"'Tis now the dead of night," and I will go To where the brook soft murmuring glides along In the still wood; yet does the plaintive song Of Philomela through the welkin flow; And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree strong, And intermingle with the streams my woe! Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze; No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom; Cold, chilling dewdrops trickle down the trees, And every flower withholds its rich perfume: 'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound! LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. Sorrows are mine--then let me joys evade. And seek for sympathies in this lone shade. The glooms of death fall heavy on my heart, And, between life and me, a truce impart. Genius has vanish'd in its opening bloom, And youth and beauty wither in the tomb! Thought, ever prompt to lend the inquiring eye, Pursues thy spirit through futurity. Does thy aspiring mind new powers essay, Or in suspended being wait the day, When earth shall fall before the awful train Of Heaven and Virtue's everlasting reign? May goodness, which thy heart did once enthrone, Emit one ray to meliorate my own! And for thy sake, when time affliction calm, Science shall please, and poesie shall charm. I turn my steps whence issued all my woes, Where the dull courts monastic glooms impose; Thence fled a spirit whose unbounded scope Surpass'd the fond creations e'en of hope. Along this path thy living step has fled, Along this path they bore thee to the dead. All that this languid eye can now survey Witnessed the vigour of thy fleeting day: And witness'd all, as speaks this anguish'd tear, The solemn progress of thy early bier. Sacred the walls that took thy parting breath, Own'd thee in life, encompass'd thee in death! Oh! I can feel as felt the sorrowing friend Who o'er thy corse in agony did bend; Dead as thyself to all the world inspires, Paid the last rites mortality requires; Closed the dim eye that beam'd with mind before, Composed the icy limbs to move no more! Some power the picture from my memory tear, Or feeling will rush onward to despair. Immortal hopes! come, lend your blest relief, And raise the soul bow'd down with mortal grief; Teach it to look for comfort in the skies: Earth cannot give what Heaven's high will denies. Cambridge, Nov. 1806. SONNET ADDRESSED TO H. K. WHITE, ON HIS POEMS LATELY PUBLISHED. BY G. L. C.