Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desart clime,
But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast,
To see thee languish into quick decay.

Yet was not thy departing immature?

For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away,

And pure in spirit, as the blest are pure;
Pure as the dew-drop, freed from earthly leaven,
That sparkles, is exhal'd, and blends with heaven *!

TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY A LADY.

From the "Associate Minstrels."

WHILE in full choir the solemn requiem swells,
And bids the tranced thought sublimely soar,
While Sorrow's breath inspires responsive shells,
One strain of simple grief my reed would pour:
No splendid offering

Of lofty praise I bring;

Yet, sainted spirit! own the pensive tear
Shed in sad tribute on thine early bier.

Soft as the airs that fan the waking spring,
And on the margin of some melting rill,

In music wild their sounds Æolian fling,

When the pale North regains his empire chill,

Young, I think, says of Narcissa, "she sparkled, was exhaled, and went to Heaven."

And all his fury dies,

Thy touching minstrelsies

With magic sweetness on thy spring arose,
Then faintly murmuring, sunk to deep repose.

For thee his glowing torch did Genius fire!
Who now its meteor brightness shall recall?
Too soon he bore it to thy funeral,

And bid in drowning tears, its flame expire!—
For thee did Fancy weave a chaplet wild,
And from her woodland bower,

With many a forest flower,

Enwreathe the brows of her much favoured child:

Still they preserve a lasting bloom;
But, ah! they blossom on thy tomb!

Hush'd is the melting cadence of the lyre
That once could sweetest melodies impart;
Its soften'd echoes vibrate on the heart,
But dews of death have quench'd the poet's fire.
Sure-'twas a phoenix flame;

Kindled from heaven it came;

And with its native spark so closely blended,
That soon to heaven impelled, it re-ascended,

As wandering o'er the waste of desart lands,
Some wearied pilgrim seeks a holy shrine,
And speeds him o'er the blaze of torrid sands,

To catch of parted worth some trace divine:

So to thy sacred turf would I repair;

And while on Fame's recording page I see, Thy polished graces, and thy virtues fair, Thy wisdom mild, or heaven-taught piety; The vestige of thy worth would share, And thence some precious relic, bear.

What, though no longer beaming here below,
Thy radiant star of life has ceased to burn,
Still shall its fire on Fancy's vision glow,

And memory shed her moonbeam on thine urn.
Though early vanish'd hence, an angel band

Marked its swift progress o'er this realm of night,
Watch'd the last lustre of its parting light,

And hailed its rising on a fairer land.

Above the flaming zone of day

Sparkling with exhaustless ray,

Fixed, shall it shine with living glory bright
When Time's last midnight long has rolled away.

LINES

Written on visiting the Rooms once inhabited by Henry Kirke White, in St. John's College, Cambridge.

BY MRS. M. H. HAY.

HOW awful! how impressive is the gloom,
How sacred is the silence that prevails
Mid these lone walls, where Henry met his doom.
My heart is full, my recollection fails;

Earth, and all earthly things fade from my sight;
My friends, so loved around me, disappear;

I almost see a dawn of heavenly light,

And Henry's angel voice I seem to hear, Saying, "Poor Sister, dry the mortal tear,

"Nor let thy bosom swell with grief for me; "Learn first the bleeding cross on earth to bear,

"And then the bliss, now mine, shall gladden thee. "Mid scenes celestial e'en my soul can glow,

"And heavenly harmony can with me sing, "To think these poor "Remains" I left below, "Shall kindred spirits to my pleasures bring. "But, oh! could I send down the faintest gleam, "To wipe the earthy vapours from thine eyes, "All human wisdom would appear a dream, "And inspiration lead thee to the skies,"

A REFLECTION,

On the Early Death of HENRY KIRKE WHITE,

BY A LADY.

THE pensive snow-drop lifts her modest head,
While yet stern winter binds the icy stream,
On chilling snow her taper leaves are spread,
Uncheer'd by balmy dew and summer's beam.

Sweet flower! not long thy spotless heart will fear The cruel blast that bows thy slender form: Thou wert not made for winter's frown severe;

Soon wilt thou droop, unconscious of the storm.

Thus genius springs, and thus the storms of earth Nip the young bud, just opening to the day : Awhile it blooms, to prove its heavenly birth, Awhile it charms, then withers,-dies away.

Thus Henry graced the world-Too soon the power Of stern affliction seized his youthful breast;

He saw the clouds arise, the tempest low'r,

He bowed his head, and meekly sunk to rest.