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. Henry! the world no more Can claim thee for her own! In purer skies thy radiance beams! Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes Before the eternal throne: Yet, spirit dear, Forgive the tear Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger here. 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? Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to die? Dec. 5, 1807. ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S POEM ON SOLITUDE. BY JOSIAH CONDER. 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 "star" so 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 thine Almighty Friend are known; And say'st thou, thou art "all alone?" ODE ON THE LATE H. KIRKE WHITE. BY JUVENIS. And is the minstrel's voyage o'er? And is the star of genius fled? And will his magic harp no more, Mute in the mansions of the dead, Its strains seraphic pour? A pilgrim in this world of woe, Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray, Where bristly thorns, where briers grow, He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, Its heavenly music flow. And oft he bade, by fame inspired, Its wild notes seek the ethereal plain, Till angels, by its music fired, Have, listening, caught the ecstatic strain, Have wonder'd, and admired. But now secure on happier shores, With choirs of sainted souls he sings; His harp the Omnipotent adores, And from its sweet, its silver strings Celestial music pours. And though on earth, no more he'll weave The lay that's fraught with magic fire, Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve His now exalted heavenly lyre In sounds Æolian grieve. B. Stoke. SONNET IN MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BY J. G.