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, 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: 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, 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 B. Stoke. VOL. I. U 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 hour 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. 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, Alike our object, hopes, and guide, - One heaven alike in view, True, it was thine, To tow'r, to shine; But I may make thy milder virtues mine. |