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No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer,

4. And bind my spirit to this lower sphere; Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh,

Ye falling dews, Oh! ever leave And bid new fire relume my languid eye:

Your crystal drops these flowers to steep: No more the pencil's mimic art command,

At earliest morn, at latest eve, And with kind pity guide my trembling hand;

Oh let them for their Poet weep. Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard,

For tears bedew'd his gentle eye, To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard.

The tears of heavenly sympathy. Vain all the pleasures Tlou can'st not inspire,

5. And “in my breast th' imperfect joys expire." I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine,

Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams: And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine:

For he was wont to pace the glade, In Fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre

To watch in pale uncertain gleams, With virtue's energies each bosom fire ;

The crimson-zoned horizon fade I saw admiring nations press around,

Thy last, thy setting radiance pour,
Eager to catch the animating sound :

Where he is set to rise no more.
And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night,
To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight,
Thy country hail'd thỳ venerated shade,
Ind each graced honour to thy memory paid.
such was the fate hope pictured to my view-

But who, alas ! e'er found hope's visions true ?
And, ah! a dark presage, when last we met,
Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret;

On the late HR White.
When Thou thy portrait from the minstrel drew,
The living Edwin starting on my view-
Silent, I ask'd of Heaven a lengthen'd date;

AND is the minstrel's voyage o'er ?
His genius thine, but not like thine his fate.

And is the star of genius fled ? Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure reveal'd, And will his magic harp no more, The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd.

Mute in the mansions of the dead,
Too strong the portion of celestial flame

Its strains seraphic pour ?
For its weak tenement, the fragile frame;
Too soon for us it sought its native sky,

A Pilgrim in this world of wo,
And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye.

Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray, Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight, Where bristly thorns, where briars grow, Leaving behind long tracks of lacid light:

He bade, to cheer the gloomy way,
So shall thy bright example fire each youth

Its heavenly music flow.
With love of virtue, piety, and truth.
Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn,

And oft he bade, by fame inspired,
And bia ner sons revere thy favour'd urn.

Its wild notes seek th' ethereal plain, When thy loved flower "Spring's victory makes Till angels by its music fired, known,"

Have, listening, caught th' ecstatic strain, The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone:

Have wonder'd, and admired.
Around thy urn the rosemary we'll spread,
Whose" tender fragrance," emblem of the dead- But now secure on happier shores,
Shall “ teach the maid, whose bloom no longer With choirs of sainted souls he sings:

Lis harp th' Omnipotent adores,
That“ virtue every perish'd grace survives."

And from its sweet, its silver strings
Farewell! sweet Moralist; heart-sickening grief Celestial music pours.
Tells me in duty's paths to seek relicf,
With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise.

And though on earth no more he'll weave And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies.

The lay that's fraught with magic fire, Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance dwell, Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve And to the world thy worth delight to tell ;

His now exalted, heavenly lyre Though well I feel unworthy Thee the lays

In sounds Æolian grieve. That to thy memory weeping friendship pays.

B. Stoke.




supposed to have been written at the Grave of

H. K. White.

Occasioned by the Death of H. K. White.


YE gentlest gales! oh, hither waft

Onairy undulating sweeps.
Your frequent sighs, so passing soft,

Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps!
He breathed the purest, tenderest sigh,
The sigh of sensibility.

2. And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower,

Pale Primrose, on his grave reclined: Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour,

And of his pure, his spotless mind Like thee, he sprung in lowly vale; And felt, like thee, the trying gale.

3. Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude,

Oh thou, the fragrant Rosemary,
Where he, "in marble solitude,

So peaceful, and so deep," doth lie!
His harp prophetic sung to thee
In notes of sweetest minstrelsy.

WHAT is this world at best,

Though deck'd in vernal bloom,
Py hope and youthful fancy dress'
What, but a ceaseless toil for rest,
A passage to the tomb ?

If flowerets strew

The avenue,
Though fair, alas ! how fading, and how few!
And every hour comes arm'd

By sorrow, or by wo:
Conceal'd beneath its little wings,
A sithe the soft-shod pilferer brings,
To lay some comfort low :

Some tie to unbind,

By love ontwined,
Some silken bond that holds the captive mind.

And every month displays

The ravages of time:
Faded the flowers The Spring is past!
The scatter'd leaves, the wintry blast,
Warn to a milder clime:

The songsters flee

The leafless tree,
sind bear to happier realms their melody,

Henry! the world no more

'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground Car claim thee for her own!

Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound ! In purer skies thy radiance beams!

J. G. Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes Before th' eternal throne

Yet, spirit dear,

Forgive the tear
Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger here.

Although a stranger, I

On reading the Life of the late H. K. White.
In friendship's train would weep
Lost to the world, alas! so young,

And must thy lyre, in silence hung,
On the dark cypress sleep?
The poet, all

Author of "The Peasant's Fate."
Their friend may call;
and Nature's self attends his funeral.

DARLING of science and the muse, Although with feeble wing

How shall a son of song refuse Thy flight I would pursue,

To shed a tear for thee? With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride,

To us, so soon, for ever lost, Alike our object, hopes, and guide,


hopes, what prospects have been cross'd One heaven alike in view;

By Heaven's supreme decree?
True, it was thine
To tower, to shine;

How could a parent, love-beguiled,
But I may make thy milder virtues mine.

In life's fair prime resign a child

So duteous, good, and kind ? If Jesus own my riame,

The warblers of the soothing strain

Must string the elegiac lyre in vain
(Though fame pronounced it never,
Sweet spirit, not with thee alone,

To soothe the wounded mind!
But all whose absence here I moan,
Circling with harps the golden throne,

Yet Fancy, hovering round the tomb,
I shall unite for ever:

Half en vies, while she mourns thy doom,
At death then why

Dear poet, saint, and sage!
Tremble or sigh?

Who into one short span, at best,
Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die!

The wisdom of an age compress'd,

A patriarch's lengthen's age !
Dez. 5th, 1807.

To him a genius sanctified,
And purged from literary pride,

A jacred boon was given :
Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre

Celestial raptures could inspire,

And lift ihe soul to Heaven.

Twas not the laurel earth bestows, On seeing another written to H. K. White, in Sep- 'Twas not the praise from man that flows, tember 1803, inserted in his “Remains by Robert

With classic toil he sought:

He sought the crown that martyrs wear, Southey."

When rescued from a world of care;

Their spirit too he caught.

Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay,
AH! once again the long-left wires among.

Who idly range in Folly's way, Truants the Muse to weave t.er requiem song;

And learn the north of time : With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay

Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, Cheer'd my dark nicorn of manhood, wont to strav

How to redeem this pearl at last,
O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower;

Atoning for your crime.
To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view
And courtship of the world: hail'd was the hour

This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew,

Transplanted from the soil of time Poor Henry's budding beauties—to a clime

To immortality, Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray

In full perfection there shall bloom;

And those who now lament his doom
Forced their young vigour into transient day,
And drain'd the stalk that reard them! and shall Must bow to God's decree.

Trample these orphan blossoms ?-No! they breathe London, 27th Feb. 1808.
Still lovelier charms-for Southey culls the wreath!

Oxford, Dec. 17th, 1807.


In the second Volume of H. K. White's Remains.“


In Memory of Mr. H. K. While.

'TIS now the dead of night," and I will go
To where the brook soft-murmuring glides along

In the still wood; yet does the plaintive song
Of Philomela through the welkin flow;
And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw

Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among,

Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree'strong,
And intermingle with the streams my wo:
Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze;

No mortal breath disturbsythe awful gloom;
Cold, chilling dew-drops trickle down the trees,

dod every flower withholds its rich perfume

BUT art thou thus indeed " alone?"
Quite unbefriended-all unknown?
And hast thou then his name forgot
Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot?
Is not his voice in evening's gale?
Beams not with him the ** star" so pale ?
Is there a leaf can fade and die,
Unnoticed by his watchful eye?
Each fluttering hope_each anxious fear-
Each lonely sigh-each silent tear-
To thine Almighty Friend are known;
And say'st thou, thou art “all alone ?


To rise with unextinguish'd ray-

To shine in a superior sphere!

Oft genius early quits this sod,

Impatient of a robe of clay,

Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod, BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M.

And smiles, and soars, and steals away

But more than genius urged thy flight, O, LOST too soon ! accept the tear

And mark'd the way, dear youth for thee A stranger to thy memory pays !

Henry sprang up to worlds of light, Dear to the muse, to science dear,

On wings of iinmortality! In the young morning of thy days

Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808. All the wild notes that pity loved

Awoke, responsive still to thee,
While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved

In softest, sweetest harmony.
The chords that in the human heart

Compassion touches as her own,
Bore in thy symphonies a part-

With them in perfect unison.

H. K. WHITE. Amidst accumulated woes,

That premature afflictions bring, Submission's sacred hymn arose,

TOO, too prophetic did thy wild ve swell, Warbled from every mournful string.

Impassion'd minstrel ! when its

ying wail

Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as fell When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread,

Untimely, wither'd by the northern gale. And deeper every moment grew;

Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime! When rudely round thy youthful head,

Whose opening bloom, mid many an adverse blast, The chilling blasts of sickness blew;

Charm'd the lone wanderer thro' this desart clime,

But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast, Religion heard no 'plainings loud,

To see thee languish into quick decay. The sigh in secret stole from thee;

Yet was not thy departing immature; And pity, from the “dropping cloud,"

For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away, Sheds tears of holy sympathy.

And pure in spirit, as the bless'd are pure;

Pure as the dew-drop, freed from earthly leaven, Cold is that heart in which were met

That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven! More virtues than could ever die;

T. PARK. The morning-star of hope is set The sun adorns another sky.

. See Clifton Grove. O partial grief! to mourn the day

+ Young, I think, says of Narcissa," she sparkled, So suddenly o'erclouded here,

was exhaled, and went to Heaven."















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