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 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.[1] Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime! Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse blast, Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desert clime, 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! Footnotes: [1] See Clifton Grove. 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. 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 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.