Henry! I greet thine entrance into life! Sure presage that the myrmidons of fate, The fool's unmeaning laugh, the critic's hate, Will dire assail thee; and the envious strife Of bookish schoolmen, beings over rife, Whose pia-mater studious is fill'd With unconnected matter, half distill'd From letter'd page, shall bare for thee the knife, Beneath whose edge the poet ofttimes sinks: But fear not! for thy modest work contains The germ of worth; thy wild poetic strains, How sweet to him, untutor'd bard, who thinks Thy verse "has power to please, as soft it flows Through the smooth murmurs of the frequent close." 1803. TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE 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, for ever 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 the 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 canst not inspire, And "in my breast the 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: 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 honour 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 met, 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 revealed, The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd. Too strong the portion of celestial flame For its weak tenement the fragile frame;