Yet, spirit dear, Forgive the tear [here. Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger Although a stranger, In friendship's train would weep: 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, But I True, it was thine To tower, to shine; may make thy milder virtues mine. If Jesus own my name (Though fame pronounced it never), Sweet spirit, not with thee alone, Circling with harps the golden throne, I shall unite for ever: At death then why Tremble or sigh? [die! Oh! who would wish to live, but he who fears to Dec. 5. 1807, JOSIAH CONDER. SONNET, ON SEEING ANOTHER WRITTEN TO H. K. WHITE, IN SEPTEMBER 1803, INSERTED IN HIS 'REMAINS BY ROBERT SOUTHEY? BY ARTHUR OWEN. AH! once again the long-left wires among, To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray Forced their young vigour into transient day, And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them! and shall Time Trample these orphan blossoms? No! they breathe Still lovelier charms-for Southey culls the wreath? Oxford, Dec. 17, 1807. SONNET. IN MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. "'Tis now the dead of night,' and I will go Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze ; J. G. REFLECTIONS ON READING THE LIFE OF THE LATE H. K. WHITE. BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, AUTHOR OF THE PEASANT'S FATE.' DARLING of science and the muse, To shed a tear for thee? What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd How could a parent, love-beguiled, Yet Fancy, hovering round the tomb, Who into one short span, at best, To him a genius sanctified, A sacred boon was given: And lift the soul to heaven. "Twas not the laurel earth bestows, He sought the crown which martyrs wear, Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, And learn the worth of time: Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, Atoning for your crime. This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime, To immortality, In full perfection there shall bloom; Must bow to God's decree. London, 27th Feb. 1808. ON READING THE POEM ON SOLITUDE. BUT art thou thus indeed alone?' Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot? Is not his voice in evening's gale? Is there a leaf can fade and die, Each fluttering hope-each anxious fear-- JOSIAH CONDER. TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M. O, LOST too soon! accept the tear A stranger to thy memory pays! Dear to the muse, to science dear, In the young morning of thy days! The chords that in the human heart Amidst accumulated woes, That premature afflictions bring, Submission's sacred hymn arose, Warbled from every mournful string. When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread, S |