If Jesus own my name,

(Though fame pronounc'd it never,)
Sweet spirit! not with thee alone,
But all whose absence here I moan,

Circling with harps the golden throne,
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 Henry Kirke White, in September 1805, inserted in his "Remains by Robert Southey."

BY ARTHUR OWEN.

AH! once again the long-left wires among,
Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song;:
With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay
Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to stray
O'er Fancy's fields in quest of musky flower;

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

Forc'd 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
To where the brook soft-murmuring glides along
In the still wood; yet does the plaintive song.
Of Philomela through the welkin flow;

And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw

Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among,
Will sit beneath some spreading oak-tree strong,
And intermingle with the streams my woe:
Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze;

No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom;
Cold chilling dew-drops trickle down the trees,
And every flower withholds its rich perfume;
'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground
Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound!

J. G.

REFLECTIONS

On reading the Life of the late Henry Kirke White.

BY WILLIAM HALLOWAY,

Author of "The Peasant's Fate."

DARLING of Science and the Muse,
How shall a son of song refuse

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-beguil'd,
In life's fair prime resign a child
So duteous, good, and kind?
The warblers of the soothing strain
Must string the elegiac lyre in vain
To sooth the wounded mind!

Yet Fancy, hov'ring round the tomb,
Half envies, while she mourns, thy doom,

Dear poet, saint, and sage!

Who into one short span, at best,
The wisdom of an age comprest,

A patriarch's lengthen'd age!

To him a genius sanctified,
And purg'd from literary pride,
A sacred boon was giv'n:
Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre
Celestial raptures could inspire,

And lift the soul to Heav'n.

"Twas not the laurel earth bestows,
'Twas not the praise from man that flows,
With classic toil he sought;

He sought the crown that martyrs wear,
When rescu'd from a world of care;
Their spirit too he caught.

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,

How to redeem this pearl at last,
Atoning for your crime.

This flow'r, that droop'd in one cold clime,
Transplanted from the soil of time

To immortality,

In full perfection there shall bloom;

And those who now lament his doom

Must bow to God's decree.

London, 27th Feb. 1808.

ON READING THE POEM ON SOLITUDE,

In the second Volume of H. K. White's "Remains."

BUT art thou thus indeed " alone ?"
Quite unbefriended-all unknown?
And hast thou then his name forgot
Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot?

Is not his voice in evening's gale?
Beams not with him the "star" so pale?
Is there a leaf can fade and die
Unnotic'd by his watchful eye?

Each flutt'ring hope, each anxious fear,
Each lonely sigh, each silent tear,
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, D. D.

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!