AN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM.

ONE morning in the grassy lane
A lily fair I spied;

The linnet's meek and tender strain
Rose sweetly by its side.

But in the soft declining eve,

Again I passed that quiet spot;

How could I choose but stand and grieve,
To find the simple flower was not?

And in the fate of that fair thing,

An emblem of my hope I found;

The morning saw it flourishing;

The evening, withered on the ground!

A FOUNTAIN IN THE WOODS REVISITED.

No spirit of an antique stream

Haunted a dwelling more divine,
More worthy of the poet's dream,
Than this green mossy shrine.

Dear wood, how well to me are known

Thy boughs by Summer-breezes fanned; The dark nest where the dove hath flown, The water ruffled by my hand.

And here, beneath these solemn bowers,

Where Silence loves to pitch her tent, I watched the white feet of the Hours

Silver the stainless element.

Till Moonlight o'er the glimmering lawn,
Meek Ghost of Darkness, glided by;
While Evening, like a weary fawn,
Slept in the gardens of the sky.

For then life's sun its flush of light
Through every gathering vapour rolled:
Alas! how soon the wind of night
Scattered those clouds of gold.

And Fancy's face, no more to shine,
From her fair cave of beauty fled;

Her eyes forgot to beam on mine,
Her feet forgot my bed.

Grief found me then, and through my breast

The storm began to sweep;

Again I sought the green wood's rest,

But then, sweet fount, I came to weep.

Thou guidest me as by the hand

Of some meek spirit, linked in mine, Into an ever-blooming land,

A land of sweeter streams than thine.

And every sparkling drop that falls,
Dear charmer of the sylvan green,
Unto my musing heart recalls

The OMNIPOTENT-UNSEEN.

Through dreary wood and withered lea
Thy lucid water flows;
Cheering the faint heart of the tree,
Waking the eyelids of the rose.

So in the Christian's panting breast
The springs of living water rise,
Murmuring of the Land of Rest,
Of greener woods, of brighter skies.

Mourn not, my heart, the idle hours
That I these pleasant paths have trod,
Musing among the peaceful bowers,

Where Nature leads me up to God!

KIRKE WHITE AND THE JOHNIANS,

WITH

SOME ACCOUNT OF HIS LAST DAYS.

F

Unhappy White! while life was in its spring,
And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing,
The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroyed her favourite son!
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the fruit.

LORD BYRON.

Εύδεις επ' φθιμενοισι ματην σοφίης ποτ' έδρεψας
Ανθεα, και σε νεον Μας εφίλησε μάτην.

WALPOLE.

EVEN while I am writing these lines, news has been brought to me of another mind become dark, of another victim at the shrine of Science. Surely there can be no introduction more solemn or affectingly appropriate to a memorial of Kirke White than this tolling, as it were, over another departed intellect. It is to be deeply lamented that Mr. Southey, in that memoir in which he has embalmed the virtues of the youthful scholar, should, either from tenderness to the living, or any other motive,

have neglected to expose the fearful results of that high-pressure system, under which the faculties of White were crushed and annihilated. Were I to consult my own feelings, I too should indulge in a similar silence; but the alarming and increasing magnitude of the evil imperatively demands attention. The accusing voice ascends not alone from one grave; the cry of lamentation is not confined to a single hearth; it is not one mother who calls in vain for her absent son! The academical life of Kirke White, even viewed through the affectionate narrative of his biographer, was only a prolonged preparation for a sacrifice. The Death's Head is always visible under the mask. Anything more heart-rending than the sufferings of this gifted Martyr is not to be found in the pages of romance. We read, "of dreadful palpitations, of nights of sleeplessness; so that he went from one acquaintance to another, imploring society, even as a starving beggar entreats for food." Alas! that we should have his own authority for adding, that he sought for it in vain. In another letter he says, "While I am here I am wretched; the slightest application makes me faint." And again, "I am not an invalid; my mind preys upon itself." But throughout this season of mental torture the mistaken kindness of his friends was urging him forward; the worn-out energies were stimulated into a mo