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His friends can truly speak how large his claim,
And 'Life was only wanting to his fame.'
Art Thou, indeed, dear youth, for ever fled-
So quickly number'd with the silent dead?
Too sure I read it in the downcast eye,
Hear it in mourning friendship's stifled sigh.
Ah! could esteem, or admiration, save
So dear an object from th' untimely grave,
This transcript faint had not essay'd to tell
The loss of one beloved, revered so well.
Vainly I try, even eloquence were weak,
The silent sorrow that I feel, to speak.
No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer,
And bind my spirit to this lower sphere;
Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh,
And bid new fire relume my languid eye:
No more the pencil's mimic art command,
And with kind pity guide my trembling hand;
Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard,
To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard.
Vain all the pleasures Thou can'st not inspire,
And in my breast th' imperfect joys expire.'
I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine,
And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine:
In Fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre,
With virtue's energies each bosom fire;
I saw admiring nations press around,
Eager to catch the animating sound:

And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night,
To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight,
Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade,
And each graced honour to thy memory paid.
Such was the fate hope pictur'd to my view-
But who, alas! e'er found hope's visions true?

And, ah! a dark presage, when last we met,
Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret ;
When thou thy portrait from the minstrel drew,
The living Edwin starting on my view-
Silent, I ask'd of Heaven a lengthen'd date;
His genius thine, but not like thine his fate.
Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure reveal'd,
The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd.
Too strong the portion of celestial flame
For its weak tenement, the fragile frame;
Too soon for us it sought its native sky,
And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye;
Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight,
Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light:
So shall thy bright example fire each youth
With love of virtue, piety, and truth.
Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn,
And bid her sons revere thy favour'd urn.
When thy loved flower 'Spring's victory makes known,'
The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone:
Around thy urn the rosemary we'll spread,

Whose tender fragrance,'-emblem of the dead-
Shall 'teach the maid, whose bloom no longer lives,'
That virtue every perish'd grace survives.'
Farewell! sweet moralist; heart-sickening grief
Tells me in duty's paths to seek relief,
With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise,
And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies,
Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance dwell,
And to the world thy worth delight to tell:
Though well I feel unworthy Thee the lays
That to thy memory weeping friendship pays.

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YE gentlest gales! oh, hither waft,
On airy undulating sweeps,
Your frequent sighs, so passing soft,
Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps!
He breathed the purest, tenderest sigh,
The sigh of sensibility.

And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower,

Pale primrose, on his grave reclined :
Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour,

And of his pure, his spotless mind!
Like thee he sprung in lowly vale;
And felt, like thee, the trying gale.
Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude,

Oh thou, the fragrant rosemary,
Where he, 'in marble solitude,

So peaceful, and so deep,' doth lie!
His harp prophetic sung to thee
In notes of sweetest minstrelsy.
Ye falling dews! oh, ever leave

Your crystal drops these flowers to steep:
At earliest morn, at latest eve,

Oh let them for their Poet weep!
For tears bedew'd his gentle eye,
The tears of heavenly sympathy.
Thou western sun, effuse thy beams;
For he was wont to pace the glade,
To watch in pale uncertain gleams,

The crimson-zoned horizon fade-
Thy last, thy setting radiance pour,
Where he is set to rise no more.


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 briars 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 th' ecstatic strain, Have wonder'd, and admired.

But now secure on happier shores,
With choirs of sainted souls he sings;
His harp th' Omnipotent adores,

And from its sweet, its silver strings
Celestial music pours.

And though on earth no more he'll weave
That 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.




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 flowerets 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 t' unbind,
By love entwined,

Some silken bond that holds the captive mind.

And every month displays
The ravages of time;

Faded the flowers!-The Spring is past!
The scatter'd 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!


purer skies thy radiance beams! Thy lyre's employ'd on nobler themes Before th' eternal throne:

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