« AnteriorContinuar »
Such was the fate hope pictured to my view,
lives,” That“ virtue every perish'd grace survives.” Farewell! sweet Moralist; heart-sickening grief Tells me in duty's path to seek relief,
With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise,
SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
BY A LADY.
Ye gentlest gales ! oh, hither waft,
On airy undulating sweeps,
Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps !
And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower,
Pale primrose, on his grave reclined ;
And of his pure, his spotless mind !
Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude,
Oh thou, the fragrant rosemary,
So peaceful and so deep” doth lie!
Ye falling dews, Oh! ever leave
Your crystal drops these flowers to steep : At earliest morn, at latest eve,
Oh let them for their poet weep! For tears bedew'd his gentle eye, The tears of heavenly sympathy.
Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams;
For he was wont to pace the glade, To watch in pale uncertain gleams,
The crimson-zoned horizon fadeThy last, thy setting radiance pour, Where he is set to rise no more.