No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer,
And bind my spirit to this lower sphere;
Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh,
And bid new fire relume my languid eye:
No more the pencil's mimic art command,
And with kind pity guide my trembling hand;
Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard,
To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard.
Vain all the pleasures Thou can'st not inspire,
And "in my breast th' imperfect joys expire."
I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine,
And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine:
In Fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre
With virtue's energies each bosom fire;
I saw admiring nations press around,
Eager to catch the animating sound:

And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night,
To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight,
Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade,
And 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 ;
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;
His genius thine, but not like thine his fate.
Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure reveal'd,
The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd.
Too strong the portion of celestial flame
For its weak tenement, the fragile frame;
'Too soon for us it sought its native sky,
And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye.

Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight, '
Leaving behind fong tracks of lucid light:
So shall thy bright example fire each youth
With love of virtue, piety, and truth.

Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn,
And bia ner sons revere thy favour'd urn.
When thy loved flower "Spring's victory makes

known,"

The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone:
Around thy urn the rosemary we'll spread,
Whose "tender fragrance," emblem.of the dead---
Shall "teach the maid, whose bloom no longer

lives,"

That "virtue every perish'd grace survives."
Farewell! sweet Moralist; heart-sickening grief
Tells me in duty's paths to seek relief,
With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise.
And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies.
Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance dwell,
And to the world thy worth delight to tell;
Though well I feel unworthy Thee the lays
That to thy memory weeping friendship pays.

AND is the minstrel's voyage o'er ?
And is the star of genius fled ?
And will his magic harp no more,
Mute in the mansions of the dead,
Its strains seraphic pour?

A Pilgrim in this world of wo,

Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray,
Where bristly thorns, where briars grow,
He bade, to cheer the gloomy way,
Its heavenly music flow.

And oft he bade, by fame inspired,

Its wild notes seek th' ethereal plain, Till angels by its music fired,

Have, listening, caught th' ecstatic strain, Have wonder'd, and admired.

AH! once again the long-left wires among,
Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song;
With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay
Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to strav
O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower;

To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view And courtship of the world: hail'd was the hour That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew, Poor Henry's budding beauties to a clime

Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray Forced their young vigour into transient day, And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them! and shall

time

Trample these orphan blossoms ?-No! they breathe Still lovelier charms for Southey culls the wreath! Oxford, Dec. 17th, 1807.

SONNET.

In Memory of Mr. H. K. White.

'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 disturbs the awful gloom; Cold, chilling dew-drops trickle down the trees, And every flower withholds its rich perfume

DARLING of science and the muse,
How shall a son of song refuse

To shed a tear for thee?

To us, so soon, for ever lost,

What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd
By Heaven's supreme decree?
How could a parent, love-beguiled,
In life's fair prime resign a child
So duteous, good, and kind?
The warblers of the soothing strain
Must string the elegiac lyre in vain
To soothe the wounded mind!

Yet Fancy, hovering round the tomb,
Half envies, while she mourns thy doom,
Dear poet, saint, and sage!
Who into one short span, at best,
The wisdom of an age compress'd,
A patriarch's lengthen'd age!

To him a genius sanctified,
And purged from literary pride,
A sacred boon was given:

Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre
Celestial raptures could inspire,
And lift the soul to Heaven.

Twas not the laurel earth bestows,
"Twas not the praise from man that flows,
With classic toil he sought:

He sought the crown that martyrs wear,
When rescued from a world of care;
Their spirit too he caught.

Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay,
Who idly range in Folly's way,

And learn the worth of time:
Learn ye, whose days have run to waste,
How to redeem this pearl at last,
Atoning for your crime.

This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime
Transplanted from the soil of time

To immortality,

In full perfection there shall bloom; And those who now lament his doom Must bow to God's decree.

TO THE

MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE,

BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M.

O, LOST too soon! accept the tear
A stranger to thy memory pays!
Dear to the muse, to science dear,
In the young morning of thy days

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.

Amidst accumulated woes,

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

Warbled from every mournful string.

When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread, And deeper every moment grew; When rudely round thy youthful head, The chilling blasts of sickness blew;

Religion heard no 'plainings loud,

The sigh in secret stole from thee;
And pity, from the "dropping cloud,"
Sheds tears of holy sympathy.

Cold is that heart in which were met
More virtues than could ever die;
The morning-star of hope is set-
The sun adorns another sky.

O partial grief! to mourn the day
So suddenly o'erclouded here,

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,
And smiles, and soars, and steals away

But more than genius urged thy flight,
And mark'd the way, dear youth! for thee
Henry sprang up to worlds of light,
On wings of iinmortality!

Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808.

ON

THE DEATH OF

H. K. WHITE.

TOO, too prophetic did thy wild e swell,
Impassion'd minstrel! when its
ying wail
Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as fell
Untimely, wither'd by the northern gale.
Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime!
Whose opening bloom, mid many an adverse blast,
Charm'd the lone wanderer thro' this desart clime,
But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast,
To see thee languish into quick decay.
Yet was not thy departing immature;
For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away,

And pure in spirit, as the bless'd are pure;
Pure as the dew-drop, freed from earthly leaven,
That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven!t
T. PARK.

See Clifton Grove. +Young, I think, says of Narcissa, "she sparkled, was exhaled, and went to Heaven."