Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808. SONNET TO HENRY KIRKE WHITE, ON HIS POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED. BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. Hail! gifted youth, whose passion-breathing lay Portrays a mind attuned to noblest themes, A mind, which, wrapt in Fancy's high-wrought dreams, To nature's veriest bounds its daring way Can wing: what charms throughout thy pages shine, To win with fairy thrill the melting soul! For though along impassion'd grandeur roll, Yet in full power simplicity is thine. Proceed, sweet bard! and the heaven-granted fire Of pity, glowing in thy feeling breast, May nought destroy, may nought thy soul divest Of joy--of rapture in the living lyre, Thou tunest so magically: but may fame Each passing year add honours to thy name. Richmond, Sept. 1803. SONNET, ON SEEING ANOTHER WRITTEN TO H. K. WHITE, IN SEPTEMBER, 1803, INSERTED IN HIS "REMAINS." BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. Ah! once again the long left wires among, Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song; With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to stray O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower; To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view And courtship of the world: hail'd was the hour That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew, Poor Henry's budding beauties--to a clime Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray Forced their young vigour into transient day, And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them! and shall time Trample these orphan blossoms?--No! they breathe Still lovelier charms--for Southey culls the wreath! Oxford, Dec. 17, 1807. REFLECTIONS ON READING THE LIFE OF THE LATE HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, AUTHOR OF THE "PEASANT'S FATE." Darling of science and the muse, How shall a son of song refuse To shed a tear for thee? To us, so soon, for ever lost, What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd By Heaven's supreme decree? How could a parent, love-beguiled, In life's fair prime resign a child So duteous, good, and kind? The warblers of the soothing strain Must string the elegiac lyre in vain To soothe the wounded mind! Yet, Fancy, hovering round the tomb, Half envies, while she mourns thy doom, Dear poet, saint, and sage! Who into one short span, at best, The wisdom of an age compress'd, A patriarch's lengthen'd age! To him a genius sanctified, And purged from literary pride, A sacred boon was given: Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre Celestial raptures could inspire, And lift the soul to Heaven. 'Twas not the laurel earth bestows, 'Twas not the praise from man that flows, With classic toil he sought: He sought the crown that martyrs wear, When rescued from a world of care; Their spirit too he caught. Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, Who idly range in Folly's way, And learn the worth of time: Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, How to redeem this pearl at last, Atoning for your crime.