If Jesus own my name (Though fame pronounced 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? [to die? Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears Dec. 5, 1807. ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S BY JOSIAH CONDER. BUT art thou thus indeed "alone?" Is not his voice in evening's gale? Unnoticed by his watchful eye? Each fluttering hope—each anxious fear ODE ON THE LATE H. KIRKE' WHITE. BY JUVENIS. AND is the minstrel's voyage o'er? Mute in the mansions of the dead, A pilgrim in this world of woe, And oft he bade, by fame inspired, Its wild notes seek the ethereal plain, Till angels, by its music fired, Have, listening, caught the ecstatic strain, Have wondered, and admired. But now secure on happier shores, With choirs of sainted souls he sings: His harp the 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, His now exalted heavenly lyre In sounds Æolian grieve. B. Stoke. SONNET IN MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BY J. G. 'Tis now the dead of night," and I will go To where the brook soft murmuring glides along In the still wood; yet does the plaintive song Of Philomela through the welkin flow; And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree strong, And intermingle with the streams my woe! Hushed in deep silence every gentle breeze; No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom; Cold, chilling dewdrops 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! LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. SORROWS are mine- then let me joys evade, And seek for sympathies in this lone shade. The glooms of death fall heavy on my heart, And, between life and me, a truce impart. Genius has vanished in its opening bloom, And youth and beauty wither in the tomb! Thought, ever prompt to lend the inquiring eye, Pursues thy spirit through futurity. Does thy aspiring mind new powers essay, Or in suspended being wait the day, When earth shall fall before the awful train Of Heaven and Virtue's everlasting reign? May goodness, which thy heart did once enthrone, Emit one ray to meliorate my own! And for thy sake, when time affliction calm, I turn my steps whence issued all my woes, Along this path they bore thee to the dead. All that this languid eye can now survey And witnessed all, as speaks this anguished tear, Sacred the walls that took thy parting breath, Own'd thee in life, encompassed thee in death! Oh! I can feel as felt the sorrowing friend Who o'er thy corse in agony did bend; Dead as thyself to all the world inspires, Paid the last rites mortality requires ; Closed the dim eye that beamed with mind before, Composed the icy limbs to move no more ! Some power the picture from my memory tear Or feeling will rush onward to despair. Immortal hopes! come, lend your blest relief, And raise the soul bowed down with mortal grief; Teach it to look for comfort in the skies: Earth cannot give what Heaven's high will denies. Cambridge, Nov. 1806. SONNET ADDRESSED TO H. K. WHITE, ON HIS POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED. BY G. L. C. HENRY! I greet thine entrance into life! |