120 HENIIY KIEKE WHITE'S POEMS. 



The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, 

 The distant main is moaning low ; 

 Come, let us sit and weave a song — 

 A melancholy song ! 



Sweet is the scented gale of morn, 

 And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, 

 But sweeter far the solemn calm 



That marks thy mournful reign. 



I've passed here many a lonely year, 



And never human voice have heard : 



I've pass'd here many a lonely year, 



A solitary man. 



And I have Xnger'd in the shade, 

 From sultry noon's hot beam. And I 

 Have knelt before my wicker door, 

 To sing my ev'ning song. 



And I have hail'd the gray morn high. 

 On the blue mountain's misty brow, 

 And try to tune my little reed 



To hymns of harmony. 



But never could I tune my reed, 

 At morn, or noon, or eve so sweet, 

 As when upon the ocean shore 



I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 



The day-spring brings not joy to me, 

 The moon it whispers not of peace ; 

 But oh ! when darkness robes the heav*n?, 

 IVIy woes are mix'd with joy. 



And then I talk, and often think 

 Aerial voices answer me ; 

 And oh ! I am not then alone — 

 A solitary man. 



