Henry Kirke White.

White (1785-1806), the son of a butcher, was born in Nottingham, England. His juvenile verses attracted the attention of generous patrons, particularly Mr. Southey. At seventeen he published a volume of poems. He had got admission to the University of Cambridge, and was fast acquiring distinction, when too much brain-work terminated his life. Southey wrote a brief biography of him, and edited his "Remains ;" and Byron consecrated some spirited lines to his memory, from which we quote the following:

"So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,

And winged the shaft that quivered to his heart." (See the two lines by Katharine Phillips, page 119 of this volume.) A tablet to White's memory, with a medallion by Chantrey, was placed in All Saints' Church, Cambridge, England, by a young American, Francis Boot of Boston. In judging White's poetry we must remember that it was all written before his twentieth year.

TIME.

Time moveth not; our being 'tis that moves;
And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream,
Dream of swift ages, and revolving years,
Ordained to chronicle our passing days:--
So the young sailor, in the gallant bark,
Sendding before the wind, beholds the coast
Receding from his eye, and thinks the while,
Struck with amaze, that he is motionless,
And that the land is sailing.

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.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

Mild offspring 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 questioned Winter's

sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw

To mark the 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.

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood

by it,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well! The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well!

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with bands that were glowing,

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

Yet, amid this scene so fair,
Should I cease thy smile to share,
What were all its joys to me!
Whom have I in earth but Thee?

Lord of heaven! beyond our sight
Rolls a world of purer light;
There, in Love's unclouded reign,
Parted hands shall clasp again;
Martyrs there, and prophets high,
Blaze-a glorious company;
While immortal music rings
From unnumbered seraph-strings.
Oh! that world is passing fair;
Yet if thou wert absent there,
What were all its joys to me!
Whom have I in heaven but Thee?

Lord of earth and heaven! my breast
Seeks in thee its only rest!

I was lost-thy accents mild
Homeward lured thy wandering child;
I was blind-thy healing ray
Charmed the long eclipse away;
Source of every joy I know,.
Solace of my every woe!
Yet should once thy smile divine
Cease upon my soul to shine,
What were earth or heaven to me!
Whom have I in each but Thee?

Robert Grant.

The Right Hon. Sir Robert Grant (1785-1838) was a native of the county of Inverness, Scotland. He graduated with high honors at Cambridge in 1806, was called to the Bar in Lincoln's Inn in 1807, elected to Parliament in 1826, and made governor of Bombay in 1834. An elegant volume, entitled "Sacred Poems, by Sir Robert Grant," was published by Lord Glenelg in 1839.

WHOM HAVE I IN HEAVEN BUT THEE?

Lord of earth! thy bounteous hand
Well this glorious frame hath planned;
Woods that wave and hills that tower,
Ocean rolling in his power;
All that strikes the gaze unsought,
All that charms the lonely thought;
Friendship-gem transcending price,—
Love-a flower from Paradise!

George Darley.

66

Darley (1785-1849) was a native of Dublin, and died in London. He was both a mathematician and a poet; producing "Familiar Astronomy" (1830), "Popular Algebra, third edition" (1836), etc., as well as Poems: Sylvia, or the May Queen" (1827); "Ethelstan, a Dramatic Chronicle" (1841); "Errors of Extasie and other Poems" (1849). Allan Cunningham says (1833): "George Darley is a true poet and excellent mathematician." He was an accomplished critic, and the latter part of his life wrote for the Athenæum. His verses are at times rugged and obscure, and his use of odd or obsolete words is not always happy.

FROM "THE FAIRIES."

Have you not oft in the still wind, Heard sylvan notes of a strange kind, That rose one moment, and then fell, Swooning away like a far knell? Listen!-that wave of perfume broke Into sea-music, as I spoke,

Fainter than that which seems to roar
On the moon's silver-sanded shore,
When through the silence of the night
Is heard the ebb and flow of light.

Oh, shut the eye and ope the ear!
Do you not hear, or think you hear,
A wide bush o'er the woodland pass
Like distant waving fields of grass?—
Voices!-ho! ho!-a band is coming,
Loud as ten thousand bees a-humming,
Or ranks of little merry men
Tromboning deeply from the glen,
And now as if they changed, and rung
Their citterns small, and ribbon-slung,
Over their gallant shoulders hung!-

A chant! a chant! that swoons and swells
Like soft winds jangling meadow-bells;
Now brave, as when in Flora's bower
Gay Zephyr blows a trumpet-flower;

Now thrilling fine, and sharp, and clear,

Like Dian's moonbeam dulcimer;

But mixed with whoops, and infant laughter,
Shouts following one another after,
As on a hearty holiday

When youth is flush and full of May;-
Small shouts, indeed, as wild bees knew
Both how to hum, and halloo too!

THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.

Here's a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo-buds strewn,

To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the May!

Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon, And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay.

Here's a garland of red maiden-roses for you;
Such a delicate wreath is for beauty alone;
Here's a golden kingcup, brimming over with dew,
To be kissed by a lip just as sweet as its own.

Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the dale,

That the nymph of the wave on your wrists doth bestow;

Here's a lily-wrought scarf your sweet blushes to hide,

Or to lie on that bosom, like snow upon snow. Here's a myrtle enwreathed with a jessamine band, To express the fond twining of beauty and youth;

Take the emblem of love in thy exquisite hand, And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of Truth.

Then around you we'll dance, and around you we'll sing,

To soft pipe and sweet tabor we'll foot it away; And the hills and the dales and the forest shall ring, While we hail you our lovely young Queen of the May.

SUICIDE. FROMETHELSTAN."

Fool! I mean not

That poor-souled piece of heroism, self-slaughter;
Oh no! the miserablest day we live
There's many a better thing to do than die!

John Pierpont.

AMERICAN.

Pierpont (1785-1866) was born in Litchfield, Conn., and educated at Yale College. He studied law awhile, and then entered into mercantile pursuits at Baltimore with John Neal, of Portland, Maine, who also became somewhat famous in literature, and was a man of marked power. Failing in business in consequence of the War of 1812, Pierpont studied for the ministry, and was settled over Hollis Street Church in Boston. Ardent and outspoken on all subjects, especially those of intemperance and slavery, he disaffected some of his hearers, and left his congregation. He was afterward settled over Unitarian societics in Troy, N. Y., and Medford, Mass. In his later years he became a Spiritualist, and advocated the new cause with his characteristic eloquence and zeal. He was employed, a few years before his death, in the Treasury Department at Washington. Pierpont's first poetical venture, "The Airs of Palestine," placed him high among the literary men of the day. He wrote a number of hymns and odes, showing fine literary culture. Bold, energetic, and devoted in all his undertakings, he left the reputation of a man of sterling integrity, generous temper, noble aspirations, and great intrepidity in all his efforts for what he esteemed the right and true. See Bryant's lines on him.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS. The Pilgrim Fathers, where are they?

The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, As they break along the shoreStill roll in the bay as they rolled that day When the May-Flower moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow.

By seraphs' lips been uttered, e'er have had
The ear to hear it, or the soul to feel.
The world has seen the surface only of me :-
Not that I've striven to hide myself from men ;-
No, I have rather labored to be known:-
But when I would have spoken of my faith,
My communings with thee, my heavenward hope,
My love for thee and all that thou hast made,
The perfect peace in which I looked on all
Thy works of glorious beauty,-then it seemed
That thou alone couldst understand me, Lord;
And so my lips were sealed-or the world's phrase,
The courteous question, or the frank reply
Alone escaped them. I have ne'er been known,
My Father, but by thee: and I rejoice

That thou, who mad'st me, art to be my Judge;
For in thy judgments thou rememberest mercy.
I cast myself upon them. Like thy laws,

They are all true and right. The law that keeps
This planet in her path around the sun
Keeps all her sister-planets too in theirs,
And all the other shining hosts of heaven.
All worlds, all times, are under that one law;
For what binds one, binds all. So all thy sons
And daughters, clothed in light-hosts brighter far
Than suns and planets-spiritual hosts,
Whose glory is their goodness-have one law,
The perfect law of love, to guide them through
All worlds, all times. Thy Kingdom, Lord, is one.
Life, death, earth, heaven, eternity, and time
Lie all within it; and what blesses now

Must ever bless,-LOVE OF THINGS TRUE AND RIGHT.

Andrews Norton.

AMERICAN.

Norton (1786-1853) was a native of Hingham, Mass. He was educated at Harvard College, and became eminent as a Unitarian theologian. He edited an American edition of the poems of Mrs. Hemans, whose friendship he formed while in England.

SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. The rain is o'er. How dense and bright Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, Contrasting with the dark blue sky!

In grateful silence, earth receives

The general blessing; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share.

The softened sunbeams pour around

A fairy light, uncertain, pale; The wind flows cool; the scented ground Is breathing odors on the gale.

'Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest, to gaze below awhile,

Then turn to bathe and revel there.

The sun breaks forth; from off the scene
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green

With trembling drops of light is hung.

Now gaze on nature-yet the same-
Glowing with life, by breezes fanned,
Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,

Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand:

Hear the rich music of that voice,

Which sounds from all below, above:

She calls her children to rejoice,

And round them throws her arms of love.

Drink in her influence; low-born care,
And all the train of mean desire,
Refuse to breathe this holy air,
And 'mid this living light expire.

TRUST AND SUBMISSION.

My God, I thank thee; may no thought E'er deem thy chastisement severe; But may this heart, by sorrow taught, Calm each wild wish, each idle fear.

Thy mercy bids all nature bloom;

The sun shines bright, and man is gay; Thy equal mercy spreads the gloom

That darkens o'er his little day.

Full many a throb of grief and pain

Thy frail and erring child must know; But not one prayer is breathed in vain, Nor does one tear unheeded flow.

Thy various messengers employ,
Thy purposes of love fulfil;
And 'mid the wreck of human joy,

Let kneeling Faith adore thy will.