And is it vainly that our souls aspire?
Falsely does the presaging heart presume
That we shall live beyond life's cares and gloom;
Grasps it eternity with high desire,
But to imagine bliss, feel woe, and die,
Leaving survivors to worse pangs than death?
Not such the sanction of the ETERNAL MIND:
The harmonious order of the starry sky,
And awful Revelation's angel-breath,
Assure these hopes their full effect shall find.
THE HOMER OF MR. H. KIRKE WHITE.
Presented to me by his Brother, J. Neville White.
BARD of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame!
While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest,
On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late prest,,
I pause, and gaze regretful on thy name.
By neither chance, nor envy, time, nor flame,
Be it from this its mansions dispossest!
But thee ETERNITY clasps to her breast,
And in celestial splendour thrones thy claim.
No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace
An imitative radiance *; thy pure lyre
Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace,
And beams and breathes in empyreal fire :
The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone
Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own.
TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE.
Ir worth, if genius, to the world are dear,
To Henry's shade devote no common tear.
His worth on no precarious tenure hung,
From genuine piety his virtues sprung:
If pure benevolence, if steady sense,
Can to the feeling heart delight dispense;
If all the highest efforts of the mind,
Exalted, noble, elegant, refin'd,
Call for fond Sympathy's heart-felt regret,
Ye sons of genius, pay the mournful debt :
His friends can truly speak how large his claim,
And "Life was only wanting to his fame."
Art Thou, indeed, dear youth, for ever fled,
So quickly number'd with the silent dead?
* Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a glory.
Too sure I read it in the downcast eye,
Hear it in mourning Friendship's stifled sigh,
Ah! could esteem, or admiration save
So dear an object from the untimely grave,
This transcript faint had not essay'd to tell
The loss of one belov'd, rever'd so well.
Vainly I try, even eloquence were weak,
The silent sorrow that I feel to speak.
No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer,
And bind my spirit to this lower sphere;
Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh,
And bid new fire relume my languid eye:
No more the pencil's mimic art command,
And with kind pity guide my trembling hand;
Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard,
To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard.
Vain all the pleasures Thou can'st not inspire,
And in my breast th' imperfect joys expire."
I fondly hop'd thy hand might grace my shrine,
And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine;
In Fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre
With Virtue's energies each bosom fire;
I saw admiring nations press around,
Eager to catch the animating sound;
And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night,
To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight,.
Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade,
And each graced honour to thy memory paid.
Such was the fate Hope pictur'd to my view
But who, alas! e'er found Hope's visions true?
And, ah! a dark presage, when last we met,
Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret;
When thou thy portrait from the Minstrel drew,
The living Edwin starting on my view
Silent, I ask'd of heav'n a lengthen'd date;
His genius thine, but not like thine his fate.
Shuddering I gaz'd, and saw too sure reveal'd,
The fatal truth, by Hope till then conceal'd.
Too strong the portion of celestial flame
For its weak tenement, the fragile frame;
Too soon for us it sought its native sky,
And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye;
Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight,
Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light:
So shall thy bright example fire each youth
With love of virtue, piety, and truth.
Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn,
And bid her sons revere thy favour'd urn.
When thy lov'd flower" Spring's victory makes known,"
The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone:
Around thy urn the rosemary will spread,
Whose "tender fragrance," emblem of the dead —
Shall "teach the maid, whose bloom no longer lives," That "virtue every perish'd
Farewell, sweet Moralist! heart-sick'ning grief
Tells me in Duty's paths to seek relief,.
With surer aim on Faith's strong pinions rise,
And seek Hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies.
Yet still on thee shall fond Remembrance dwell,
And to the world thy worth delight to tell;
Though well I feel unworthy Thee the lays,
That to thy memory weeping Friendship pays.
Supposed to have been written at the Grave of H. K. WHITE.
YE gentlest gales! oh, hither waft,
On airy undulating sweeps,
Your frequent sighs, so passing soft,
Where he, the youthful POET, sleeps!
He breath❜d the purest, tenderest sigh,
The sigh of sensibility.
And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower,
Pale PRIMROSE, on his grave reclin'd:
Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour,
And of his pure, his spotless mind!
Like thee, he sprung in lowly vale;
And felt, like thee, the trying gale.
Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude,
Oh thou, the fragrant ROSEMARY,
Where he, "in marble solitude,
So peaceful, and so deep," doth lie!
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