62 HENRY KIRKE WHITE's POEMS. 



Whilst mellow sounds from distant copes arise, 

 Of softest flute or reeds harmonic joined, 



With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies. 

 And pleased attention claims the passive mind. 



Soft through the dell the dying strains retire, 

 Then burst majestic in the varied swell ; 



Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre. 

 Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell. 



Romantic sounds ! such is the bliss ye give, 



That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the 

 soul, 



With joy I'd yield each sensual wish to live 

 For ever neath your undefiled control. 



Oh, surely melody from heaven was sent. 



To cheer the soul when tired with human strife, 



To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent, 

 And soften down the rugged road of life. 



MY OWN CHARACTER. 



Addressed (during ilhiess) to a Lady. 



Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, 



To give you a sketch — aye, a sketch of myself. 



"Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess. 



And one it would puzzle a painter to dress ; 



But however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, 



I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun ; 



For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her, 



She wont be a cynical father confessor. 



Come, come, 'twill not do ! put that curling brow down 



You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. 



Well, first, I premise, it's my honest conviction. 



That, my breast is a chaos of all contradiction ; 



