ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY T. PARK.

Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell, Impassion❜d minstrel! when its pitying wail Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell Untimely, wither'd by the northern gale.* Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime ! Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse

blast,

[clime, Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desert 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 bless'd are pure; Pure as the dewdrop, freed from earthly leaven, That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven!

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE,

BY THE REV. J. PLUMPTRE.

SUCH talents and such piety combined,
With such unfeign'd humility of mind,
Bespoke him fair to tread the way to fame,
And live an honour to the christian name.

*See Clifton Grove.

But Heaven was pleased to stop his fleeting hour, And blight the fragrance of the opening flower. We mourn-but not for him, removed from pain; Our loss, we trust, is his eternal gain :

With him we'll strive to win the Saviour's love, And hope to join him with the blest above.

October 24th, 1806.

TO MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY H. WELKER.

HARK! 'tis some sprite who sweeps a funeral knell
For Dermody no more.-That fitful tone
From Eolus' wild harp alone can swell,
Or Chatterton assumes the lyre unknown.

No; list again! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh

Swells with the breeze, and dies upon the stream: 'Tis Margaret mourns, as swift she rushes by, Roused by the demons from adulterous dream.

O! say, sweet youth! what genius fires thy soul? The same which tuned the frantic nervous strain To the wild harp of Collins ?-By the pole,

Or 'mid the seraphim and heavenly train, Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold, To sing Hell's flaming gulf, or Heaven high arch'd with gold?

VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY JOSIAH CONDER.

WHAT is this world at best,

Though deck'd in vernal bloom,
By hope and youthful fancy dress'd,
What, but a ceaseless toil for rest,
A passage to the tomb?

If flowerets strew

The avenue,

Though fair, alas! how fading, and how few!

By sorrow, or by woe:

Conceal'd beneath its little wings,

A scythe the soft-shod pilferer brings,
To lay some comfort low:

Some tie to unbind,

By love entwined,

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:

R

Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes

Before the eternal throne:

Yet, spirit dear,

Forgive the tear

Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger

here.

I.

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 tower, to shine;

But I

may

make thy milder virtues mine.

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?

Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die?

Dec. 5, 1807.

ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S

POEM ON SOLITUDE.

BY JOSIAH CONDER.

BUT art thou thus indeed " alone?"
Quite unbefriended-all unknown?
And hast thou then his name forgot
Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot?

Is not his voice in evening's gale?
Beams not with him the "star" so pale?
Is there a leaf can fade and die
Unnoticed by his watchful eye?

Each fluttering hope-each anxious fear-
Each lonely sigh-each silent tear-
To thine Almighty Friend are known;
And say'st thou, thou art "all alone?"