His harp prophetic sung to thee

In notes of sweetest minstrelsy.

4.

Ye falling dews, oh! ever leave

Your crystal 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;
For he was wont to pace the glade,
To watch in pale uncertain gleams,
The crimson-zon'd horizon fade-
Thy last, thy setting radiance pour,
Where he is set to rise no more.

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,
Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray,

Where bristly thorns, where briars grow,
He bade, to cheer the gloomy way,
Its heavenly music flow.

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 though on earth no more he'll weave
The lay that's fraught with magic fire,
Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve

His now exalted, heav'nly lyre
In sounds Æolian grieve.

B. Stoke.

JUVENIS.

VERSES

Occasioned by the Death of HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

WHAT is this world at best,

Though deckt in vernal bloom, By hope and youthful fancy drest, What, but a ceaseless toil for rest, A passage to the tomb?

If flow'rets strew

The avenue,

Though 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 songsters flee

The leafless tree,

And bear to happier realms their melody.

15

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 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: Lost to the world, alas! so young,

And must thy lyre, in silence hung,

On the dark cypress sleep?

The poet, all

Their friend may call;

And Nature's self attends his funeral.

Although 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.

If Jesus own my name,

(Though fame pronounc'd it never,)
Sweet spirit! not with thee alone,
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. 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,
Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song;
With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay
Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to stray
O'er Fancy's fields in quest of musky flower;

To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view
And courtship of the world: hail'd was the hour

That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew,