HENRY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. 



Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caught 

 With some new object for romantic thouglit, 

 The impression of the moment quickly flies, 

 And with the morrow every sorrow dies. 



How different manhood ! — then does thought's control 



Sink every pang still deeper in the soul ; 



Then keen affliction's sad unceasing smart, 



Becomes a painful resident in the heart ; 



And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, 



Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. 



Then, as each long-known friend is summon'd hence, 



We feel a void no joy can recorapence, 



And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb. 



Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom. 



Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, 



No forms of future ill salute thy view, 



No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep. 



But Halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, 



And sanguine Hope through every storm of life 



Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife. 



Yet e'en round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shiine, 



AflPection's little thread will ever twine ; 



And though but frail may seem each tender tie. 



The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. 



Thus, when the long-expected moment came. 



When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame, 



Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast. 



And a still tear my silent grief express'd. 



When to the public school compell'd to go, 

 What novel scenes did on my senses flow ! 

 There in each breast each active power dilates. 

 Which "broils whole nations, and convulses states ; 

 There reigns, by turns alternate, love and hate, 

 Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate ; 

 And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere, 

 The dark deformities of man appear. 

 Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim, 



