Henry! the world no more Can claim thee for her own! Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes, Before th' eternal throne: Yet, spirit dear, Forgive the tear, Which those must shed, who're doom'd to linger here. Although a stranger, I In friendship's train would weep: Their friend may call; And Nature's self attends his funeral. Altho' with feeble wing Thy flight I would pursue, With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride, One heaven alike in view, True, it was thine, To tow'r, to shine; But I may make thy milder virtues mine. If Jesus own my name (Though fame pronounc'd it never) Sweet spirit, not with thee alone, But all whose absence here I moan, Circling with harps the golden throne, I shall unite for ever; At death then why Tremble or sigh? Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die! Dec. 5th, 1807. JOSH. CONDER. SONNET, On seeing another, written to Henry Kirke White, în September 1803, inserted in his "Remains by Robert Southey." BY ARTHUR OWEN. AH! once again the long-left wires among, To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew, Poor Henry's budding beauties-to a clime Forc'd their young vigour into transient day, SONNET IN MEMORY OF MR. H. K. WHITE. ""TIS now the dead of night," and I will go Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom; J. G. REFLECTIONS, On reading the Life of the late Henry Kirke White. BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, Author of "The Peasant's Fate." DARLING of science and the muse, To shed a tear for thee? To us, so soon, for ever lost, What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd, By Heaven's supreme decree? How could a parent, love beguil'd, Yet Fancy, hov'ring round the tomb, Dear poet, saint and sage! Who into one short span, at best, To him a genius sanctified, And lift the soul to Heav'n. "Twas not the laurel earth bestows; "Twas not the praise from man that flows, With classic toil he sought: He sought the crown that martyrs wear, When rescu'd from a world of care; Their spirit too he caught. Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, Who idly range in Folly's way, And learn the worth of time: Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, How to redeem this pearl, at last, Atoning for your crime. This flow'r, that droop'd in one cold clime, Transplanted from the soil of time To immortality, In full perfection there shall bloom, And those, who now lament his doom, Must bow to God's decree. London, 27th Feb. 1808. |