And, ah! a dark presage, when last we met, 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: Whose "tender fragance," emblem of the dead- With surer aim, on faith's strong pinions rise, Tho' well I feel unworthy Thee, the lays, STANZAS Supposed to have been written at the Grave of H. K. White. BY A LADY. 1. YE gentlest Gales! oh, hither waft Your frequent sighs, so passing soft, 2. And thou shalt lie, his fav'rite flower, Pale PRIMROSE, on his grave 3. Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude, So peaceful, and so deep" doth lie! His harp prophetic, sung to thee, 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: The crimson-zon'd horizon fade- ODE On the late Henry Kirke White. AND is the minstrel's voyage o'er? Mute, in the mansions of the dead, A Pilgrim in this world of woe, Where bristly thorns, where briars grow, 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 His now exalted, heav'nly lyre 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? 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. |