Page 10.

"Dear White! thou sit'st not 66

a lorn spectre there." Kirk White and Chatterton may well appear in connexion, on many accounts. The precocity of their genius, and the character of their compositions, and the prematureness of their death, are astonishingly similar. Their minds seem, in some respects, to have been cast in the same mould. Both seemed to have perused with avidity the old English Poets, and to have imbibed their peculiar spirit. Kirk White, in his "Canzonet;" and in his song, "Softly, softly blow, ye breezes," has so precisely adopted the style of Chatterton, in the "Minstrel's Song in Ella," that we might suppose them written by the same pen, Chatterton's genius seems to be brighter; but Kirk White possessed a mind so heavenly in it's nature, and rich in it's resources, that maturity of years would have enabled him to have written a "Paradise Lost." He was one of the sons of Ossian. The peculiar character of his mind is sufficiently obvious from the following extracts:

"But, if the Fates should this last wish deny,
And doom me on some foreign shore to die;
Oh! should it please the world's supernal King,
That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing;
Or that my corse should, on some desert. strand,
Lie stretch'd beneath the Simöom's blasting hand;
Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb,"
My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom,

Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove,
Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove,

Sit, a lorn spectre, on yon well-known grave,

And mix its moanings with the desert wave."

"Philosophers have divested themselves of their natural apathy, and Poets have risen above themselves, in descanting on the pleasures of Melancholy. There is no mind so gross, no understanding so uncultivated, as to be incapable, at certain moments, and amid certain combinations, of feeling that sublime influence upon the spirits which steals the soul from the petty anxieties of the world,

"And fits it to hold converse with the gods."

"I must confess, if such there be who never felt the divine abstraction, I envy them not their insensibility. For my own part, it is from the indulgence of this soothing power that I derive the most exquisite of gratifications; at the calm hour of moonlight, amid all the sublime serenity, the dead stillness of the night; or when the howling storm rages in the heavens, the rain pelts on my roof, and the winds whistle through the crannies of my apartment, I feel the divine mood of melancholy upon me; I imagine myself placed upon an eminence, above the crowds who pant below in the dusty tracks of wealth and honour. The black catalogue of crimes and of vice; the sad tissue of wretchedness and woe, passes in review before me, and I look down upon man with an eye of pity and commiseration. Though the scenes which I survey be mournful, and the ideas they excite equally sombre; though the tears gush as I contemplate them, and my

heart feels heavy with the sorrowful emotions which they inspire; yet are they not unaccompanied with sensations of the purest and most ecstatic bliss."-"Melancholy Hours."

SONNET.

"Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile,
Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring;

But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile,

Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling.
Is it for me to strike the Idalian string—
Raise the soft music of the warbling wire,
While in my ears the howls of fairies ring,
And melancholy wastes the vital fire?

the wave,

Away with thoughts like these-To some lone cave
Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps
Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear,

I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse
Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse,
And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.”

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.*

"Sweet-scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

*The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the

coffins of the dead

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,

And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song:

And sweet the strain shall be and long,

The melody of death.

"Come, funeral flow'r! who lov'st to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,

And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lonely Alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

"And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Moans hollow in the forest trees,

And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,

It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead:

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.”

Page 11.

"Poor Charlotte Smith portrays the deep-felt woe."

If to write so as to touch the deepest string of sensibility, and make it vibrate while you read, evince extraordinary genius, Miss C. Smith possessed this faculty in a high degree. Instance in following little pieces:

TO THE MOON.

"Queen of the silver bow!-by thy pale beam,
Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,

And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.
And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light

Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast:
And oft I think-fair planet of the night,

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest:
The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Released by death-to thy benignant sphere;

And the sad children of Despair and Woe
Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim-in this toiling scene!"

TO NIGHT.

"I love thee, mournful, sober-suited Night!

When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane,
And veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light
Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main.