The poetical and prose works of Henry Kirke White. With life by Robert Southey, LL. D. Eight engravings on steel

Front matter

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Contents

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CHILDHOOD, ...... 3

THE CHEISTIAD, ...... 46

Part I

PICTURED in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet Our infant days, our infant joys to greet ; To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, The village churchyard, and the village green. The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade, The whitewash'd cottage, where the woodbine grew, And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew ! How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, To view the unclouded skies of former days !

Beloved age of innocence and smiles,

When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles,

When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true,

Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.

Blest Childhood, hail ! — Thee simply will I sing,

And from myself the artless picture bring ;

These long-lost scenes to me the past restore,

Each humble friend, each pleasure, now no more,

And ev'ry stump familiar to my sight,

Recalls some fond idea of delight.

This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat ; Here did I love at evening to retreat,

HENRY KIBKE WHITE'S POEMS.

And muse alone, till in the vault of night,

Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light.

Here once again remote from human noise,

I sit me down to think of former joys ;

Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more,

And once again each infant walk explore,

While as each grove and lawn I recognise,

My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.

And oh ! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort To distant scenes, and picture them to thought ; Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy ; Blest Memory, guide, with finger nicely true, Back to my youth my retrospective view ; Recall with faithful vigour to my mind Each face familiar, each relation kind ; And all the finer traits of them afford, Whose general outline in my heart is stored.

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls, In many a fold, the mantling woodbine falls, The village matron kept her little school, Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean : Her neatly -border'd cap, as lily fair, Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care ; And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn, Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, A pair of spectacles their want supplies ; These does she guard secure, in leathern case, From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.

Here first I entered, though with toil and pain, The low vestibule of learning's fane : Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn.

PART I.] CHILDHOOD.

When I was first to school reluctant borne ;

Severe I thought the dame, though oft she try'd

To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd ;

And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept,

To my lone corner brokenhearted crept,

And thought of tender home, where anger never kept.

But soon inured to alphabetic toils, Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles ; First at the form, my task for ever true, A little favourite rapidly I grew : And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight ; And as she gave my diligence its praise, Talk'd of the honours of my future days.

Oh, had the venerable matron thought Of all the ills by talent often brought ; Could she have seen me when revolving years Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state; Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through, life.

Where in the busy scene, by peace unblest,

Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ?

A lonely mariner on the stormy main,

Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain ;

Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide sho.re,

When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more ?

Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave

The sandy surface of his unwept grave.

Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms,

Serenest season of perpetual calms, —

Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease,

And joy to think with thee I tasted peace.

Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles,

But each new object brings attendant smiles ;

When future evils never haunt the sight,

But all is pregnant with unmixt delight ; To thee I turn from riot and from noise, — Turn to partake of more congenial joys.

'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor,

When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er,

What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were seen,

In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green !

Some shoot the marble, others join the chace

Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race ;

While others, seated on the dappled grass,

With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass.

Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd,

A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march'd ;

For banners, to a tall ash we did bind

Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind ;

And for our warlike arms we sought the mead,

And guns and spears we made of brittle reed ;

Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown,

We storm'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town.

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont To set her wheel before the cottage front, And o'er her spectacles would often peer, To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round, With its beloved monotony of sound.

When tired with play, we'd set us by her side, (For out of school she never knew to chide) — And wonder at her skill — well known to fame — For who could match in spinning with the dame ? Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride To strangers, still her thriftness testified ; Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth, How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth.

Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our play, To chat at home the vacant hour away. Many's the time I've scampered down the glade, To ask the promised ditty from the roaid,