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If Jesus own my name
(Though fame pronounc'd it never)
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."
BY ARTHUR OWEN.
AH! once again the long-left wires among,
To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view
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.
IN MEMORY OF MR. 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
Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among,
Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree strong,
No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom ;
And every flower withholds its rich perfume: "Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound!
On reading the Life of the late Henry Kirke White.
BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY,
Author of “ The Peasant's Fate."
DARLING of science and the muse,
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
How could a parent, love beguild,
So duteous, good, and kind?
To soothe the wounded mind!
Yet Fancy, hov'ring round the tonib,
Dear poet, saint and sage!
A pati ascb's lengthen'd age!
To him a genius sanctified,
A sacred boon! was giv'n:
And lift the soul to Heav'n.
"Twas not the laurel earth bestows;
With classic toil he sought:
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,
Must bow to God's decree.
London, 27th Feb. 1808.
ON READING THE POEM ON SOLITUDE,
In the second Volume of H. K. White's “ Remains."
BUT art thou thus indeed “ alone ?"
Is not his voice in evening's gale ?
Each flutt'ring hope--each anxious fear-