To thine Almighty Friend are known;
And say'st thou, thou art "all alone?"

JOSIAH CONder.

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,"
Shed 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 immortality!

Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808.

WRITTEN IN

THE HOMER OF MR. H. K. WHITE.

Presented to me by his Brother, J. Neville White.

BARD of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame!
While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest,
On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late
press'd,

I pause; and gaze regretful on thy name.
By neither chance nor envy, time nor flame,
Be it from this its mansion dispossess'd!
But thee Eternity clasps to her breast,
And in celestial splendor thrones thy claim.

II.

No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace
An imitative radiance :* thy pure lyre

Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace,
And beams and breathes in empyreal fire:
The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone

Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own.

Bury, 11th Jan. 1807.

C. L.

Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a glory.

ON

THE DEATH OF H. K. WHITE.

Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell,
Impassion❜d minstrel! when its pitying wail
Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it 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,

[clime, Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desart 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."