94 HENRY KIRKE WHITE's POEMS. 



Abide with him whom penury's charms control, 

 And bind the rising yearningg of his soul, 

 Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there, 

 Tell the poor pallid wretch, that life is fair ! 



Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, 

 And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled : 

 Mark his dewed temples, and his half-shut eye, 

 His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh, 

 His mutt'ring mouth, contorted with despair, 

 And ask if Genius could inhabit there. 



Oh yes ! that sunken eye with fire once gleamed, 

 And rays of light from its full circlet streamed ; 

 But now Neglect has stung him to the core. 

 And Hope's wild raptnres thrill his breast no more 



Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round. 

 And added Grief compels him to the ground. 

 Lo ! o'er his manly form, decayed, and wan, 

 The shades of death with gradual steps steal on ; 

 And the pale mother pining to decay. 

 Weeps for her boy her wretched life away. 



Go, child of Fortune ! to his early grave, 



Where o'er his liead obscure the rank weeds wave ; 



Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head 



On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. 



Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, 



And tell us then that life is wondrous fair ! 



Yet, Lofffc, in thee, whose hand is still stretched forth, 



T' encourage genius, and to foster worth ; 



On thee, th' unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 



'Tis just that every blessing should descend ; 



'Tis just that life to thee should only show, 



Her fairer side but little mixed with woe. 



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