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Yet, spirit dear,
Forgive the tear

[here. Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger

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?

[die! Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to Dec. 5. 1807,

JOSIAH CONDER.

SONNET, ON SEEING ANOTHER WRITTEN TO H. K. 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, Poor Henry's budding beauties—to a clime

Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray

Forced their young vigour into transient day, And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them ! and shall Time Trample these orphan blossoms? No! they breathe Still lovelier charms—for Southey culls the wreath?

Oxford, Dec. 17, 1807.

SONNET.

IN MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE.

'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:

Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze;

No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom ; Cold, chilling dew-drops 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 ! J. G.

REFLECTIONS ON READING THE LIFE OF THE LATE

H. K. WHITE.

BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, AUTHOR OF

THE PEASANT'S FATE.'

DARLING of science and the muse,
How shall a son of song refuse

To shed a tear for thee?
To us, so soon, for ever lost,
What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd

By Heaven's supreme decree!
How could a parent, love-beguiled,
In life's fair prime resign a child

So duteous, good, and kind?
The warblers of the soothing strain
Must string th' elegiac lyre in vain

To soothe the wounded mind!
Yet Fancy, hovering round the tomb,
Half envies while she mourns thy doom,

Dear poet, saint, and sage!
Who into one short span, at best,
The wisdom of an age compress'd,

A patriarch's lengthen'd age !
To him a genius sanctified,
And purged from literary pride,

A sacred boon was given :
Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre
Celestial raptures could inspire

And lift the soul to heaven.
'Twas not the laurel earth bestows,
• 'Twas not the praise from man that flows,

With classic toil he sought :
He sought the crown which martyrs wear,
When rescued from a world of care;

Their spirit too he caught.
Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay,
Who idly range in Folly's way,

And learn the worth of time :
Learn ye, whose days have run to waste,
How to redeem this pearl at last,

Atoning for your crime.
This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime,
Transplanted from the soil of time.

To immortality,
In full perfection there shall bloom;
And those who now lament his doom

Must bow to God's decree.
London, 27th Feb. 1808.

ON READING THE POEM ON SOLITUDE.

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 starso 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 thy Almighty Friend are known:
And say'st thou, thou art all alone?'

JOSIAH CONDER.

TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE.

BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M. O, lost too soon ! accept the tear

A stranger to thy memory pays ! Dear to the muse, to science dear,

In the young morning of thy days! All the wild notes that pity loved

Awoke, responsive still to thee,
While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved

In softest, sweetest harmony.
The chords that in the human heart

Compassion touches as her own,
Bore in thy symphonies a part—

With them in perfect unison. Amidst accumulated woes,

That premature afflictions bring, Submission's sacred hymn arose,

Warbled from every mournful string, When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread,

And deeper every moment grew; When rudely round thy youthful head,

The chilling blasts of sickness blew;

S

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