8(J HENRY KIKKE WUITE'S POEMS. 



LINES ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 

 Written in Wilford Churchyard. 



Here would T wish to sleep. — This is the spot 

 Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in • 

 Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, 

 Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred. 

 It is a lovely spot ! the sultry sun, 

 From his meridian height, endeavours vainly 

 To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr 

 Comes wafting gently o"er the rippling Trent, 

 And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook 

 Most pleasant. — Such a one perchance did Gray 

 Frequent, as with the vagrant muse he wanton'd. 

 Come, I will sit me down and meditate. 

 For I am wearied with my summer's walk ; 

 And here I may repose in silent ease ; 

 And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, 

 My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find 

 The haven of its rest — beneath this sod 

 Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. 



I would not have my corpse cemented down 



With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm 



Of its predestined dues ; no, I would lie 



Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown, 



Swath'd down with oziers, just as sleep the cotters. 



Yet may not uncUstinguish'd be my grave ; 



But there at eve may some congenial soul 



Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, 



The good man's benison — no more I ask. 



And oh I (if heavenly beings may look down 



From where, with cherubim inspired, they sit, 



Upon this little dim-discover'd spot. 



The earth), then will I cast a glance below 



On him who thus my ashes shall embalm; 



And I will weep, too, and will bless the wanderer, 



