130 HENRY KIRKE WHITE's POEMS. 



Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal, 

 Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, 

 Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, 



And show thy labours for the public weal, 

 Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, 

 But ah ! she shrinks abashed before the arduous theme. 



TO THE MOON. 



Written in Noveiriber. 

 Sublime, emerging from the misty verge 



Of the horizon dim, thee. Moon, I hail, 



As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale 

 Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. 

 Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, 



And falling leaves bestrew the wanderer's way, 

 Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night. 



With double joy my homage do I pay. 



When clouds disguise the gloiies of the day. 

 And stern November sheds her boisterous blight, 



How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray 

 Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height, 



And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring 



The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring. 



Written at the Grave of a Friend. 



Fast from the West the fading day-streaks fly, 



And Ebon night assumes her solemn sway ; 

 Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie. 



And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. 

 Oh ! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd 



The maid of musings by yon moaning wave ; 

 And hailed the moon's mild beam, which now renewed 



Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave ! j 



The busy world pursues its boisterous way, I 



The noise of revelry still echoes round ; j 



