BO HENllY KIEKE WHITE's POEMS. 



Let blest philosopTij impart, 

 Her soothing measures to my heart ; 

 And while, with Plato's ravished earSj 

 I list the music of the spheres ; 

 Or on the mystic symbols pore, 

 That hide the Chald's sublimer lore, 

 I shall not brood on summers gone, 

 Nor think that I am all alone. 



Fanny ! upon thy breast I may not lie ! 



Fanny ! thou dost not hear me when I speak ! 

 Where art thou, love ? — Around I turn my eye. 



And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. 

 Was it a dream ? or did my love behold 



Indeed my lonely couch ? — ^lethought the breath 

 Fann'd not her bloodless lip ; her eye was cold 



And hollow, and the livery of death 

 Invested her pale forehead. — Sainted maid. 



My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, 



Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave 

 Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. 

 Yet, hush ! my fond heart, hush ! there is a shore 



Of better promise ; and I know at last, 



When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, 

 We two shall meet in Christ — to part no more. 



EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 



Bloomfield, thy happy omen'd name 

 Ensures continuance, to thy fame : 

 Both sense and truth this verdict give, 

 Whilst fields shall bloom thy name shall live I 



