15G HENRY KIRKE WHITE's POEMS. 



To curse his being, and his thirst for praise. 

 Thou gavest to him, with treble force to feel, 



The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, 

 And what o'er all does in his soul preside 



Predominant, and tempers him to steel, 

 His high indignant pride. 



I. 2. 



Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, 



That Genius visits not your lowly shed ; 

 For ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife, 



Distract his hapless head ! 

 For him awaits no balmy sleep, 

 He wakes all night, and wakes to weep, 

 Or, by his lonely lamp he sits, 



At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps, 

 In feverish study, and in moody fits 



His mournful vigils keeps. 



And, oh ! for what consumes his watchful oil ? 



For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath? 

 'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, 



'Tis for untimely death. 

 Lo ! w^here, dejected, pale, he lies. 

 Despair depicted in his eyes, 

 He feels the vital flame decrease, 



He sees the grave, wide yawning for its prey, 

 Without a friend to sooth his soul to peace, 



And cheer the expiring ray, 



III. 2. 



By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, 

 By gentle Otway's magic name, 

 By him, the youth, who smiled at death, 

 And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, 



Will I thy pangs proclaim ; 

 For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, 

 Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, 



