98 HENRY KIRKE WHITe's POEMS. 



Yet, Morning ! unrepining still 



He'll greet thj beams awhile, 

 And surely thou, when o'er his grave 

 Solemn the whisp'ring willows wave, 



Wilt sweetly on him smile ; 

 And the pale glow-worm's pensive light 

 Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night 



TO A FRIEND. 

 Written at a very Early Age, 



I've read, my friend, of Diocletian, 



And many other noble Grecian, 



Who wealth and palaces resign'd, 



In cots the joys of peace to find ; 



Maximian's meal of turnip-tops, 



(Disgusting food to dainty chops), 



I've also read of, without wonder .• 



But such a curst, egregious blunder, 



As that a man, of wit and sense, 



Should leave his books to hoard up penee,- 



Forsake the loved Aonian maids, 



For all the petty tricks of trades, 



I never, either now, or long since, 



Have heard of such a piece of nonsense ; 



That one who learning's joys hath felt, 



And at the Muse's altar knelt. 



Should leave a life of sacred leisure, 



To taste the accumulating pleasure ; 



And metamorphosed to an alley duck, 



Grovel in loads of kindred muck. 



Oh ! 'tis beyond my comprehension! 



A courtier throwing up his pension,— 



A lawyer working without a fee, 



A parson giving charity, 



A truly pious methodist preacher, 



A.re not, egad, so out of nature. 



