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But Heaven was pleased to stop his fleeting hour,
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.
0! 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 arch'd
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,
If flowerets strew
The avenue, Though fair, alas ! how fading, and how few!
And every hour comes arm’d
By sorrow, or by woe:
Some tie to unbind,
By love entwined, Some silken bond that holds the captive mind.
And every month displays
The ravages of time:
Warn to a milder clime :
The songsters flee
The leafless tree,
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
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 ;
Although with feeble wing
Thy flight I would pursue,
True, it was thine
To tower, to shine;
If Jesus own my name
(Though fame pronounced it never),
At death then why
Tremble or sigh? Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to
die ? Dec. 5, 1807.
ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S
POEM ON SOLITUDE.
BY JOSIAH CONDER.
But art thou thus indeed “ alone ?”
ODE ON THE LATE H. 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 briers grow,
He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, Its heavenly music flow.
And oft he bade, by fame inspired,
Its wild notes seek the ethereal plain, Till angels by its music fired,
Have, listening, caught the ecstatic strain, Have wonder'd, and admired.
But now secure on happier shores,
With choirs of sainted souls he sings; His harp the Omnipotent adores,
And from its sweet, its silver strings Celestial music pours