Oh! thou greedy cormorant fell,
Death! insatiate monster! tell,
Why so soon was sped the dart
Which pierced, alas! his youthful heart!
Oh, despoiler! tyrant! know,

When thy arm, that dealt the blow,
Wither'd sinks, inactive, cold,

By a stronger arm controul'd,

Then shall this youth the song of triumph raise,
Throughout eternity immeasurable days!

Bard of nature, heaven-graced child!
Sweet, majestic, plaintive, wild ;
Who, on rapid pinion borne,
Swifter than the breeze of morn,

Circled now the Aonian mount,
Now the Heliconian fount,

**』

Teach me to string thy harp, and wake its strain
To mourn thy early fate, till every chord complain!

No! let thy harp remain
On yon dark cypress hung,

By death unstrung;

To touch it were profane !

But now, oh! now, at this deep hour,
While I feel thy thrilling power;
While I steal from pillow'd sleep,
O'er thy urn to bend and weep;

Spirit, robed in crystal light,
On the fleecy clouds of night,
Descend; and, oh! my breast inspire
With a portion of thy fire;

Teach my hand, at midnight's noon,
Hover o'er me while I sing,

Oh! spirit lov'd and bless'd, attune the string!

Yes, now, when all around are sunk in rest,
And the night-vapour sails along the west;
When Darkness, brooding o'er this nether ball,
Encircles Nature with her sable pall;
Still let me tarry, heedless of repose,
To pour the bosom's-not the muse's woes!
To thy lov'd memory heave the sigh sincere,
And drop a kindred, a prophetic tear!

Fast flow, ye genial drops-
Gush forth, ye tender sighs!

And who, dear shade! can tell-but

While thus I, mournful, pause and weep for Thee, Shortly a sigh may heave-a tear be shed, for me !

!

ON VISITING THE TOMB OF H. K. WHITE.

BY MRS M. H. HAY.

OH! spirit of the blest, forgive
The mortal tear-the mortal sigh;
Thou knowest what it was to live
And feel each human agony.

I would not raise thy mouldering form,
Nor bring thy spirit from above,
Could I a miracle performy

Much as thy beauteous soul I love.

No, all I ask in fervent prayer,

As o'er thy silent tomb I bend,
That I, in heavenly scenes, may share

Thy converse, and become thy friend.

LINES

Written on reading the Remains of Henry Kirke White, of Nottingham, late of St John's College, Cambridge; with an Account of his Life, by Robert Southey, Esq.

BY MRS M. HAY.

THY gentle spirit now is fled,
Thy body in its earthy bed
Is laid in peaceful sleep;
A spirit good and pure as thine,
Best in immortal scenes can shine,
Though friends are left to weep.

When in this dreary dark abode,
Bewildered in life's mazy road,
The weary trav❜ller sighs,
A rising star sometimes appears,
Illumes the path, his bosom cheers,
And lights him to the skies.

Oh, had thy valued life been spared,
Had'st thou the vineyard's labour shared,

What glowing fruits of love

Thou might'st have added to the stores
Purchas'd by Him thy soul adores

Now in the realms above.

Ah! loss severe ! reflect, ye great,
Ye rich, ye powerful, on the fate
Of merit's early doom ;*

Those dazzling gems ye so much prize,
Perhaps in dread array may rise

In judgment from the tomb.

A single gem of useless show
Might everlasting lustre throw
Upon the eternal mind;

Did gentle offices employ

Those hours which fashion's ways destroy,

Those hours for good design'd.

Peruse the letters of a youth,

Whose pen was dipt in heavenly truth,
His virtuous struggles trace;

Then will thy melting bosom bleed,
And quicken there the precious seed
Of self-renewing grace.

Then will be clearly understood,}

'The luxury of doing good :'

And O! how happy they

Whose means are great, and hearts are large, Who best the sacred trust discharge

To Him who will repay.

* Vide the Life, p. 49.