Spirit, robed in crystal light,
On the fleecy clouds of night,
Descend; and, oh! my breast inspire
With a portion of thy fire;

Teach my hand, at midnight's noon,

Hover o'er me while I sing,

Oh! spirit lov'd and bless'd, attune the string!

Yes, now, when all around are sunk in rest,
And the night-vapour sails along the west;
When Darkness, brooding o'er this nether ball,
Encircles Nature with her sable pall;
Still let me tarry, heedless of repose,

Το pour the bosom's not the muse's woes !
To thy lov'd memory heave the sigh sincere,
And drop a kindred, - a prophetic tear!

Fast flow, ye genial drops

Gush forth, ye tender sighs!

And who, dear shade! can tell — but

While thus I, mournful, pause and weep for Thee,

Shortly a sigh may heave

a tear be shed, for me!

ON VISITING THE TOMB OF H. K. WHITE.

BY MRS. M. H. HAY.

OH! spirit of the blest, forgive

The mortal tear the mortal sigh;
Thow knowest what it was to live
And feel each human agony.

I would not raise thy mouldering form,
Nor bring thy spirit from above,
Could I a miracle perform,

Much as thy beauteous soul I love.

No, all I ask in fervent prayer,

As o'er thy silent tomb I bend,
That I, in heavenly scenes, may share

Thy converse, and become thy friend.

LINES

Written on reading the Remains of Henry Kirke White, of Nottingham, late of St. John's College, Cambridge; with an Account of his Life, by Robert Southey, Esq.

BY MRS. M. HAY.

THY gentle spirit now is fled,
Thy body in its earthy bed
Is laid in peaceful sleep;
A spirit good and pure as thine,
Best in immortal scenes can shine,

Though friends are left to weep.

When in this dreary dark abode,
Bewildered in life's mazy road,
The weary trav❜ller sighs,

A rising star sometimes appears,
Illumes the path, his bosom cheers,
And lights him to the skies.

Oh, had thy valued life been spared,
Had'st thou the vineyard's labour shared,

What glowing fruits of love

Thou might'st have added to the stores
Purchas'd by Him thy soul adores

Now in the realms above.

Those dazzling gems ye so much prize,
Perhaps in dread array may rise

In judgment from the tomb.

A single gem of useless show
Might everlasting lustre throw

Upon the eternal mind;

Did gentle offices employ

Those hours which fashion's ways destroy,

Those hours for good design'd.

Peruse the letters of a youth,

Whose pen was dipt in heavenly truth,

His virtuous struggles trace;

Then will thy melting bosom bleed,
And quicken there the precious seed

Of self-renewing grace.

Then will be clearly understood,

The luxury of doing good :'

And O! how happy they

Whose means are great, and hearts are large,

Who best the sacred trust discharge.

To Him who will repay..

* Vide the Life, p. 49.

AFTER READING

SOUTHEY'S REMAINS

OF

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

THY living worth it was not mine to prize,
I heard not of thee till thy star had set;

But, dead, I give thee tears, poor youth, and sighs,
And thoughts of tender, mournful, keen regret!
And I do say, within my very heart

Resolving, some sear, murky, autumn day
When spirits less congenial hold apart,

A sorrowing pilgrim, to thy grave I'll stray, And hang my humble meed of poësy

Upon thy sainted tomb, and worship thee'Twere weak, alas! and idly vain for thee! Thine ear now only lists to minstrelsy

Pæan'd by cherub quires! But, to me,

"Twould be some little sweet to breathe an air

Of melancholy, and, half-murmuring, cry

Great God! the wicked live-the virtuous mourn and die!

And thou, his Mother, on whose fostering breast

Were cradled his first cares; whose after-love

(Ah! in such holy love be childhood blest,

For ever blest,) his mental wants suppliedWhose better hopes, and sense more quick, confest His dawning genius, and its high behest,