Spirit, robed in crystal light, Teach my hand, at midnight's noon, Oh! spirit lov'd and bless'd, attune the string! Yes, now, when all around are sunk in rest, Fast flow, yé génial drops- And who, dear shade! can tell-but While thus I, mournful, pause and weep for Thee, Shortly a sigh may heave-a tear be shed, for me! ON VISITING THE TOMB OF H. K. WHITE. BY MRS M. H. HAY.' OH! spirit of the blest, forgive The mortal tear-the mortal sigh; I would not raise thy mouldering form, Much as thy beauteous soul I love. No, all I ask in fervent prayer, As o'er thy silent tomb I bend, That I, in heavenly scenes, may share Thy converse, and become thy friend. 1 LINES Written on reading the Remains of Henry Kirke White, of Nottingham, late of St John's College, Cambridge; with an Account of his Life, by Robert Southey, Esq. BY MRS M. HAY. THY gentle spirit now is fled, A spirit good and pure as thine, Though friends are left to weep. When in this dreary dark abode, o 2% The weary trav❜ller sighs, Oh, had thy valued life been spared, What glowing fruits of love Thou might'st have added to the stores Now in the realms above. Ah! loss severe ! reflect, ye great, Those dazzling gems ye so much prize, In judgment from the tomb. A single gem of useless show Did gentle offices employ Those hours which fashion's ways destroy, Those hours for good design'd. Peruse the letters of a youth, Whose pen was dipt in heavenly truth, Then will be clearly understood, 6 The luxury of doing good :" And O! how happy they Whose means are great, and hearts are large, Who best the sacred trust discharge To Him who will repay. * Vide the Life, p. 49. AFTER READING: SOUTHEY'S REMAINS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. THY living worth it was not mine to prize, Resolving, some sear, murky, autumn day, A sorrowing pilgrim, to thy grave I'll stray, And hang my humble meed of poësy Upon thy sainted tomb, and worship thee'Twere weak, alas! and idly vain for thee! Thine ear now only lists to minstrelsy Pæan'd by cherub quires! But, to me, 'Twould be some little sweet to breathe an air Of melancholy, and, half-murmuring, cry Great God! the wicked live-the virtuous mourn and die! And thou, his Mother, on whose fostering breast |