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And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long,

The melody of death.

Come, funeral flow'r! who lovest to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly Alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf-altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot,
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

TO THE MORNING.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

Beams of the day-break faint ! I hail

Your dubious hues, as on the robe
Of Night, which wraps the slumbering globe,
I mark your traces pale.

“If Mr. White should be instructed by Almamater, he will, doubtless, produce better sense and better rhymes."

I know not who was the writer of this precious article. It is certain that Henry could have no personal enemy: his volume fell into the hands of some dull man, who took it up in an hour of illhumor, turned over the leaves to look for faults, and finding that Boy and Sky were not orthodox rhymes, according to his wise canons of criticism, sat down to blast the hopes of a boy, who had confessed to him all his hopes and all his difficulties, and thrown himself upon his mercy. With such a letter before him (by mere accident I saw that which had been sent to the Critical Review,) even though the poems had been bad, a good man would not have said so: he would have avoided censure, if he had found it impossible to bestow praise. But that the reader may perceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of this reviewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus contemptuously condemned because Boy and Sky are used as rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.*

Sweet-scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfuine !
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

The Rosemary buds in January, It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead.

And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long,

The melody of death.

Come, funeral flow'r! who lovest to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly Alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf-altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot,
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

TO THE MORNING.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

Beams of the day-break faint ! I hail

Your dubious hues, as on the robe
Of Night, which wraps the slumbering globe,
I mark your traces pale.

“ If Mr. White should be instructed by Almamater, he will, doubtless, produce better sense and better rhymes.”

I know not who was the writer of this precious article. It is certain that Henry could have no personal enemy: his volume fell into the hands of some dull man, who took it up in an hour of illhumor, turned over the leaves to look for faults, and finding that Boy and Sky were not orthodox rhymes, according to his wise canons of criticism, sat down to blast the hopes of a boy, who had confessed to him all his hopes and all his difficulties, and thrown himself upon his mercy. With such a letter before him (by mere accident I saw that which had been sent to the Critical Review,) even though the poems had been bad, a good man would not have said so: he would have avoided censure, if he had found it impossible to bestow praise. But that the reader may perceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of this reviewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus contemptuously condemned because Boy and Sky are used as rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.*

Sweet-scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfuine!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

* The Rosemary buds in January, It is the flower commonly put in the cottins of the dead.

And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long,

The melody of death.

Come, funeral flow'r! who lovest to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly Alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf-altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot,
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

TO THE MORNING.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

Beams of the day-break faint ! I hail

Your dubious hues, as on the robe
Of Night, which wraps the slumbering globe,
I mark your traces pale.

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