Henry’s father was a clergyman, discharging humbly and meritoriously his
professional duties in a country village. He discerned early marks of
superior talents in his son, and placed him under a distinguished master,
whose instructions have produced many eminent men and accomplished
scholars.
The youth’s health was always delicate, which gave him a propensity
to retirement, to books, and particularly to poetry. There was a
characteristic taste, delicacy, and feeling, in his earliest productions,
which will at this distant period stand the test of the severest
criticism. Under the instructor above alluded to, he became a very good,
if not a very profound scholar; and he went to the university with
the greatest ardour for literary pursuits, still retaining his early
prepossessions in favour of poetry.
The bias which he took towards ancient English poetry, and the
perseverance and zeal with which he pursued and cultivated a knowledge
of the earliest English poets, probably arose from his introduction to
Thomas Warton, whose History of English Poetry, and other productions
in illustration of our ancient bards, were his great and constant
favourites. With the feelings which this kind of reading inspired, aided
by the delicate frame of his constitution, and the natural sensibility
of his temper, he at this period wrote some beautiful pieces of poetry,
which he was induced to print. They were soon disposed of, and were for
a long time enumerated among the scarce tracts of our language, but they
have since been reprinted.
It was not at all likely that such exquisite susceptibility of mind and
temper as characterized our friend, should be a long time without fixing
on one individual object, to share his tenderness and sympathy. This
accordingly happened, but “_hinc illæ lacrymæ_.” He surrendered himself
a willing captive to the charms of a lovely and accomplished woman, of
the same age and similar propensities with himself, and with respect to
whom, there was but one thing wanted to secure to a union between them,
as much of happiness as can be the lot of humanity. The attachment was
supposed to be reciprocal; this is to appearance implied by the following
fragment, written, as it should seem, on revision of some verses composed
by the lady in question.
The time was once when oft the long day through,
Far, far too busy for my present peace,
O’er these the pensive fablings of your muse
I hung enamoured, whilst with anxious glance
The kindred feelings of my youthful years
In visionary view full glad I found,
And blissful dreams familiar to my heart,
O’er which sweet Hope her gilding pall had flung.
Such, oh! such scenes, with Myra to have shared,
Was all my fruitless prayers ere asked of Fate.
...
Mischance stood by, and watched, and at an hour
When least I thought her near, with hasty hand
All my fair pictured hopes at once defaced.
The lines which follow are much too beautiful to require any apology for
insertion.
The traveller thus when louring skies impend,
In sorrowing silence leaning on his staff,
From some ascent his weary steps have gained,
Breathless looks back, and pausing, wonders well
The lengthened landscape past: now hid he finds
Mid far off mists and thick surrounding showers
Each city, wandering stream, and wildering wood,
Where late in joy secure he journeyed blythe,
Nor met the phantom of a single fear,
Where every cloud illumined by the sun,
Hung lovely, and each zephyr fragrance breathed.
[_Cætera desunt._
The obstacle, however, could not be removed, and it was deemed expedient
and prudential that the connection should be dissolved. It was so, but
our friend never got the better of the shock, which his sensibility
sustained. He absented himself from his friends, and when he again
appeared among them, he introduced a wife; but such a wife!—no more
like her by whom he had been rejected, than he himself to Hercules. Who
she was, where he found her, why he married her, are matters which, if
known at all, can only be so to a very few. But the vessel was too much
shaken, and battered, and crazy, to weather many of the gales of life.
There was deadly and corrosive poison lurking within. It was deemed
adviseable that he should try the air of Lisbon. He prepared to do so,
and in his progress thither, before he embarked, he visited him who
now pays this tribute to his memory. But oh how altered! He was also
alone; he who wanted, he who merited every care, every attention of the
tenderest sympathy, had, when approaching almost to the last stage of
pulmonary decay, no friend, no companion, no kindness to soothe his
sufferings, or cheer him on his way. Shame! shame! shame! She whose duty,
if not affection, should have prompted her to undertake the benevolent
office, remained behind; and if not foully slandered, went to the theatre
with a paramour, within an hour after parting with her husband, with
every probability of seeing him no more. She married this same fellow
afterwards; but both are dead, and may God forgive them.
But as we were saying, he proceeded to Lisbon, where he would have died
a victim to the want of proper attention and attendance, but that the
incidental recommendation of a friend, procured for him hospitality of no
ordinary kind or extent. All was, however, unavailing, and he returned
without benefit. He did not survive a great while afterwards, but to the
last, retained his native sweetness of temper, unruffled by sufferings,
and his elegance of taste and powers of intellect, unclouded and
undiminished. Peace to his ashes. A purer spirit has not heaven. He died
at the early age of twenty-four; yet in that short interval, he directed
the national taste to the investigation of natural and simple beauties,
which had long lurked unnoticed and unknown, in the productions of our
earlier bards; and had he lived, would, beyond all doubt, have pursued
the course of his studious propensities, and have brought to maturity
somewhat of still greater importance to the literature of his country.
A few specimens of this young man’s taste and talents will be found in
the Appendix, but the following Song, which is not printed with his
works, seems to merit insertion here.
SONG.
(_The sentiments borrowed from Shakspeare._)
1.
Young Damon of the vale is dead,
Ye lowland hamlets mourn,
A dewy turf lies o’er his head,
And at his feet a stone.
2.
His shroud which death cold damps destroy,
Of snow-white threads was made,
All mourned to see so sweet a boy
In earth for ever laid.
3.
Pale pansies o’er his corpse were placed,
Which plucked before their time,
Bestrewed the boy like him to waste,
And wither in their prime.
4.
But will he ne’er return, whose tongue
Could tune the rural lay?
Ah no! his bell of peace is rung,
His lips are cold as clay.
5.
They bore him out at twilight hour,
The youth who lov’d so well,
Ah me! how many a true-love shower
Of kind remembrance fell.
6.
Each maid was woe, but Lucy chief,
Her heart o’er all was tried,
Within his grave she dropp’d in grief,
And o’er her loved one died.
⸺aut equos
Alere, aut canes ad venandum aut ad philosophos.