7G HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S POEMS. 



NELSONI MORS. 



Yet once again, my harp, yet once again, 



One ditty more, and on the mountain ash 



I will again suspend thee. I have felt 



The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last 



At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, 



I woke to thee, the melancholy song. 



Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, 



I've journey 'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks 



Of frolic fancy to the line of truth ; 



Not unrepining, for my froward heart 



Still turns to thee, mine harp, and to the flow 



Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied haunfs 



Of my not songless boyhood. — Yet once more 



Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, 



My long neglected harp. — He must not sink ; 



The good, the brave — he must not, shall not sink 



Without the meed of some melodious tear. 



Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour 



No precious dews of Aganippe's well, 



Or Castally, — though from the morning cloud 



I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse : 



Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, 



Of simple flowers, such as the hedgerows scent 



Of Britain, my loved country ; and with tears 



Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe 



Thy honour d corse, mj'- Kelson, tears as warm 



And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd 



Fast from thy honest heart. — Thou Pity too, 



If ever I have loved, with faltering step, 



To follow thee in the cold and starless night, 



To the top- crag of some rain-beaten clifi"; 



And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud 



Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd 



Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, 



