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fit, grant that I may rise in the morning, refreshed with sleep, and with a spirit of cheerful activity for the duties of the day; but whether I wake here or in eternity, grant that my trust in thee may remain sure, and my hope unshaken. Our Father, &c.

[This prayer was discovered amongst some dirty loose papers of H. K. W's.

Mem.

SEPTEMBER 22. 1806.

ON running over the pages of this book, I am constrained to observe, with sorrow and shame, that my progress in divine light has been little or none.

I have made a few conquests over my corrupt inclinations, but my heart still hankers after its old delights; still lingers half willing, half unwilling, in the ways of worldly-mindedness.

My knowledge of divine things is very little improved. I have read less of the Scriptures than I did last year. In reading the Fathers, I have consulted rather the pride of my heart than my spiritual good.

I now turn to the cause of these evils, and I find that the great root, the main-spring, is-love of the world; next to that, pride; next to that, spiritual sloth.

[This Memorandum was written a very few weeks before his death.]

LINES AND NOTE

BY LORD BYRON.

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.
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low.
So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,

And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart.
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel,
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.

LINES

BY PROFESSOR SMYTH OF CAMBRIDGE,

ON

A MONUMENT*,

Erected by an American Gentleman, in All Saints' Church, Cambridge,

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WARM with fond hope, and learning's sacred flame,
To Granta's bowers, the youthful poet came;
Unconquer'd powers th' immortal mind display'd,
But worn with anxious thought, the frame decay'd:
Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retir'd,
The martyr student faded and expired.

Oh! genius, taste, and piety sincere,

Too early lost, 'midst studies too severe !

Foremost to mourn, was gen'rous Southey seen,

He told the tale, and shew'd what White had been,
Nor told in vain - Far o'er th' 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.

* The Monument is executed by S. Chantry, Esq. R. A.

POEMS,

WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBLICATION OF

CLIFTON GROVE.

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