Such was the fate hope pictured to my view-
But who, alas! ere found hope's visions true?
And, ah! a dark presage, when last we met,
Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret ;
When thou thy portrait from the minstrel drew,
The living Edwin starting on my view—
Silent, I ask'd of Heaven a lengthen'd date;
His genius thine, but not like thine his fate.
Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure revealed,
The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd.
Too strong the portion of celestial flame
For its weak tenement the fragile frame;
Too soon for us it sought its native sky,
And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye,
Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight,
Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light:
So shall thy bright example fire each youth
With love of virtue, piety, and truth.
Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn,
And bid her sons revere thy favour'd urn.

When thy loved flower "spring's victory makes known,"

The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone: Around thy urn the rosemary well spread, Whose "tender fragrance," emblem of the deadShall "teach the maid, whose bloom no longer

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,
And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies.
Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance dwell,
And to the world thy worth delight to tell;
Though well I feel unworthy thee the lays
That to thy memory weeping friendship pays.

STANZAS,

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,

Your frequent sighs so passing soft,

Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps! He breathed the purest tenderest sigh, The sigh of sensibility.

And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower,
Pale primrose, on his grave reclined;
Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour,
And of his pure, his spotless mind!
Like thee he sprung in lowly vale;
And felt, like thee, the trying gale.

Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude,
Oh thou, the fragrant rosemary,
Where he," in marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep" doth lie!
His harp prophetic sung to thee
In notes of sweetest, minstrelsy.

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 fade-
Thy last, thy setting radiance pour,
Where he is set to rise no more.