HENRY KIRKE WHITE.-SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 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, 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; 377 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 While every bleaching breeze that on her blows And hardens her to bear The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well! That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; 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; How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; Yet, amid this scene so fair, Lord of heaven! beyond our sight Lord of earth and heaven! my breast I was lost-thy accents mild Robert Grant. The Right Hon. Sir Robert Grant (1785-1838) was a George Darley. 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 AlPoems: native of the county of Inverness, Scotland. He gradu-gebra, third edition" (1836), etc., as well as “ ated 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 All that strikes the gaze unsought, 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." GEORGE DARLEY.-JOHN PIERPONT. 379 Fainter than that which seems to roar Oh, shut the eye and ope the ear! A chant! a chant! that swoons and swells 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;- 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 kingeup, 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. FROM "ETHELSTAN." Fool! I mean not That poor-souled piece of heroism, self-slaughter; 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 societies 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 integ rity, 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. JOHN PIERPONT.--ANDREWS NORTON. By seraphs' lips been uttered, e'er have had That thou, who mad'st me, art to be my Judge; The softened sunbeams pour around '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 With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on nature-yet the sameGlowing with life, by breezes fanned, Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, 381 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, |