HENRY KIRKE WHITE was born on the 21st of August, 1785, at Nottingham, where his father was a butcher. He gave early tokens of the genius for which he was afterwards distinguished, and had written verses when scarcely more than a child. While at school and wooing the Muses, however, his spirit was subdued by his occupation; on one whole day in every week, and during his leisure hours on the others, he was compelled to carry out the butcher's basket: this drudgery he was forced to exchange for one scarcely less repulsive: at the age of fourteen, the loom of a hosier was selected as a fitting labour for this "darling of Science and the Muse:" his mother, however, felt that his yearnings after fame were indications of a higher destiny, and succeeded in placing him in the office of an attorney. Here he earnestly laboured to acquire knowledge; soon "learned to read Horace with tolerable facility, and made some progress in Greek;" obtained an insight into several of the sciences; and became so conspicuous at the age of fifteen, as to be elected one of six professors in the Literary Society of his native town. Having already felt a consciousness of his natural powers, his mind was directed towards the Universities,-he was ambitious of academic distinction; yet with a very remote hope of ever attaining it. Having printed some prose and poetry in several of the Magazines, he was induced, in 1803, to endeavour to forward his darling project by publishing a small volume. The volume was harshly handled by a critic in the Monthly Review, and the hopes and aspirations of the youth seemed for a time crushed for ever. Events which appear the most ruinous are often the most propitious. The ungentle usage the young Poet had received attracted towards him a friend, who was not only kind and generous, but already in the zenith of his reputation; the friend was Robert Southey, a man who, from that day to this, seems to have considered it a leading duty of his life, and the highest recompense of his genius, to assist young strugglers after fame through the slough of despond which so continually surrounds them. His Memoir of White is one of the most exquisite examples of biography the English language can supply, and does as much honour to the living, as to the memory of the deceased, Poet. White achieved his object; was entered at St. John's College, Cambridge, and rapidly obtained the highest honours the University could confer upon him. All the wasting anxieties of years were now rewarded-the bud had blossomed-and the obscure and friendless youth found fame and "admiring friends." But the penalty was yet to be exacted : the ardour with which he had studied-the eager longings after immortality-the unsubdued resolve to be "marked among men," had weakened his frame ;-life was the price he paid for distinction, and

"Science' self destroyed her favourite son."

On the 19th of October, 1806, he died :-" His death," says Dr. Southey, "is to be lamented as a loss to English literature:" he adds, that "his virtues were as admirable as his genius." "Distress and poverty," says another great authority, "could not impair his mind-which death itself destroyed rather than subdued."

Nearly all the Poems of Henry Kirke White were written before he attained the age of nineteen. When he entered College, he was advised "to stifle his poetic fire for severer and more important studies to lay a billet on the embers until he had taken his degree, and then he might fan it into a flame again." This advice he followed so scrupulously, that a few "fragments" are the only produce of his maturer years. His "Remains" have been among the most popular productions of the age: edition after edition has been called for; and a collection of the Works of British Poets would be imperfect if it did not contain the Poems of this "marvellous boy," the martyrstudent, the endowments of whose mind were even surpassed by the generosity of his nature, the sweetness of his disposition, the soundness of his principles, and the fervency of his piety. His poetical talent was but one of many rare excellences: a character more perfect, in every sense of the word, has rarely fallen under the notice of the biographer. Had he lived to enter the sacred profession, which latterly became the engrossing object of his thoughts, he would have been one of its brightest ornaments; and it is certain that he must have occupied a foremost station among the Poets of his country. As it is, he has left us abundant proofs of the wisdom of virtue: his upright conduct, no less than his genius, drew friends around him; and it is to the former, even more than to the latter, that his memory is indebted for one of the most valuable tributes that ever came from the pen of a public writer.

t

WHITE.

Down the sultry are of day

The burning wheels have urged their way,
And Eve along the western skies
Spreads her intermingling dyes;
Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creaking comes the empty wain,
And driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits;
And oft, with his accustom'd call,
Urging on the sluggish Ball.

The barn is still,-the master's gone,-
And thresher puts his jacket on;
While Dick, upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead kite to the wall.

87

Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penn'd the sheepcote fast,
For 'twas but two nights before
A lamb was eaten on the moor:
His empty wallet Rover carries,—
Now for Jack, when near home, tarries;
With lolling tongue he runs to try
If the horse-trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And supper messes in the cans;
In the hovel carts are wheel'd,
And both the colts are drove a-field:
The horses are all bedded up,
And the ewe is with the tup.
The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet,
And Bess has slink'd away to talk
With Roger in the holly walk.

Now on the settle all but Bess
Are set, to eat their supper mess ;
And little Tom and roguish Kate
Are swinging on the meadow gate.
Now they chat of various things,—
Of taxes, ministers, and kings;
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the 'squire refuse,
How parson on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrain'd for rent.
Thus do they, till in the sky

The pale-eyed moon is mounted high;
And from the ale-house drunken Ned
Had reel'd ;-then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate
The happing coal on kitchen grate
Has laid,-while master goes throughout,

Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out;
The candles safe, the hearths all clear,

And nought from thieves or fire to fear:

Then both to bed together creep,
And join the general troop of sleep.

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

O! YONDER is the well-known spot, My dear, my long-lost native home; Oh, welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest-no more to roam! Oh, I have travell'd far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land; Each place, each province I have tried, And sung and danced my saraband! But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale.

Of distant climes the false report

Allured me from my native land; It bade me rove-my sole support My cymbals and my saraband. The woody dell, the hanging rock, The chamois skipping o'er the heights; The plain adorn'd with many a flock, And oh a thousand more delights That grace yon dear beloved retreat, Have backward won my weary feet.

Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,
No more my little home I'll leave ;
And many a tale of what I've seen
Shall wile away the winter's eve.
Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband!
But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

† F 2

JOHN WILSON was born at Paisley, in 1785. After going through a preparatory course of study at the University of Glasgow, he was entered a fellow-commoner at Magdalen College, Oxford, and very soou obtained some portion of that fame of which he was destined to participate so largely. Much of his paternal property was lost by the failure of a mercantile concern in which it had been embarked; but enough remained to purchase the elegancies of life. He bought the beautiful estate of Elleray, on the lake of Winandermere-a fit dwelling for a Poet-and continued to inhabit it when his professional duties permitted his absence from Edinburgh. In 1812 he published the Isle of Palms; and the City of the Plague in 1816. In 1820 he became, under circumstances highly honourable to him, a successful candidate for the Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of the Scottish metropolis. He subsequently published but little poetry: his prose tales-"The Trials of Margaret Lindsay," The Foresters," and "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," however, amply compensated the world for his desertion of the Muses; and his contributions to "Blackwood's Magazine," which are too strongly marked to leave any doubt of their authorship, have established for him a high and enduring reputation. He long upheld its supremacy: the best supported Magazines of England failed in competing with it, because there was no living writer whose talents were so versatile, and consequently so fitted to deal with the varied topics upon which judgment or fancy must be employed. His learning was both profound and excursive; his criticism searching and sound; his descriptions of scenery exquisitely true; his paintings of human character and passion admirable; his wit and humour delightful, when it did not degenerate into "fun;" and no writer of modern times has written so many deliciously eloquent passages, which produce, if we may so express ourselves, gushes of admiration. The mind of Wilson was a remarkable blending of the kindly and the bitter:-his praise was always full and hearty; his censure almost unendurable: he appears to have had no control over his likings or dislikings; - at times, pursued with almost superhuman wrath, and then again, became so generous and eloquent, that he absolutely made an author's character, and established his position by a few sentences of approval. From all his criticisms there may be gathered some evidence of a sound heart; of a nature like the Highland breezes-keen, but healthy; often most invigorating when most severe-but which might be safely encountered only by those whose stamina was unquestionable. The personal appearance of Professor Wilson was very remarkable: his frame was like his mind, powerful and robust. His complexion was florid, and his features were finely marked; the mouth was exquisitely chiselled, the expression of his countenance was gentle; but there was a "lurking devil" in his keen grey eye, that gave a very intelligible hint to the observer His forehead was broad and high. To us, among all the great men we have ever beheld -and they have not been few-there is not one who so thoroughly extorted a mingled sensation of love and fear.

The poetry of Professor Wilson has not attained the popularity to which it is entitled; probably because, when he first published, he had to compete with a formidable rival in his own illustrious countryman, and the fame which, in England, nearly at the same period, was about to absorb that of all other Bards. His poems are, however, full of beauty; they have all the freshness of the heather, -a true relish for Nature breaks out in them all: there is no puerile or sickly sentimentalism;--they are the earnest breathings of a happy and buoyant spirit; a giving out, as it were, of the breath that has been inhaled among the mountains. They manifest, moreover, the finest sympathies with numanity; nothing harsh or repining seems to have entered the Poet's thoughts: they may be read as compositions of the highest merit,-as bearing the severest test of critical asperity; but also as graceful and beautiful transcripts of Nature, when her grace and beauty is felt and appreciated by all. There is no evidence of "fine phrenzy " in his glances "from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;" but there is ample proof of the depth of his worship, and the fulness of his affection for all the objects which "Nature's God" has made graceful and fruitful. This truly great man died at Edinburgh, on the 3rd April, 1854, "full of years and honours:" and his countrymen have erected a statue to his memory in the city with which his fame is so inseparably linked. His memoirs have been published by his daughter: they are a monument more enduring than any record of bronze or stone.