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*Softly blow, thou western breeze, Her ringlets waved in living gold, Softly rustle through the sail !

Her mirror crystal, pearl the comb. Soothe to rest the furrowed seas, Before my love, sweet western gale!' Her pearly comb the siren took,

And careless bound her tresses wild ; Thus all to soothe the chieftain's woe, Still o'er the mirror stole her look, Far from the maid he loved so dear, As on the wondering

youth she The song arose, so soft and slow,

smiled. He seemed her parting sigh to hear.

Like music from the greenwood tree, The lonely deck he paces o'er,

Again she raised the melting lay; Impatient for the rising day,

Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me, And still from Crinan's moonlight shore, And leave the maid of Colonsay ? He turns his eyes to Colonsay.

Fair is the crystal hall for me.
The moonbeams crisp the curling surge, With rubies and with emeralds set;

That streaks with foam the ocean green; And sweet the music of the sea
While forward still the rowers urge

Shall sing, when we for love are met. Their course, a female form was seen.

How sweet to dance with gliding feet That sea-maid's form, of pearly light, Along the level tide so green,

Was whiter than the downy spray, Responsive to the cadence sweet [scene! And round her bosom, heaving bright, That breathes along the moonlight Her glossy yellow ringlets play.

And soft the music of the main Borne on a foamy crested wave,

Rings from the motly tortoise-shell, She reached amain the bounding prow, While

moonbeams o'er the watery plain Then clasping fast the chieftain brave, Seem trembling in its fitful swell." She, plunging, sought the deep below.

Proud swells her heart ! she dreams at last Ah! long beside thy feignéd bier,

To lure him with her silver tongue, The monks the prayer of death shall And, as the shelving rocks she past, And long for thee, the fruitless tear, (say; She raised her voice, and sweetly sung. Shall weep the maid of Colonsay!

In softer, sweeter strains she sung, But downward like a powerful corse, Slow gliding o'er the moonlight hay,

The eddying waves the chieftain bear; When light to land the chieftain sprung, He only heard the moaning hoarse

To hail the maid of Colonsay. Of waters murmuring in his ear.

O sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell, The murmurs sink by slow degrees, And sadly sink remote at sea !

No more the waters round him rave; So sadly mourns the writhéd shell Lulled by the music of the seas,

Of Jura's shore, its parent sea. He lies within a coral cave. ...

And ever as the year returns, No form he saw of mortal mould;

The charm-bound sailors know the day, It shone like ocean's snowy foam; For sadly still the Mermaid mourns

The lovely chief of Colonsay.


HENRY KIRK WHITE, a young poet, who has accomplished more by the example of his life than by his writings, was a native of Nottingham, where he was born on the 21st of August 1785. His father was a butcher-an ‘ungentle craft,' which, however, has had the honour of giving to England one of its most distinguished churchmen, Cardinal Wolsey, and the two poets, Akenside and White. Henry was a rhymer and a stodent from his earliest years. He assisted at his father's business for some time, but in his fourteenth year was put apprentice to 'a stocking-weaver. Disliking, as he said, “the thought of spending seven years of his life in shining and folding up stock. ings, he wanted something to occupy his brain, and he felt that he should be wretched if he continued long at this trade, or indeed in anything except one of the learned professions. He was at length placed in an attorney's office, and applying his leisure hours to the study of languages, he was able, in the course of ten months, to read Horáce with tolerable facility, and had made some progress in Greek. At the same time he acquired a knowledge of Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, and even applied himself to the acquisition of some of the sciences. His habits of study and application were unremitting.

A London magazine, called the Monthly Preceptor, having proposed prize-themes for the youth of both sexes, Henry became a candidate, and while only in his fifteenth year, obtained a silver medal for a translation from Horace; and the following year a pair of twelve-inch globes from an imaginary tour from London to Edinburgh. He next became a correspondent in the ‘ Monthly Mirror, and was introduced to the acquaintance of Mr. Capel Lofft and of Mr. Hill, the proprietor of the above periodical. Their encourage ment induced him to prepare a volume of poems for the press, which appeared in 1803. The longest piece in the collection is a descriptive poem in the style of Goldsmith, entitled Clifton Grove,' which shews a remarkable proficiency in smooth and elegant versification and language. In his preface to the volume, Henry had stated that the poems were the production of a youth of seventeen, published for the purpose of facilitating his future studies, and enabling him 'to pursue those inclinations which might one day place him in an honourable station in the scale of society. Such a declaration should have disarmed the severity of criticism; but the volume was contemptuously noticed in the ‘Monthly Review,' and Henry felt the most exquisite pain from the unjust and ungenerous critique. Fortunately, the volume fell into the hands of Southey, who wrote to the young poet to encourage him, and other friends sprung up to succour. his genius, and to procure for him what was the darling object of his ambition, admission to the university of Cambridge. His opinions for some time inclined to deism, without any taint of immorality; but a fellow-student put into his hands Scott's Force of Truth,' and he soon became a decided convert to the spirit and doctrines of Christianity. He resolved upon devoting his life to the promulgation of them, and the Rev. Mr. Simeon, Cambridge, procured for him a sizarship at St. John's College. This benevolent clergyman further promised, with the aid of a friend, to supply him with £30 annually, and his own family were to furnish the remainder necessary for him to go through college. Poetry was now abandoned for severer studies. He competed for one of the university scholarships, and at the end of his term was pronounced the first man of his year. Mr. Catton-his tutor-by procuring for him exhibitions to the amount of £66 per annum, enabled him to give up the pecuniary assistance which he had received from Mr. Simeon and other friends. This distinction was purchased at the sacrifice of health and life. Were I,' he said, 'to paint Fame crowning an undergraduate after the senate-house examination, I would represent him as concealing a death's head under the mask of beauty.' He died on the 19th of October 1806 Southey wrote a sketch of his life, and edited his “Remains,' which proved to be highly popular. A tablet to Henry's memory, with a medallion by Chantrey, was placed in All Saint's

Church, Cambridge, by a young American gentleman, Mr. Francis Boot of Boston, and bearing the following inscriptionso expressive of the tenderness, and regret universally felt towards the poet-by Professor Smyth :

Warm with fond hope and learning's sacred flame,
To Granta's bowers the youthful poet came;
Unconquered powers the immortal mind displayed,
But worn with anxious thought, the frame decayed.
Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retired,
The martyr student faded and expired.
Oh! genius, taste, and piety sincere,
Too early lost midst studies too severe!
Foremost to mourn was generous Southey seen,
He told the tale, and shewed what White had been ;
Nor told in vain. Far o'er the 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. Byron has also consecrated some beautiful lines to the memory of White. The poetry of Henry was all written before his twentieth year, and hence should not be severely judged. If compared, however, with the strains of Cowley or Chatterton at an earlier age, it will be seen to be inferior in this, that no indications are given of great future genius. Whether force and originality would have come with manhood and learning, is a point which, notwithstanding the example of Byron-a very different mind—may fairly be doubted. It is enough, however, for Henry Kirke White to have afforded one of the finest examples on record of youthful talent and perseverance devoted to the purest and noblest objects.

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 way,
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,

Únnoticed 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.

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 Ind.
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.

The Star of Bethlehem.
When marshalled on the nightly plain, Deep horror then my vitals froze,

The glittering host bestus the sky; Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem• One star alone, of all the train,

When suddenly a star arose, Cau fix the sinner's wandering eye. It was the star of Bethlehem. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,

From every host, from every gem; It was my guide, my light, my all, But one alone the Saviour speaks,

It bade my dark forebodings cease, It is the Star of Bethlehem.

And through the storm and dangers'

Once on the raging seas I rode, [dark; It led me to the port of peace.

The storm was loud-the night was Now safely moored-my perils o'er,
The ocean yawned-and rudely blowed I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
The wind that tossed my foundering For ever and for evermore,

The Star—the Star of Bethlehem.
Britain a Thousand Years Hence.
Where now is Britain ?-Where her laurelled names,
Her palaces and halls ? Dashed 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 npon the stone
That marks where stood her capitols, 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 harps, suspended o'er their graves,
Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain.
Meanwhile the arts, in second infancy,
Rise in some distant clime, and then perchance
Some bold adventurer, filled with golden dreams,
Steering his bark through trackless solitudes,
Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow
Hath ever ploughed before-espies the cliffs
Of fallen Albion.-To the land unknown
He journeys joyful; and perhaps descries
Some vestige of her ancient stateliness ;

he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind
Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived
At science iņ that solitary nook,
Far from the civil world and sagely sighs
And moralises on the state of man.

The Christiad.
Concluding stanzas, written shortly before his death.
Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme,

With self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem

The lyre which I in early days have strung;
And now my spirits faint, and I have hung
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! Thon 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 wouid consecrate to thee,
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.

JAMES GRAHAME. The REV. JAMES GRAHAME was born in Glasgow in the year 1765. He studied the law, and practised at the Scottish bar for several years, but afterwards took orders in the Church of England, and was successively curate of Shipton, in Gloucestershire, and of Sedgefield, in the county of Durham. Ill-health compelled him to abandon his curacy when his virtues and talents had attracted notice and rendered him a popular and useful preacher; and on revisiting Scotland, he died on the 14th of September 1811. The works of Grahame consist of Mary, Queen of Scotland,' a dramatic poem published in 1801; 'The Sabbath' (1804), “Sabbath Walks’ (1805), Biblical Pictures, * The Birds of Scotland’ (1806), and British Georgics’ (1809), all in blank verse. • The Sabbath' is the best of his productions, and the "Georgics' the least interesting; for though the latter contains some fine descriptions, the poet is too minute and too practical in his rural

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