ENGLISH AND ITALIAN POETRY.

Not that our English clime, how sharp soe'er,
Yields in ripe genius to the warmest sphere;
For what we want in sunshine out of doors,
And the long leisure of abundant shores,
By freedom, nay by sufferance, is supplied,
And each man's sacred sunshine, his fire-side.
But all the four great Masters of our Song,
Stars that shine out amidst a starry throng,
Have turn'd to Italy for added light,

As earth is kiss'd by the sweet moon at night;-
Milton for half his style, Chaucer for tales,
Spenser for flowers to fill his isles and vales,
And Shakspeare's self for frames already done
To build his everlasting piles upon.
Her genius is more soft, harmonious, fine;
Our's bolder, deeper, and more masculine:
In short, as woman's sweetness to man's force,
Less grand, but softening by the intercourse,
So the two countries are,-so may they be,-
England, the high-soul'd man—the charmer, Italy.
From An Epistle to Lord Byron.

THE NILE.

It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,
And times and things, as in that vision, seem

Keeping along it their eternal stands,

Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands

That roam'd through the young world, the glory extreme
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,

The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng,

And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
"Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our own calm journey on for human sake.

THOUGHTS OF THE AVON.

(SEPT. 28, 1817.)

It is the loveliest day that we have had
This lovely month, sparkling, and full of cheer;
The sun has a sharp eye, yet kind and glad;
Colours are doubly bright: all things appear
Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere;
And through the lofty air the white clouds go,
As on their way to some celestial show.
The banks of Avon must look well to-day;
Autumn is there in all his glory and treasure;
The river must run bright; the ripples play
Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure;
The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure;
And the rich orchards, in their sunniest robes,
Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.

And why must I be thinking of the pride
Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest
To sing in here, though by the house's side?
As if I could not in a minute, rest

In leafy fields, rural, and self-possest,

Having, on one side, Hampstead for my looks,
On t'other, London, with its wealth of books?

It is not that I envy Autumn there,

Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,
That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one,
Shakspeare; nor yet,-oh no,-that here I miss
Souls, not unworthy to be named with his:

No; but it is that on this very day,
And upon Shakspeare's stream, a little lower,
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,
Was born the lass that I love more and more;
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art; a nature, that of yore

Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When, in the golden age, one tune they bore;

MARIAN,-who makes my heart and very rhymes run o'e

IN the character of this talented youth, who was just shown to the world and instantly removed, we perceive a beautiful combination of great poetic talent, accomplished scholarship, and an amiable disposition, all sustained and directed by the highest and purest principles of religion. Henry Kirke White was born at Nottingham, on the 21st of March, 1785. As his father was a butcher in humble circumstances, it was intended that young Henry should carry the basket, and serve the meat at the houses of the customers: but for such an office the boy's disposition was totally unfitted, and, at the instance of his mother, he was sent to school, where he received a classical education. It is a curious fact that, notwithstanding that wonderful precocity of genius of which he afterwards supplied the world with satisfactory proofs, he was supposed by his teachers to be a very dull boy, and was treated accordingly. This instance only adds one proof to the many, of the rash judgments which may be formed by the superintendants of education, and the facility with which youthful genius may be unwittingly stifled or destroyed. His spirit was roused by the insult, and he revenged himself by writing such lampoons upon his teachers as sufficed to show how egregiously they had been mistaken. The dates of several of his poems show, that even at the early age of eleven he had commenced the writing of poetry, and that his improvement both in versification and sentiment was truly wonderful. When he was fourteen years old, he was put by his friends to a loom, with the view of making him a stocking-weaver; but soon becoming tired of such an unintellectual occupation, he was articled to an attorney of his native town. But something more congenial than law was necessary for his refined taste and lively imagination, and amidst the dry and laborious duties of the office, his love of literature was so great, that he acquired a knowledge of the Greek, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian languages.

Although the views of Henry Kirke White in studying law had been directed to the bar, a defect in his hearing, to which he was subject, obliged him to relinquish this intention. Still his thirst for learning continued unabated, and he was encouraged to publish a collection of his poems, with the view of raising a sufficient sum from the profits to enter one of the Universities. A small volume appeared accordingly; but this unfortunate work the Monthly Review attacked with such unmeasured censure, that the young author was almost reduced to despair. He had looked forward to the college as his home of happiness, and one blast seemed to have shipwrecked his hopes for ever. He had not written, however, in vain for effective patrons, who were able to judge of his merits, came forward, at a time when his despondency was at its height, and through their aid he was enabled to repair to the University of Cambridge, and devote himself to his beloved pursuits. In the case of young White, a double obligation now existed for extraordinary exertion. It was necessary to justify the kindness of his patrons, as well as to further his own success in life, by distinguishing himself as a student, and this could only be done by obtaining those academic honours which would attest his diligence and proficiency. Besides, he had already acquired a considerable literary reputation, which he naturally wished to increase. He read and studied accordingly, and when his health sank under the effort, he supported and forced his delicate constitution with powerful medicines. Nature could not long endure such violence with impunity, and a fever was the consequence, under which he expired on the 19th of October, 1806.

The admiration excited by the poems of Henry Kirke White, which were published after his death under the able editorship of Southey, was almost unbounded. This was occasioned, in a great measure, by admiration of his virtues, and sympathy for his untimely end, as well as by fond calculations of the high eminence he might have attained, if his life had been spared. But this enthusiasm has now subsided, and a more correct estimate is formed of his talents. While his poetry is acknowledged to possess high merit, it is as the poetry of a mere youth only, which it would be ridiculous to compare with that of the great masters of modern song. Kirke White may perhaps be placed in the third class and this is high praise for a poet who died at the age of twenty-one.

Maiden! wrap thy mantle round thee,
Cold the rain beats on thy breast;
Why should Horror's voice astound thee?
Death can bid the wretched rest!
All under the tree
Thy bed may be,

And thou mayst slumber peacefully.

Maiden! once gay Pleasure knew thee;

Now thy cheeks are pale and deep:

Love has been a felon to thee,

Yet, poor maiden, do not weep:

There's rest for thee

All under the tree,

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

Oh! 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 while 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.

VERSES.

When pride and envy, and the scorn
Of wealth, my heart with gall imbued,
I thought how pleasant were the morn
Of silence, in the solitude;
To hear the forest bee on wing,

Or by the stream or woodland spring,

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