Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod,
And smiles, and soars, and steals away!

But more than Genius urg'd 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.

ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY THOMAS PARK, Esq. F. A. S.

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,

* Sec Clifton Grove, p. 16. ed. 1803.

Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desart clime,
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 blest are pure;
Pure as the dew-drop, freed from earthly leaven,
That sparkles, is exhal'd, and blends with heaven!*

- TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY A LADY.

From the Associate Minstrels."

WHILE in full choir the solemn requiem swells,
And bids the tranced thought sublimely soar,
While Sorrow's breath inspires responsive shells,
One strain of simple grief my reed would pour :
No splendid offering

Of lofty praise I bring;

Yet, sainted spirit! own the pensive tear
Shed in sad tribute on thine early bier.

Soft as the airs that fan the waking spring,
And on the margin of some melting rill,
In music wild their sounds Æolian fling,

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,
Then faintly murmuring, sunk to deep repose.

For thee his glowing torch did Genius fire!
Who now its meteor brightness shall recall?
Too soon he bore it to thy funeral,

And bid in drowning tears its flame expire ! —
For thee did Fancy weave a chaplet wild,
And from her woodland bower,

With many a forest flower,

Enwreathe the brows of her much favoured child:
Still they preserve a lasting bloom;
But, ah! they blossom on thy tomb!

Hush'd is the melting cadence of the lyre
That once could sweetest melodies impart ;
Its soften'd echoes vibrate on the heart,
But dews of death have quench'd the poet's fire.
Sure-'twas a phoenix flame;

Kindled from heaven it came;

And with its native spark so closely blended,
That soon to heaven impelled, it re-ascended.

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:

Sa to thy sacred turf would I repair ;
And while on Fame's recording page I see
Thy polished graces, and thy virtues fair,
Thy wisdom, mild, or heaven-taught piety;
The vestige of thy worth would share,
And thence some precious relic bear.

What, though no longer beaming here below,
Thy radiant star of life has ceased to burn,
Still shall its fire on Fancy's vision glow,

And Memory shed her moonbeam on thine urn.
Though early vanish'd hence, an angel band

Marked its swift progress o'er this realm of night,
Watch'd the last lustre of its parting light,

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,
When Time's last midnight long has rolled away.

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,
How sacred is the silence that prevails

'Mid these lone walls where Henry met his doom.
My heart is full, my recollection fails;

Earth, and all earthly things fade from my sight;
My friends, so loved around me, disappear;

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 then the bliss, now mine, shall gladden thee. "Mid scenes celestial e'en my soul can glow,

"And heavenly harmony can with me sing, "To think these poor "Remains" I left below

"Shall kindred spirits to my pleasures bring. "But, oh! could I send down the faintest gleam, "To wipe the earthy vapours from thine eyes, All human wisdom would appear a dream, "And inspiration lead thee to the skies.”