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

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,
By hope and youthful fancy dress’d,
What, but a ceaseless toil for rest,
A passage to the tomb ? ·

If flowerets strew

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

And every hour comes arm’d

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 scatter'd leaves, the wintry blast,

Warn to a milder clime :

The songsters flee

The leafless tree,
And bear to happier realms their melody.

Henry! the world no more

Can claim thee for her own!
In purer skies thy radiance beams!
Thy lyre employ’d on nobler themes
Before the eternal throne :

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: 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 quicken'd 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,

If Jesus own my name

(Though fame pronounced 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. 5, 1807.

ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S

POEM ON SOLITUDE.

BY JOSIAH CONDER.

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 ?
Is there a leaf can fade and die
Unnoticed by his watchful eye?
Each Auttering hope-each anxious fear-
Each lonely sigh-each silent tear-
To thine Almighty Friend are known;
And say'st thou, thou art “ all alone ?”

ODE ON THE LATE H. KIRKE WHITE.

BY JUVENIS.

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

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