainis esset origo 
 Jupiter, an venti, discussa nube, tonarent, 
 Quid quateret terras : qua sidera lege mearent, 
 Et quodcuinque latet. 
 
 If we are to credit this account, and it is corroborated 
 by many other testimonies, Pythagoras searched deeply 
 into natural causes. Some have imagined, and strongly 
 asserted, that his central fire was figurative of the sun, 
 and, therefore, that he had an idea of its real situation ; 
 but this opinion, so generally adopted, may be combated 
 with some degree of reason. I should be inclined to 
 think Pythagoras gained his idea of the great central, 
 vivifying, and creative fire from the Chaldeans, and that, 
 therefore, it was the representative not of the sun but 
 of the Deity. Zoroaster taught that there was one God, 
 Eternal, the Father of the Universe : he assimilated the 
 Deity to light, and applied to him the names of Light, 
 Beams, and Splendor. The Magi, corrupting his repre- 
 sentation of the Supreme Being, and, taking literally 
 what was meant as an allegory or symbol, supposed that 
 God was this central fire, the source of heat, light, and 
 life, residing in the centre of the universe ; and from 
 hence they introduced among the Chaldeans the worship 
 of fire. That Pythagoras was tainted with this super- 
 stition is well known. On the testimony of Plutarch, 
 his disciples held, that in the midst of the world is fire, 
 or in the -midst of the four elements is the fiery globe of 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 407 
 
 Unity, or Monad — the procreative, nutritive, and exci- 
 tive power. The sacred fire of Vesta, among the Greeks 
 and Latins, was a remain of this doctrine. 
 
 As the limits of this paper will not allow me to take 
 in all the branches of this subject, I shall confine my at- 
 tention to the opinions held by these early nations of 
 the nature of the Godhead. 
 
 Amidst the corruptions introduced by the Magi, we 
 may discern, with tolerable certainty, that Zoroaster 
 taught the worship of the one true God ; and Thales, Py- 
 thagoras, and Plato, who had all been initiated in the 
 mysteries of the Chaldeans, taught the same doctrine. 
 These philosophers likewise asserted the omnipotence 
 and eternity of God ; and that he was the creator of all 
 things, and the governor of the universe. Plato de- 
 cisively supported the doctrines of future rewards and 
 punishments ; and Pythagoras, struck with the idea of 
 the omnipresence of the Deity, defined him as animus per 
 universas mundi partes omnemque naturam commeans atque diffu- 
 sus, ex quo omnia qucB nascuntur animalia vitam capiunt.* — An 
 intelligence moving upon, and diffused over all the parts 
 of the universe and all nature, from which all animals 
 derive their existence. As for the swarm of gods wor- 
 shipped both in Egypt and Greece, it is evident they 
 were only esteemed as inferior deities. In the time of 
 St. Paul, there was a temple at Athens inscribed to the 
 unknown God : and Hesiod makes them younger than 
 the earth and heaven. 
 
 E? uQ/rig ovg T'aia y.ai Ovqavog svQvg trtxrov 
 Oi r' sxTwv sysvovro -d^soi darciiQtg tatov. 
 
 Theog. 
 
 If Pythagoras, and the other philosophers who suc- 
 ceeded him, paid honor to these gods, they either did it 
 through fear of encountering ancient prejudices, or they 
 reconciled it by recurring to the Dsemonology of their 
 masters, the Chaldeans, who maintained the agency of 
 good and bad Damons, who presided over different 
 things, and were distinguished into the powers of light 
 and darknesSj heat and cold. It is remarkable, too, 
 
 *Lanctantius Div. Inst. lib. cap. 5. etiam, Minucius Felix, 'Pythagorae Dens 
 est animus per universam rerum naturam commeans atque intentus ex quo etiaiu 
 animalium omnium vita capiatur.' 
 
408 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 that amangst all these people, whether Eg'yptians or 
 Chaldeans, Greeks or Romans, as well as every other 
 nation iin er the sun, sacrifices were made to the gods, 
 in order to render them propitious to their wishes, or to 
 expiate their offences — a fact which proves, that the 
 conviction of the interference of the Deity in humam 
 affairs is universal ; and, what is much more important, 
 that this custom is primitive, and derived from the first 
 inhabitants of the world. 
 
 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 
 
 ( NO. XII. ) 
 
 While the seat of empire was yet at Byzantium, and 
 that city was the centre, not only of dominion, but of 
 learning- and politeness, a certain hermit had fixed his 
 residence in a cell, on the banks of the Athyras, at the 
 distance of about ten miles from the capital. The spot 
 was retired, although so near the great city, and was 
 protected, as well by woods and precipices as by the 
 awful reverence with which, at that time, all ranks be- 
 held the character of a recluse. Indeed, the poor old 
 man, who tenanted the little hollow, a,t the summit of a 
 crag, beneath which the Athyras rolls its impetuous 
 torrent, was not famed for the severity of his penances, 
 or the strictness of his mortifications. That he was 
 either studious, or protracted his devotions to a late 
 hour, was evident, for his lamp was often seen to 
 stream through the trees which shaded his dwelling, 
 when accident called any of the peasants from their 
 beds at unseasonable hours. Be this as it may, no mir- 
 acles were imputed to him ; the sick rarely came to peti- 
 tion for the benefit of his prayers, and, though some both 
 loved him, and had good reason for loving him, yet 
 many undervalued him for the want of that very auster- 
 ity which' the old man seemed most desirous to avoid. 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 409 
 
 It was evening-, and the long shadows of the Thra- 
 cian mountains were extending still farther and farther 
 along the plains, when this old man was disturbed in 
 his meditations by the approach of a stranger. ' How 
 far is it to Byzantium ?' was the question put by the 
 traveller. ' Not far to those who know the country,' re- 
 plied the hermit, 'but a stranger would not easily find 
 his way through the windings of these woods, and the 
 intricacies of the plains beyond them. Do you see that 
 blue mist which stretches along the bounding line of the 
 horizon as far as the trees will permit the eye to trace 
 it ? That is the Propontis : and higher up on the lei\, 
 the city of Constantinople rears its proud head above 
 the waters. But I would dissuade thee, stranger, from 
 pursuing thy journey farther to-night. Thou mayst 
 rest in the village, which is half way down the hill ; or 
 if thou wilt share my supper of roots and put up with a 
 bed of leaves, my cell is open to thee.' — ' I thank thee, 
 father,' replied the youth. ' I am weary with my jour- 
 ney, and will accept thy proffered hospitality.' They 
 ascended the rock together. The hermit's cell was the 
 work of nature. It penetrated far into the rock, and in 
 the innermost recess was a little chapel, furnished with 
 a crucifix, and a hum.an skull, the objects of the hermit's 
 nightly and daily contemplation, for neither of them re- 
 ceived his adoration. That corruption had not as yet 
 crept into the Christian church. The hermit now light- 
 ed up a fire of dry sticks, (for the nights are very pierc- 
 ing in the regions about the Hellespont and the Bos- 
 phorus,) and then proceeded to prepare their vegetable 
 meal. While he was thus employed, his young guest 
 surveyed, with surprise, the dwelling which he was to 
 inhabit for the night. A cold rock-hole on the bleak 
 summit of one of the Thracian hills, seemed to him a 
 comfortless choice for a weak and solitary old man. The 
 rude materials of his scanty furniture still more surpris- 
 ed him. A table fixed to the ground, a wooden bench, 
 an earthern lamp, a number of rolls of papyrus and vel- 
 lum, and a heap of leaves in a corner, the hermit's bed, 
 were all his stock. ' Is it possible,' at length he ex- 
 claimed, ' that you can tenant this comfortless cave, 
 with these scanty accommodations, through choice ; Go 
 35 
 
 ■i^^ 
 
410 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 with me, old man, to Constantinople, and receive from 
 me those conveniences which befit your years.' 'And 
 what art thou going to do at Constantinople, my young 
 friend ?' said the hermit, ' for thy dialect bespeaks thee 
 a native of more southern regions. Am I mistaken, art 
 thou not an Athenian?' 'I am an Athenian,' replied 
 the youth, ' by birth, but I hope I am not an Athenian 
 in vice. I have left my degenerate birth-place in quest 
 of happiness. I have learned from my master, Speusip- 
 pus, a genuine asserter of the much belied doctrines of 
 Epicurus, that as a future state is a mere phantom and 
 vagary of the brain, it is the only true wisdom to enjoy 
 life while we have it. But I have learned from him 
 also, that virtue alone is true enjoyment. I am resolv- 
 ed, therefore, to enjoy life, and that too with virtue, as 
 my companion and guide. My travels are begun with 
 the design of discovering where I can best unite both 
 objects : enjoyment the most exquisite, with virtue the 
 most perfect. You perhaps may have reached the 
 latter, my good father ; the former you have certainly 
 missed. To-morrow I shall continue my search. At 
 Constantinople, I shall laugh and sing with the gay, 
 meditate with the sober, drink deeply of every unpollu- 
 ted pleasure, and taste all the fountains of wisdom and 
 philosophy. I have heard much of the accomplishments 
 of the women of Byzantium. With us, females are mere 
 household slaves ; here, I am told, they have minds. I 
 almost promise myself that I shall marry and settle at 
 Constantinople, where the loves and graces seem alone 
 to reside, and where even the icomen have minds. My 
 good father, how the wind roars about this aerial nest 
 of yours, and here you sit during the long cold nights, 
 all alone, cold and cheerless, when Constantinople is 
 just at your feet, v/ith all its joys, its comforts, and its 
 elegances. I perceive that the philosophers of our sect, 
 who succeeded Epicurus, were right, when they taught 
 that there might be virtue without enjoyment, and that 
 virtue without enjoyment is not worth the having.' The 
 face of the youth kindled with animation as he spake 
 these words, and he visibly enjoyed the consciousness 
 of superior intelligence. The old man sighed and was 
 silent. As they eat their frugal supper, both parties 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 411 
 
 seemed involved in deep thought. The young travel- 
 ler was dreaming of the Byzantine women : his host 
 seemed occupied with far different meditations. ' So 
 you are ravelling to Constantinople in search of happi- 
 ness ?' at length exclaimed the hermit ; ' I too have been 
 a suitor of that divinity, and it may be of use to you to 
 hear how I have fared. The history of my life will 
 serve to fill up the interval before we retire to rest, and 
 my experience may not prove altogether useless to one 
 who is about to go the same journey which I have fin- 
 ished. 
 
 ' These scanty hairs of mine were not always gray, 
 nor these limbs decrepit : I was once, like thee, young, 
 fresh, and vigorous, full of delightful dreams and gay 
 anticipations. Life seemed a garden of sweets, a path 
 of roses ; and I thought I had but to choose in what way 
 I would be happy. I will pass over the incidents of my 
 boyhood, and come to my maturer years. I had scarce- 
 ly seen twenty summers, when I formed one of those 
 extravagant and ardent attachments, of which youth is 
 so susceptible. It happened, that, at that time, I bore 
 arms under the emperor Theodosius, in his expedition 
 against the Goths, who had overrun a part of Thrace. 
 In our return from a successful campaign, we staid some- 
 time in the Greek cities, which border on the Euxine. 
 In one of these cities I became acquainted with a female, 
 whose form was not more elegant than her mind was 
 cultivated, and her heart untainted. I had done her 
 family some trivial services, and her gratitude spoke too 
 warmly to my intoxicated brain to leave any doubt on 
 my mind that she loved me. The idea was too exquis- 
 itely pleasing to be soon dismissed. I sought every 
 occasion of being with her. Her mild, persuasive voice 
 seemed like the music of heaven to my ears, after the 
 toils and roughness of a soldier's life. I had a friend, 
 too, whose converse, next to that of the dear object of 
 my secret love, was most dear to me. He formed 
 the third in all our meetings, and beyond the enjoyment 
 of the society of these two, I had not a wish. I had 
 never yet spoken explicitly to my female friend, but I 
 fondly hoped we understood each other. Why should I 
 dwell on the subject .'' I was mistaken. My friend 
 
412 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 threw himself on my mercy. I found that he, not I, 
 was the object of her affections. Young man, you may 
 conceive, but I cannot describe what I felt, as I joined 
 their hands. The stroke was severe, and, for a time, 
 unfitted me for the duties of my station. I suffered the 
 army to leave the place without accompanying it : and 
 thus lost the rewards of my past services, and forfeited 
 the favor of my sovereign. This was another source 
 of anxiety and regret to me, as my mind recovered its 
 wonted tone. But the mind of youth, however deeply 
 it may feel for awhile, eventually rises up from dejec- 
 tion, and regains its wonted elasticity. That rigor by 
 which the spirit recovers itself from the depths of use- 
 less regret, and enters upon new prospects with its ac- 
 customed ardor, is only subdued by time. I now applied 
 myself to the study of philosophy, under a Greek master, 
 and all my ambition was directed towards letters. But 
 ambition is not quite enough to fill a young man's heart. 
 I still felt a void there, and sighed as I reflected on the 
 happiness of my friend. At the time when I visited the 
 object of my first love, a young Christian woman, her 
 frequent companion, had sometimes taken my attention. 
 She was an Ionian by birth, and had all the softness and 
 pensive intelligence which her countrywomen are said' 
 to possess when unvitiated by the corruptions so preva- 
 lent in that delightful region. You are no stranger to 
 the contempt with which the Greeks then treated, and 
 do still, in some places, treat the Christians. This 
 young wom-an bore that contempt with a calmness which 
 surprised me. There were then but few converts to 
 that religion in those parts, audits profession was there- 
 fore more exposed to ridicule and persecution from its 
 strangeness. Notwithstanding her religion, I thought I 
 could love this interesting and amiable female, and, in 
 spite of my former mistake, I had the vanity to imagine 
 I was not indifferent to her. As our intimacy increased, 
 I learned, to my astonishment, that she regarded me as 
 one' involved in ignorance and error : and that, although 
 she felt an affection for me, yet she would never become 
 my wife, while I remained devoted to the religion of my 
 ancestors. Piqued at this discovery, I received the 
 books, which she now for the first time put into my 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 413 
 
 hands, with pity and contempt. I expected to find them 
 nothing- but the repositories of a miserable and deluded 
 superstition, more presuming than the mystical leaves 
 of the Sibyls, or the obscure triads of Zoroaster. How- 
 was I mistaken ! There was much which I could not 
 at all comprehend ; but, in the midst of this darkness, 
 the effect of my ignorance, I discerned a system of mo- 
 rality, so exalted, so exquisitely pure, and so far remov- 
 ed from all I would have conceived of the most perfect 
 virtue, that all the philosophy of the Grecian world 
 seemed worse than dross in the comparison. My former 
 learning had only served to teach me that something 
 was wanting to complete the systems of philosophers. 
 Here that invisible link was supplied, and I could even 
 then observe a harmony and consistency in the whole 
 which carried irresistible conviction to my mind. I will 
 not enlarge on this subject. Christianity is not a mere 
 set of opinions to be embraced by the understanding. 
 It is the work of the heart as well as the head. Let it 
 suffice to say, that, in time, I became a Christian, and 
 the husband of Sapphira. 
 
 REFLECTIOJ^TS, 
 
 ON PRAYER. 
 
 If there be any duty which our Lord Jesus Christ 
 seems to have considered as more indispensably neces- 
 sary towards the formation of a true Christian, it is that 
 of prayer. He has taken every opportunity of impres- 
 sing on our minds the absolute need in which we stand 
 of the divine assistance, both to persist in the paths of 
 righteousness, and to fly from the allurements of a fas- 
 cinating, but dangerous life : and he has directed us to 
 the only means of obtaining that assistance in constant 
 and habitual appeals to the throne of Grace. Prayer is 
 35* 
 
414 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 certainly the foundation-stone of the superstructure of a 
 religious life : for a man can neither arrive at true piety, 
 nor persevere in its ways when attained, unless, with 
 sincere and continued fervency, and with the most un- 
 affected anxiety, he implore Almighty God to grant him 
 his perpetual grace, to guard and restrain him from all 
 those derelictions of heart, to which we are, by nature, 
 but too prone. I should think it an insult to the under- 
 standing of a Christian to dwell on the necessity of 
 prayer, and, before we can harangue an infidel on its 
 efficacy, we must convince him, not only that the Being 
 to whom we address ourselves really exists, but that he 
 condescends to hear and to answer our humble supplica- 
 tions. As these objects are foreign to my present pur- 
 pose, I shall take my leave of the necessity of prayer, 
 as acknowledged by all to whom this paper is addressed, 
 and shall be content to expatiate on the strong induce- 
 ments which we have to lift up our souls to our Maker 
 in the language of supplication and of praise ; to depict 
 the happiness which results to the man of true piety 
 from the exercise of this duty ; and, lastly, to warn 
 mankind, lest their fervency should carry them into the 
 extreme of fanaticism, and their prayers, instead of being 
 silent and unassuming expressions of gratitude to their 
 Maker, and humble entreaties for his favoring grace, 
 should degenerate into clamorous vociferations and inso- 
 lent gesticulations, utterly repugnant to the true spirit 
 of prayer, and to the language of a creature addressing 
 his Creator. 
 
 There is such an exalted delight to a regenerate being 
 in the act of prayer, and he anticipates with so much 
 pleasure amid the toils of business, and the crowds of 
 the world, the moment when he shall be able to pour 
 out his soul without interruption into the bosom of his 
 Maker, that I am persuaded, that the degree of desire or 
 repugnance which a man feels to the performance of this 
 amiable duty, is an infallible criterion of his acceptance 
 with God. Let the unhappy child of dissipation — let 
 the impure voluptuary boast of his short hours of exquis- 
 ite enjoyment ; even in the degree of bliss they are infi- 
 nitely inferior to the delight of which the righteous 
 man participates in his private devotions ; while in their 
 opposite consequences they lead to a no less wide ex- 
 
OP H. K. WHITE. 416 
 
 treme than heaven and hell, a state of positive happi- 
 ness, and a state of positive misery. If there were no 
 other inducement to prayer, tlian the very gratification 
 it imparts to the soul,' it would deserve to be reg-arded 
 as the most important object of a Christian ; for no- 
 where else could he purchase so much calmness, so 
 much resignation, and so much of that peace and repose 
 of spirit, in which consists the chief happiness of this 
 otherwise dark and stormy being. But to prayer, be- 
 sides the inducement of momentary gratification, the 
 very self-love implanted in our bosoms would lead us to 
 resort, as the chief good, for our Lord hath said, 'Ask, 
 and it shall be given to thee ; knock, and it shall be 
 opened ;' and not a supplication made in the true spirit 
 of faith and humility, but shall be answered ; not a re- 
 quest which is urged with unfeigned submission and 
 lowliness of spirit, but shall be granted, if it be consis- 
 tent with our happiness, either temporal or eternal. Of 
 this happiness, however, the Lord God is the only 
 judge ; but this we do. know, that whether our requests 
 be granted, or whether they be refused all is working 
 together for our ultimate benefit. 
 
 When I say, that such of our requests and solicitations, 
 as are urged in the true spirit of meekness, humility, and 
 submission, will indubitably be answ^ered, I would wish 
 to draw a line between supplications so urged, and those 
 violent and vehement declamations which, under the 
 name of prayers, are sometime^ heard to proceed from 
 the lips of men professing to worship God in the spirit 
 of meekness and truth. Surely I need not impress on 
 any reasonable mind, how directly contrary these inflam- 
 ed and bombastic harangues are to every precept of 
 Christianity, and every idea of the deference due from a 
 poor worm, like man, to the omnipotent and all-great 
 God. Can we hesitate a moment as to which is more 
 acceptable in his sight — the diffident, the lowly, the re- 
 tiring, and yet solemn and impressive form of worship 
 of our excellent church ; and the wild and labored ex- 
 clamations, the authoritative and dictatory clamors of 
 men, who, forgetting the immense distance at which 
 they stand from the awful Being whom they address, 
 boldly, and with unblushing front, speak to their God as 
 to an equal, and almost dare to prescribe to his infinite 
 
416 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 wisdom the steps it shall pursue ? How often has the 
 silent, yet eloquent eye of misery, wrung from the re- 
 luctant hand of charity that relief which has been denied 
 to the loud and importunate beg-gar ? And is Heaven 
 to be taken by storm ? Are we to wrest the Almighty 
 from his purposes by vociferation and importunity ? 
 God forbid ! It is a fair and a reasonable, though a 
 melancholy inference, that the Lord shuts his ears 
 against prayers like these, and leaves the deluded sup- 
 plicants to follow the impulse of their own head-strong 
 passions, without a guide, and destitute of every ray of 
 his pure and holy light. 
 
 Those mock apostles, who thus disgrace the worship 
 of the true God by their extravagance, are very fond of 
 appearing to imitate the conduct of our Saviour, during 
 his mortal peregrination ; but how contrary were his 
 habits to those of these deluded men ! Did he teach 
 his disciples to insult the ear of Heaven with noise and 
 clamor ? Were his precepts those of fanaticism and 
 passion ? Did he inflame the minds of his hearers with 
 vehement and declamatory harangues ? Did he pray 
 with all this confidence — this arrogance — this assurance ? 
 How different was his conduct ! He divested wisdom 
 of all its pomp and parade, in order to suit it to the ca- 
 pacities of the meanest of its auditors. He spake to 
 them in the lowly language of parable and similitude ; 
 and when he prayed, did he instruct his hearers to at- 
 tend to him with a loud chorus of Amens ? Did he (par- 
 ticipating as he did in the Godhead,) did he assume the 
 tone of sufficiency, and the language of assurance ? Far 
 from it ! he prayed, and he instructed his disciples to 
 pray, in lowliness and meekness of spirit ; he instructed 
 them to approach the throne of Grace with fear and 
 trembling, silently, and with the deepest awe and ven- 
 eration ; and he evinced by his condemnation of the 
 prayer of the self-sufficient Pharisee, opposed to that of 
 the, diffident publican, the light in which those were 
 considered in the eyes of the Lord, who, setting the 
 terrors of his Godhead at defiance, and boldly building 
 on their own worthiness, approached him with confi- 
 dence and pride. * * * 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 417 
 
 There is nothing so indispensably necessary towards 
 the estabhshment of future earthly, as well as heavenly 
 happiness, as early impressions of piety. For, as re- 
 ligion is the sole source of all human welfare and peace, 
 so habits of religious reflection, in the spring of life, are 
 the only means of arriving at a due sense of the impor- 
 tance of divine concerns in age, except by the bitter and 
 hazardous roads of repentance and remorse. There is 
 not a more awful spectacle in nature, than the death-bed 
 of a late repentance. The groans of agony which attend 
 the separation of the soul from the body, heightened by 
 the heart-piercing exclamation of mental distress ; the 
 dreadful ebullitions of horror and remorse, intermingled 
 with the half-fearful, but fervent deprecations of the 
 divine wrath, and prayers for the divine mercy, joined 
 to the pathetic imploring to the friends who stand weep- 
 ing around the bed of the sinner to pray for him, and to 
 take warning from his awful end, contribute to render 
 this scene such an impressive and terrible memento of 
 the state of those who have neglected their souls, as 
 must bring to a due sense of his duty the most hardened 
 of infidels. 
 
 It is to ensure you, my young friends, as far as pre- 
 cept can ensure you, from horrors like these in your 
 last moments, that I write this little book, in the hopes 
 that, through the blessing of the Divine Being, it may 
 be useful in inducing you to reflect on the importance of 
 early piety, and lead you into the cheerful performance 
 of your duties to God, and to your own souls. In the 
 pursuit of this plan, I shall, first, consider the bliss 
 which results from a pious disposition, and the horrors 
 of a wicked one. Secondly, the necessity of an early 
 attention to the concerns of the soul towards the estab- 
 lishment of permanent religion, and its consequent happi- 
 ness ; and, thirdly, I shall point out and contrast the last 
 moments of those who have acted in conformity, or in 
 contradiction to the rules here laid down. 
 
 The contrast between the lives of the good and the 
 wicked man affords such convincing arguments in sup- 
 port of the excellence of religion, that, even those infi- 
 dels who have dared to assert their disbelief of the doc- 
 
418 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 trine of Revelation, have confessed that in a political 
 point of view, if in no other, it ought to be maintained. 
 Compare the peaceful and collected course of the virtu- 
 ous and pious man, with the turbulent irregularity and 
 violence of him who neglects his soul for the allure- 
 ments of vice, and judge for yourselves of the policy of 
 the conduct of each, even in this world'. Whose pleas- 
 ures are the most exquisite .'' Whose delights the most 
 lasting ? Whose state is the most enviable ? His who 
 barters his hopes of eternal welfare for a few fleeting 
 moments of brutal gratification, or his who, while he 
 keeps a future state alone in his view, finds happiness 
 in the conscientious performance of his duties, and the 
 scrupulous fulfilment of the end of his sojourn here ? 
 Believe me, my friends, there is no comparison between 
 them. The joys of the infatuated mortal who sacrifices 
 his soul to his sensualities, are mixed with bitterness 
 and anguish. The voice of conscience rises distinctly 
 to his ear, amid the shouts of intemperance and the sal- 
 lies of obstreperous mirth. In the hour of rejoicing, she 
 whispers her appalling monitions to him, and his heart 
 sinks within him, and the smile of triumphant villany is 
 converted into the ghastly grin of horror and hopeless- 
 ness. But, oh ! in the languid intervals of dissipation ; 
 in the dead hour of the night, when all is solitude and 
 silence, when the soul is driven to commune with itself, 
 and the voice of rem.orse, whose whispers were before 
 half drowned in the noise of riot, rises dreadfully dis- 
 tinct — What ! — what are his emotions ! — Who can paint 
 his agonies, his execrations, his despair ! Let that man 
 lo^e again, in the vortex of fashion, and folly, and vice, 
 the remembrance of his horrors : let him smile, let him 
 laugh and be merry ; believe me, my dear readers, he is 
 not happy, he is not careless, he is not the jovial being he 
 appears to be. His heart is heavy within him ; he can- 
 not stifle the reflections which assail him in the very 
 moment of enjoyment ; but strip the painted veil from 
 his bosom, lay aside the trappings of folly, and that 
 man is miserable, and not only so, but he has purchased 
 that misery at the expense of eternal torment. 
 
 Let us oppose to this awful picture the life of the good 
 man ; of him who rises in the morning with cheerfulness, 
 
OF H. K. WHITE. 419 
 
 to praise his Creator for all the good he hath bestowed 
 upon him, and to perform with studious exactness the 
 duties of his station ; and lays himself down on his pil- 
 low in the evening- in the sweet consciousness of the ap- 
 plause of his own heart. Place this man on the stormy 
 seas of misfortune and sorrow — press him with afflictive 
 dispensations of Providence — snatch from his arms the 
 object of his affections — separate him forever from all 
 he loved and held dear on earth, and leave him isolated 
 and an outcast in the world, — he is calm — he is compos- 
 ed — he is grateful — he weeps, for human nature is weak, 
 but he still preserves his composure and resignation — 
 he still looks up to the Giver of all good with thankful- 
 ness and praise, and perseveres with calmness and forti- 
 tude in the paths of righteousness. His disappointments 
 cannot overwhelm him, for his chief hopes are placed 
 far, very far, beyond the reach of human vicissitude. 
 ' He hath chosen that good part, which none can take 
 away from him.' 
 
 Here then lies the great excellence of religion and 
 piety ; they not only lead to eternal happiness, but to the 
 happiness of this world ; they not only ensure everlast- 
 ing bliss, but they are the sole means of arriving at that 
 degree of felicity which this dark and stormy being is 
 capable of, and are the sole supports in the hour of ad- 
 versity and affliction. How infatuated then must that 
 man be, who can wilfully shut his eyes to his own wel- 
 fare, and deviate from the paths of righteousness which 
 lead to bliss. Even allowing him to entertain the erro- 
 neous notion that religion does not lead to happiness in 
 this life, his conduct is incompatible with every idea of 
 a reasonable being. In the Spectator we find the fol- 
 lowing image employed to induce a conviction of the 
 magnitude of this truth : supposing the whole body of 
 the earth were a great ball, or mass of the finest sand, 
 and that a single grain, or particle of this sand, should 
 be annihilated every thousand years ; supposing then 
 that you had it in your choice to be happy all the while 
 this prodigious mass was consuming, by this slow meth- 
 od, till there was not a grain of it left, on condition that 
 you were to be miserable ever after ; or supposing that 
 you might be happy forever after, on condition you would 
 
420 COMPLETE WORKS OF H. K. WHITE. 
 
 be miserable till the whole mass of sand were thus annihi- 
 lated, at the rate of one sand a thousand years ; which 
 of these two cases would you make your choice ? 
 It must be confessed that in this case so many * * 
 
 The life of man is transient and unstable ; its fairest 
 passages are but a lighter shade of evil, and yet those 
 passages form but a disproportionate part of the picture. 
 We all seek Happiness, though with different degrees 
 of avidity, while the fickle object of our pursuits continu- 
 ally evades the grasp of those who are the most eager in 
 the chase ; and, perhaps at last throws herself into the 
 arms of those who had entirely lost all sight of her, and 
 who, when they are most blessed with her enjoyment, 
 are least conscious that they possess her. Were the 
 objects in which we placed the consummation of our 
 wishes always virtuous, and the means employed to 
 arrive at the bourn of our desires uniformly good, there 
 can be little doubt that the aggregate of mankind would 
 be as happy as is consistent with the state in w^hich they 
 live : but, unfortunately vicious men pursue vicious ends 
 by vicious means, and, by so doing, not only ensure 
 their own misery, but they overturn and destroy the fair 
 designs of the wiser and the better of their kind. Thus 
 he who has no idea of a bliss beyond the gratification of 
 his brutal appetites, involves in the crime of seduction, 
 the peace and the repose of a good and happy family, 
 and an individual act of evil extends itself by a contin- 
 ued impulse over a large portion of society. It is thus 
 that men of bad minds become the pests of the socie- 
 ties of which they happen to be members. It is thus 
 that the virtuous among men pay the bitter penalty of 
 the crimes and follies of their unworthy fellows. 
 
 Men who have passed their whole lives in the lap of 
 luxury and enjoyment, have no idea of misery beyond 
 that of which they happen to be the individual objects. 
 
 Lyman Thursion ^ Co. Stereotypers. 
 

 
 lH -/^^ 
 
 ^^z^.: f^ -^^ ^; 
 
 ,0 O 
 
 
 -5^. V 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 -\r 
 
 ^. ^' .-^ ^ 
 
 
 ^ -^^ .^ 
 
 
 ^ * ,, .^ 
 
 
 
 .%:• 
 
 o-',,-^^ % '.^'^ 
 
 
 ^f/^^ %, 
 
 
 
 
 ^' c^^^ '■« '■''o'' 
 
 ■0- 
 
 .0^ 
 
 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proces 
 s. ^^"fl'^'ng agent: Magnesium Ox^e 
 
 ^i\- ^^ Treatment Date: May 2009 
 
 PreservationTechnoloaies 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 
 
 Cranberry Townstiip, PA 16066 
 (724) 779-2111 
 
.V 
 
 .■^ 
 
 ^^. 
 
 « * ^ ■" t3k*"' 
 ,0' 
 
 , ^ " O, -^ 
 
 
 
 
 ,^' ..\V 
 
 <^„ 
 
 ^.:: 
 
 .. -^-^ 
 
 -^^. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 o 
 
 
 
 -p 
 
 
 
 '<<. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 X^ ,0-