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Tho' well I feel unworthy Thee, the lays,
That to thy memory weeping friendship pays.


Supposed to have been written at the Grave of H, K. White.



YE gentlest Gales! oh, hither waft
On airy undulating sweeps,

Your frequent sighs, so passing soft,

Where he, the youthful POET, sleeps!
He breath'd the purest tenderest sigh,
The sigh of sensibility,


And thou shalt lie, his fav'rite flower,
Pale PRIMROSE, on his grave reclin'd:
Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour,

And of his pure, his spotless mind!
Like thee, he sprung in lowly vale;
And felt, like thee, the trying gale.


Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude,

Oh thou, the fragrant ROSEMARY,
Where he," in marble solitude,

So peaceful, and so deep" doth lie!

His harp prophetic, sung to thee,
In notes of sweetest minstrelsy..


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.

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.


On the late Henry Kirke 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 heav'nly music flow.

And oft he bade, by fame inspir'd,

Its wild notes seek th' ætherial plain, Till angels, by its music fir'd,

Have, list'ning, caught th' ecstatic strain, Have wonder'd, and admir'd.

But now secure on happier 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 now exalted, heav'nly lyre
In sounds Æolian grieve.

B. Stoke.




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Occasioned by the death of Henry Kirke White.

WHAT is this world at best,
Tho' deckt in vernal bloom,

By hope and youthful fancy drest?
What but a ceaseless toil for rest,
A passage to the tomb?

If flow'rets strew

The avenue,

Tho' 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 pilf'rer brings,
To lay some comfort low:

Some tie t' unbind,
By love entwin'd,

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:

The songster's flee,

The leafless tree,

And bear to happier realms their melody.

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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.

Altho' 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,

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To tow'r, to shine;

But I may make thy milder virtues mine.

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