But Heaven was pleased to stop his fleeting hour, With him we'll strive to win the Saviour's love, TO MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE, BY H. WELKER. HARK! 'tis some sprite who sweeps a funeral knell -That fitful tone For Dermody no more. From Eolus' wild harp alone can swell, Or Chatterton assumes the lyre unknown. No; list again! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh Swells with the breeze, and dies upon the stream: 'Tis Margaret mourns, as swift she rushes by, Roused by the demons from adulterous dream. O! say, sweet youth! what genius fires thy soul? The same which tuned the frantic nervous strain To the wild harp of Collins?-By the pole, Or 'mid the seraphim and heavenly train, Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold, To sing Hell's flaming gulf, or Heaven high arch'd with gold?.. VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BY JOSIAH CONDER. WHAT is this world at best, Though deck'd in vernal bloom, By hope and youthful fancy dress'd, 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 woe: Conceal'd beneath its little wings, A scythe the soft-shod pilferer brings, To lay some comfort low : Some tie to unbind, By love entwined, Some silken bond that holds the captive mind. And every month displays The ravages of time: Faded the flowers !-The spring is past! R The songsters flee The leafless tree, And bear to happier realms their melody. In Henry the world no more Can claim thee for her own! purer skies thy radiance beams! Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes Before the eternal throne: Yet, spirit dear, Forgive the tear Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger here. Although a stranger, I In friendship's train would weep: Lost to the world, alas! so young, And must thy lyre, in silence hung, The poet, all Their friend may call; And Nature's self attends his funeral. Although with feeble wing One heaven alike in view; True, it was thine To tower, to shine; But I may make thy milder virtues mine. If Jesus own my name (Though fame pronounced it never), At death then why Tremble or sigh? Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die? Dec. 5, 1807. ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S POEM ON SOLITUDE. BY JOSIAH CONDER. BUT art thou thus indeed " alone?" Is not his voice in evening's gale? Unnoticed by his watchful eye? Each fluttering hope-each anxious fear— ODE ON THE LATE H. KIRKE WHITE. BY JUVENIS. o'er? AND is the minstrel's voyage A pilgrim in this world of woe, And oft he bade, by fame inspired, Its wild notes seek the ethereal plain, Till angels, by its music fired, Have, listening, caught the ecstatic strain, Have wonder'd, and admired. But now secure on happier shores, With choirs of sainted souls he sings; His harp the Omnipotent adores, And from its sweet, its silver strings Celestial music pours. |