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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.
YE gentlest Gales! oh, hither waft
Your frequent sighs, so passing soft,
Where he, the youthful POET, sleeps!
And thou shalt lie, his fav'rite flower,
And of his pure, his spotless mind!
Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude,
Oh thou, the fragrant ROSEMARY,
So peaceful, and so deep" doth lie!
His harp prophetic, sung to thee,
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.
The crimson-zon'd horizon fade-
On the late Henry Kirke White.
AND is the minstrel's voyage o'er?
Mute, in the mansions of the dead,
Its strains seraphic pour?
A Pilgrim in this world of woe,
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,
And from its sweet, its silver strings, ›'
And tho' on earth no more he'll weave
His now exalted, heav'nly lyre
Occasioned by the death of Henry Kirke White.
WHAT is this world at best,
By hope and youthful fancy drest?
If flow'rets strew
Tho' fair, alas! how fading, and how few!
And every hour comes arm'd
Conceal'd beneath its little wings,
A Scythe the soft-shod pilf'rer brings,
Some tie t' unbind,
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.
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:
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,
One heaven alike in view,
To tow'r, to shine;
But I may make thy milder virtues mine.