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We then shall feel that friendship has a power
H. K. WHITE.
Half past Eleven o'clock at Night.
Yet once more, and once more, awake, my Harp,
Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,
Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence
So has the year been character'd with woe
crimes; Yet 'twas not thus He taught—not thus He lived, Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer And much thanksgiving. He, a man of woes, Went on the way appointed, -path, though rude, Yet borne with patience still :—He came to cheer The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, And on the wandering and benighted mind To pour the light of truth. O task divine ! O more than angel teacher! He had words To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds; And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm, He, pointing to the star of peace on high, Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile At the surrounding wreck. When with deep agony his heart was rack’d, Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray’d, His persecutors—" Father, pardon them, They know not what they do.”
Angels of Heaven, Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross,
And did him homage, say, may mortal join
Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again,
My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink; The good, the brave—he must not, shall not sink Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour No precious dews of Aganippe's well, Or Castaly,—though from the morning cloud I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse : Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too, If ever I have loved, with faltering step, To follow thee in the cold and starless night, To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff; And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour’d Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, Thy dying soul's viaticum; if oft Amid the carnage of the field I've sate With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, With mercy and forgiveness—visitant Of Heaven-sit thou upon my harp, And give it feeling, which were else too cold. For argument so great, for theme so high.
How dimly on that morn the sun arose, Kerchief’d in mists, and tearful, when
EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.
BLOOMFIELD, thy happy omen'd name
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WAS
BATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802.
He sunk, the impetuous river roll'd along,
The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath; And rising sad the rustling sedge among,
The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death.
Nymph of the Trent! why didst not thou appear
To snatch the victim from thy felon wave! Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier,
And deck with waterflags his early grave.
Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey,
Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride ; While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay,
And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide.