V.

Thou western sun, effuse thy beams:
For he was wont to pace the glade,
To watch in palé uncertain gleams,
The crimson-zoned horizon fade
"Thy last, thy setting radiance pour,
Where he is set to rise no more.

ON THE LATE H. K. WHITE

AND is the minstrel's voyage o'er!
And is the star of genius fled ?
And will his magic harp no more,
Mute in the mansions of the dead,
Its strains seraphic pour?

A pilgrim in this world of woe,
Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray,
Where bristly thorns, where briars grow,
He bade, to cheer the gloomy way,
Its heavenly music flow.

And oft he bade, by fame inspired,

Its wild notes seek th' ethereal plain,
Till angels by its music fired,

Have, listening, caught th' ecstatic strain,
Have wonder'd, and admired.

But now secure on happier shores,

With choirs of sainted souls she sings;

His harp th' Omnipotent adores,

And from its sweet, its silver strings

Celestial music pours.

And though on earth no more he'll weave

That lay that's fraught with magic fire,
Yet oft shall fancy hear at eve

His now exalted heavenly lyre

In sounds Æolian grieve.

B Stoke.

"UVENI

VERSES,

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF H. E. WHITE.

WHAT is this world at best,

Though deck'd in general bloom,
By hope and youthful fancy dress'd,
What, but a ceasless toil for rest,
A passage to the tomb?

If flowerets strew

The avenue,

Though fair alas! how fading, and how few.

And every hour comes arm'd

By sorrow, or by woe:
Conceal'd beneath its little wings,

A scythe the soft-shod pilferer brings,
To lay some comfort low:

Some tie t' unbind,

By love entwined,

Some silken bond that holds the captive mind.

And every month displays

The ravages of time

Faded the flowers!-The Spring is past
The scatter'd leaves, the wintry blast,

Warn to a milder clime:

And bear to happier realms their melody.

Henry! the world no more

Can claim thee for her own!
In purer skies thy radiance beams!
Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes
Before th' eternal throne:

Yet, spirit dear,

Forgive the tear

Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger here.

Although a stranger, I

In friendship's train would weep:
Lost to the world, alas! so young,
And must thy lyre, in silence hung,
On the dark cypress sleep?
The poet, all

Their friend may call ;

And Nature's self attends his funeral.

Although with feeble wing,
Thy flight I would pursue,

With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride,
Alike our object, hopes, and guide,
One heaven alike in view;

True it was thine

To tower, to shine;

But I may make thy milder virtues mine.
If Jesus own my name,

(Though fame pronounced 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. 5, 1807.

JOSIAH CONder.

SONNET,

ON SEEING ANCTHER WRITTEN TO H. K. WHITE, IN

SEPTEMBER, 1803, INSERTED IN

BY ROBERT SOUTHFY,'

By Arthur Owen.

HIS

'REMAINS

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

Forced 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 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 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 H, K. WHITE.

DARLING of science and the muse,
How shall the 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-beguiled,
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, hovering 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 compress'd,
A patriarch's lengthen'd age!

To him a genius sanctified,
And purged from literary pride,
A sacred boon was given;
Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre
Celestial raptures could inspire
And lift the soul to heaven.

Twas not the laurel earth bestows,
"Twas not the praise from man that flows,