AFTER READING

SOUTHEY'S REMAINS

OF

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

THY living worth it was not mine to prize,
I heard not of thee till thy star had set;
But, dead, I give thee tears, poor youth, and sighs,
And thoughts of tender, mournful, keen regret!
And I do say, within my very heart

Resolving, some sear, murky, autumn day,
When spirits less congenial hold apart,

A sorrowing pilgrim, to thy grave I'll stray, And hang my humble meed of poësy

Upon thy sainted tomb, and worship thee'Twere weak, alas! and idly vain for thee! Thine ear now only lists to minstrelsy Pæan'd by cherub quires! But, to me,

'Twould be some little sweet to breathe an air

Of melancholy, and, half-murmuring, cry

Great God! the wicked live-the virtuous mourn and die!

And thou, his Mother, on whose fostering breast Were cradled his first cares; whose after-love (Ah! in such holy love be childhood blest,

For ever blest,) his mental wants suppliedWhose better hopes, and sense more quick, confest His dawning genius, and its high behest,

Aye, in lone glory, cherish'd-thee I hail! Not with the selfish, worldly mass, who move, In mincing measures, only with the gale

Of prosperous fame: but when low sinks thy heart In dark and silent solitude, apart,

Deep mourning him who is not; in thy wail O then my spirit joins-my tears they flow, And I do almost drink thy cup of woe!

E. W.

When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true,
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.

Blest Childhood, hail !-Thee simply will I sing,
And from myself the artless picture bring;

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These long-lost scenes to me the past restore,

Each humble friend, each pleasure, now no more,
And every stump familiar to my sight,

Recalls some fond idea of delight.

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This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat;
Here did I love at evening to retreat,

And muse alone, till in the vault of night,

Hesper, aspiring, shew'd his golden light.

Here once again, remote from human noise,

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I sit me down to think of former joys;

Pause on each scene, each treasur'd scene, once more,

And once again each infant walk explore.

While as each grove and lawn I recognize,

My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.

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And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought;
Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye,
Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy;
Blest Memory, guide, with finger nicely true,
Back to my youth my retrospective view;

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Recall with faithful vigour to my mind,
Each face familiar, each relation kind;

And all the finer traits of them afford,

Whose general outline in my heart is stor❜d.

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