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 And tho' on earth no more he'll weave B. Stoke. JUVENIS. VERSES Occasioned by the Death of HENRY KIRKE WHITĖ. 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. Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger here. Although a stranger, I In friendship's train would weep: And must thy lyre, in silence hung, The poet, all 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: If Jesus own my name, (Though fame pronounc'd it never,) Circling with harps the golden throne, At death then why Tremble or sigh? Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die! Dec. 5th, 1807. JOSIAH CONDER. SONNET, On seeing another written to Henry Kirke White, in 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 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; Cold, chilling dew-drops trickle down the trees, And every flower withholds its rich perfume: 'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound! J. G. |