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 heav'n a lengthen'd date,
His genius thine, but not like thine his fate.
Shuddering I gaz'd, and saw too sure reveal'd,
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 lov'd flower, "Spring's victory makes known,"

The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone:
Around thy urn, the rosemary well spread,

Whose "tender fragance," emblem of the dead-
Shall "teach the maid, whose bloom no longer lives,"
That "virtue every perish'd grace survives."
Farewell! sweet Moralist, heart-sick'ning grief,
Tells me in duty's paths 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;

Tho' well I feel unworthy Thee, the lays,
That to thy memory weeping friendship pays.

STANZAS

Supposed to have been written at the Grave of H. K. White.

BY A LADY.

1.

YE gentlest Gales! oh, hither waft
On airy undulating sweeps,

Your frequent sighs, so passing soft,
Where he, the youthful POET, sleeps!
He breath❜d the purest tenderest sigh,
The sigh of sensibility.

2.

And thou shalt lie, his fav'rite flower,
reclin'd:

Pale PRIMROSE, on his grave
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.

3.

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.

4.

Ye falling Dews, Oh! ever leave

Your chrystal drops, these flow'rs 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.

5.

Thou western Sun effuse thy beams:
For he was wont to pace the glade,
To watch in pale uncertain gleams,

The crimson-zon'd horizon fade-
Thy last, thy setting radiance pour,
Where he is set to rise no more.

ODE

On the late Henry 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 briars grow,
He bade, to cheer the gloomy way,
Its heav'nly music flow.

And oft he bade, by fame inspir'd,

Its wild notes seek th' ætherial plain,

Till angels, by its music fir'd,

Have, list'ning, caught th' ecstatic strain,

Have wonder'd, and admir'd.

But now secure on happier shores,

With choirs of sainted souls he sings,

His harp th' omnipotent adores,

And from its sweet, its silver strings, Celestial music pours.

And tho' on earth no more he'll weave
The lay that's fraught with magic fire,
Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve

His now exalted, heav'nly lyre
In sounds Æolian grieve.

B. Stoke.

VOL. I.

JUVENIS.

VERSES

Occasioned by the death of Henry Kirke White.

WHAT is this world at best,

Tho' deckt in vernal bloom,

By hope and youthful fancy drest?
What but a ceaseless toil for rest,
A passage to the tomb?

If flow'rets strew

The avenue,

Tho' fair, alas! how fading, and how few!

And every

bour comes arm'd

By sorrow, or by woe:

Conceal'd beneath its little wings,

A Scythe the soft-shod pilf'rer brings,

To lay some comfort low:

Some tie t' unbind,

By love entwin'd,

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 songster's flee,

The leafless tree,

And bear to happier realms their melody.