ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Henry Kirke White
, "Ode, written on the Death of Dermody the Poet" Monthly Mirror 14 (October 1802) 252-53.
1789 ca.: Samuel Whyte
1791: Lady Moira
1795: Samuel Whyte
1796: Charles Lamb
1798: Robert Southey
1802: James Grant Raymond
1802: Anna Seward
1802: Henry Kirke White
1802: Peter L. Courtier
1802: S. O.
1803: William Holloway
1805: Rev. Henry Boyd
1806: James Grant Raymond
1806: Robert Southey
1807: Lady Anne Hamilton
1807: John Howard Payne
1807: Francis William Blagdon
1808: Samuel Egerton Brydges
1808: Edward Cummins
1809: W. M. I.
1810: Joseph Blacket
1812: Charles Phillips
1820: Cornelius Webb
1823: James B. Sheys
1825: L. R. J.
1878: Alfred Webb
Henry Kirke White:
1799: Rev. Thomas Warton
1800: Rev. Vicesimus Knox
1801: Rev. John Donne
1802: Thomas Dermody
1802: Capel Lofft
1802: Anna Seward
Child of misfortune! Offspring of the Muse!
Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad
With hollow cheeks and haggard eye,
Behold he shrieking passes by:
I see, I see him near:
That hollow scream, that deepening groan;
It rings upon mine ear.
Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth,
Who clasp the syren pleasure to your breast,
Behold the wreck of genius here,
And drop, oh drop the silent tear
For Dermody at rest:
His fate is yours, then from your loins
Tear quick the silken vest.
Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye,
Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil;
How ghastly did it seem;
And then his dying scream:
Oh God! I hear it still:
It sounds upon my fainting sense,
It strikes with deathly chill.
Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death;
Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed,
Or pitying friends around him stand:
Or didst thou see a mother's hand
Support his languid head:
Oh none of these — no friend o'er him
The balm of pity shed.
Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth,
Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low:
Now come around who pant for fame,
And learn from hence, a poet's name
Is purchased but by woe:
And when ambition prompts to rise,
Oh think of him below.
For me, poor Moralizer, I will run,
Dejected, to some solitary state:
The muse has set her seal on me,
She set her seal on Dermody,
It is the seal of fate:
In some lone spot my bones may lie,
Secure from human hate.
Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear,
Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head:
May peace her banners o'er him wave;
For me in my deserted grave
No friend a tear shall shed:
Yet may the lily and the rose
Bloom on my grassy bed.