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If Jesus own my name

(Though fame pronounc'd 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. 5th, 1807.



On seeing another, written to Henry Kirke White, in September,

1803, inserted in his “ Remains by Robert Southey."


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

Forc'd 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. 17, 1807.



“ '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 dewy 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.


On reading the Life of the late Henry Kirke White.


Author of The Peasant's Fate."

DARLING of science and the muse,
How shall a son of


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 beguild,
In life's fair prirne resign a child,

So duteous, good, and kind?
The warblers of the soothing strain,
Must string the elegiac lyre in vain

To soothe the wounded mind!

Yet Fancy, hov'ring round the tonib,
Half envies, while she mourns thy doom,

Dear poet, saint and sage!
Who into one short span, at best,
The wisdom of an age comprest,,

A pati ascb's lengthen'd age!

To him a genius sanctified,
And purg'd from literary pride,

A sacred boon! was giv'n:
Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre
Celestial raptures could inspire

And lift the soul to Heav'n.

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

With classic toil he sought:
He sought the crown that martyrs wear,
When rescu'd from a world of care;

Their spirit too he caught.

Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, Who idly range in Folly's way,

And learn the worth of time: Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, How to redeem this pearl, at last,

Atoning for your crime.

This flow'r, that droop'd in one cold clime,
Transplanted from the soil of time

To immortality,
In full perfection there shall bloom,
And those, who now lament his doom,

Must bow to God's decree.

London, 27th Feb. 1808.


In the second Volume of H. K. White's “ Remains."

BUT art thou thus indeed “ alone ?"
Quite unbefriended-all unknown ?
And hast thou then his name forgot,
Who form'd thy frame and fix'd thy lot?

Is not his voice in evening's gale ?
Beams not with him the “ star" so pale ?
There's not a leaf can fade and die
Unnotic'd by his watchful eye.

Each flutt'ring hope--each anxious fear-
Each lonely sigh-each silent tear-
To thiné Almighty Friend are known;
And say'st thou, thou art“ all alone ?"

F. C.

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