Although a stranger, I In friendship's train would weep: Their friend may call; And Nature's self attends his funeral. Although with feeble wing With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride, 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,) I shall unite for ever: At death then why Tremble or sigh? Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die! Dec. 5th, 1807. JOSIAH CONder. SONNET, On seeing another written to H. K. White, in September 1803, inserted in his "Remains by Robert Southey." BY ARTHUR OWEN. АH! once again the long-left wires among, 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 Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, REFLECTIONS, On reading the Life of the late H. K. White. BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, Author of "The Peasant's Fate." DARLING of science and the muse, 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, Yet Fancy, hovering round the tomb, Dear poet, saint, and sage! Who into one short span, at best, To him a genius sanctified, And purged from literary pride, And lift the soul to Heaven. 'Twas not the laurel earth bestows, With classic toil he sought: He sought the crown that martyrs wear, 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, Atoning for your crime. This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime, In full perfection there shall bloom; London, 27th Feb. 1808. ON READING THE POEM ON BUT art thou thus indeed “alone ?” Is not his voice in evening's gale? Unnoticed by his watchful eye? Each fluttering hope-each anxious fearEach lonely sigh-each silent tear |