To him a genius sanctified,

And purged from literary pride,
A sacred boon was given:
Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre
Celestial raptures could inspire,

And lift the soul to Heaven.

'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 rescued 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 flower, that drooped 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

ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY T. PARK.

Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell,
Impassioned minstrel ! when its pitying wail
Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell

Untimely, withered by the northern gale.*
Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime!
Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse
[clime,

blast,

Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desert
But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast,
To see thee languish into quick decay.

Yet was not thy departing immature ;
For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away,

And pure in spirit, as the bless'd are pure; Pure as the dewdrop, freed from earthly leaven, That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. HENRY
KIRKE WHITE.

BY THE REV. J. PLUMPTRE.

SUCH talents and such piety combined,
With such unfeign'd humility of mind,
Bespoke him fair to tread the way to fame,
And live an honour to the Christian name.

See Clifton Grove

But Heaven was pleased to stop his fleeting hour, And blight the fragrance of the opening flower. but not for him, removed from pain;

We mourn

Our loss, we trust, is his eternal gain:

With him we'll strive to win the Saviour's love,
And hope to join him with the blest above.

October 24th, 1806.

TO MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY H. WELKER.

HARK! 'tis some sprite who sweeps a funeral knell, For Dermody no more. That fitful tone

From Eolus' wild harp alone can swell,

Or Chatterton assumes the lyre unknown.

No; list again! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh

Swells with the breeze, and dies upon the stream: 'Tis Margaret mourns, as swift she rushes by, Roused by the demons from adulterous dream.

O! say, sweet youth! what genius fires thy soul? The same which tuned the frantic nervous strain To the wild harp of Collins? - By the pole,

Or 'mid the seraphim and heavenly train, Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold, To sing Hell's flaming gulf, or Heaven high arched with gold?

VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY JOSIAH CONDER.

WHAT is this world at best,
Though deck'd in vernal bloom,
By hope and youthful fancy dressed,
What, but a ceaseless toil for rest,
A passage to the tomb?

If flowrets strew

The avenue,

Though fair, alas! how fading, and how few!

And every hour comes armed
By sorrow, or by woe:

Conceal'd beneath its little wings,

A scythe the soft-shod pilferer brings,

To lay some comfort low:

Some tie to unbind,

By love entwined,

Some silken bond that holds the captive mind.

And every month displays

The ravages of time:

Faded the flowers! The spring is past!

The scattered leaves, the wintry blast,

Warn to a milder clime:

The songsters flee

The leafless tree,

And bear to happier realms their melody.

In

Henry! the world no more

Can claim thee for her own!

purer skies thy radiance beams!

Thy lyre employed on nobler themes

Before the eternal throne:

Yet, spirit dear,

Forgive the tear

[here.

Which those must shed who're doomed to linger

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.

Although with feeble wing
Thy flight I would pursue,

With quickened zeal, with humbled pride,
Alike our object, hopes, and guide,

One heaven alike in view;

True, it was thine

To tower, to shine;

But I

may

make thy milder virtues mine.