Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desart clime, For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away, And pure in spirit, as the blest are pure; TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BY A LADY. From the "Associate Minstrels." WHILE in full choir the solemn requiem swells, Of lofty praise I bring; Yet, sainted spirit! own the pensive tear Soft as the airs that fan the waking spring, When the pale North regains his empire chill, * Young, I think, says of Narcissa, "she sparkled, was exhaled, and went to Heaven." And all his fury dies, Thy touching minstrelsies With magic sweetness on thy spring arose, For thee his glowing torch did Genius fire! And bid in drowning tears, its flame expire!— With many a forest flower, Enwreathe the brows of her much favoured child:- Hush'd is the melting cadence of the lyre Kindled from heaven it came; And with its native spark so closely blended, As wandering o'er the waste of desart lands, Some wearied pilgrim seeks a holy shrine, And speeds him o'er the blaze of torrid sands, To catch of parted worth some trace divine; So to thy sacred turf would I repair; And while on Fame's recording page I see, What, though no longer beaming here below, And memory shed her moonbeam on thine urn. Marked its swift progress o'er this realm of night, And hailed its rising on a fairer land. Above the flaming zone of day Sparkling with exhaustless ray, Fixed, shall it shine with living glory bright LINES Written on visiting the Rooms once inhabited by Henry Kirke White, in St. John's College, Cambridge. BY MRS. M. H. HAY. HOW awful! how impressive is the gloom, Mid these lone walls, where Henry met his doom. Earth, and all earthly things fade from my sight; I almost see a dawn of heavenly light, And Henry's angel voice I seem to hear, Saying, "Poor Sister, dry the mortal tear, "Nor let thy bosom swell with grief for me; "Learn first the bleeding cross on earth to bear, "And heavenly harmony can with me sing, A REFLECTION, On the Early Death of HENRY Kirke White. BY A LADY. THE pensive snow-drop lifts her modest head, Sweet flower! not long thy spotless heart will fear The cruel blast that bows thy slender form: Thou wert not made for winter's frown severe; Soon wilt thou droop, unconscious of the storm. Thus genius springs, and thus the storms of earth Nip the young bud, just opening to the day: Awhile it blooms, to prove its heavenly birth, Awhile it charms, then withers,-dies away. Thus Henry graced the world-Too soon the power |