C4 HENRY KIRKE WHITE's POEMS. 



Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me 



As I contemplate the grim gulf of death, 



The shuddering void, the awful blank — futurity. 



Aye, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme 



Of earthly happiness, — romantic schemes, 



And fraught with loveliness ; and it is hard 



To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps, 



Throw a chill blight o'er all ones budding hopes, 



And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, 



Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion 



Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry ? 



Oh ! none ; — another busy brood of beings 



Will shoot up in the interim, and none 



Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink, 



As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets 



Of busy London ; Some short bustle's caused, 



A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, 



And all's forgotten. — On my grassy grave 



The men of future times will careless tread. 



And read my name upon the sculptured stone ; 



Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, 



Recall my vanished memory. — I did hope 



For better things ! — I hoped I should not leave 



The earth without a vestige ; — Fate decrees 



It shall be otherwise, and I submit. 



Henceforth, oh world, no more of thy desires ! 



No more of hope ! the wanton vagrant Hope ! 



I abjure all. — Now other cares engross me, 



And my tired soul with emulative haste, 



Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven. 



LINES ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. 



Age, Founeen. 



O Warton ! to thy soothing shell, 

 Stretch'd remote in hermit cell. 

 Where the brook runs babbling by, 

 For ever I could listening lie ; 



