MONODY ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. WHAT is this world at best, Though deck'd in vernal bloom, By Hope and youthful Fancy drest? A passage to the tomb? If flowrets strew The avenue, Though fair, alas! how fading and how few: And every hour comes arm'd By care or keener woe: Conceal'd beneath its little wings, A scythe the soft-shod pilferer brings, To lay some comfort low ;— Some tie to unbind, By love entwined, Some silken bond that holds the captive mind. And every month displays The ravages of Time. Faded the flowers, the summer past, The scatter'd leaves, the chilling blast, Warn to a milder clime. The songsters flee The leafless tree, And bear to happier realms their melody. Henry! the world no more Can claim thee for her own: In purer skies thy radiance beams; Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes Before the Eternal throne. Yet, Spirit dear! Forgive the tear Which they must shed, who're doom'd to linger here. Although a stranger, I In Friendship's train would weep. Lost to the world, alas! so young! And must thy lyre, in silence hung, On the dark cypress sleep? Their friend may call; And Nature's self attends his funeral. Although with feebler wing, Thy flight would I pursue With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride, Alike our object, hope, and guide, One heaven alike in view. But I may True, it was thine, To tower, to shine; make thy milder virtues mine. If Jesus own my name, Though Fame pronounce it never, 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. 1807. IN REPLY TO STANZAS BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE. "It is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow; BUT art thou thus indeed alone, Quite unbefriended, all unknown? And hast thou then His name forgot, Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot? Is not His voice in evening's gale? Beams not with Him the star so pale? Is there a leaf can fade and die Unnoticed by His watchful eye? Each fluttering hope, each anxious fear, To thine Almighty Friend are known: 1807. TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY. [S. J. ob. Mar. 13, 1822.] Go, said the Lord of Death, The Sovereign of the Grave: One of the nine must yield his breath, For I must smite to save. The monster at the bidding sped, But angels waited on his tread. |