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Tho' well I feel unworthy Thee, the lays,
Supposed to have been written at the Grave of H, K. White.
BY A LADY.
On airy undulating sweeps,
Where he, the youthful POET, sleeps!
And of his pure, his spotless mind !
Oh thou, the fragrant RoSEMARY,
So peaceful, and so deep" doth lie!
Ilis harp prophetic, sung to thee,
4. Ye falling Dews, Oh! ever leave
Your chrystal drops, these flow'rs to steep: At earliest morn, at latest eve,
Oh let them for their Poet weep! For tears bedew'd his gentle eye, The tears of heavenly sympathy.
5. Thou western Sun effuse thy beams:
For he was wont to pace the glade, To watch in pale uncertain gleams,
The crimson-zon'd horizon fade Thy last, thy setting radiance pour, Where he is set to rise no more.
AND is the minstrel's
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,
Condemu’d, alas! awhile to stray, Where bristly thorns, where briars grow,
He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, Its heav'nly music flow.
And oft be bade, by fame inspir'd,
Its wild notes seek th' ætherial plain, Till angels, by its music fir’d,
Have, listning, caught th' ecstatic strain, Have wonder'd, and admir'd.
But now secure on bappier shores,
With choirs of sainted souls he sings, His harp th' omnipotent adores,
And from its sweet, its silver strings, Celestial music pours..
And tho' on earth no more he'll weave
The lay that's fraught with magic fire, Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve
His pow exalted, beav'nly lyre In sounds Æolian grieve.
JUVENIS, B. Stoke.
Occasioned by the death of Henry Kirke White.
WHAT is this world at best,
Tho' deckt in vernal bloom,
If flow'rets strew
Tho' fair, alas! how fading, and how few!
And every hour comes arm'd
By sorrow, or by woe:
Some tie t' unbind,
By love entwin'd,
And every month displays,
The songster's flee,
The leafless tree,
Henry! the world no more
Can claim thee for her own!
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;
Altho' with feeble wing
Thy flight I would pursue,
True, it was thine,
To tow'r, to shine;