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 flowrets 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 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 scattered leaves, the wintry blast,
Warn to a milder clime:
The songsters flee
The leafless tree,
And bear to happier realms their melody.