>46 IISXRY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. 



I bend my knee to thee, 

 From sun to sun 

 My race will run, 

 I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done. 



On another paper are a few lines, written probably in 

 the freshness of his disappointment. 



I dream no more — the vision flies away, 

 And Disappointment * * * 



There fell my hopes — I lost my all in this, 

 My cherish'd all of visionary bliss. 

 Kow hope farewell, farewell all joys below, 

 Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe ; 

 Plunge me in glooms * * * 



ODE TO THE HARVEST MOON, 



-Cum rnit imbriferum ver : 



Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum 

 Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent. 



* * * * 



Cunct tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. 



Virgil. 



Moon of harvest, herald mild 

 Of plenty, rustic labour's child, 

 Hail ! oh hail ! I greet thy beam, 

 As soft it trembles o'er the stream, 

 And gilds the straw -thatch'd hamlet wide, 

 Where innocence and peace reside ; 

 'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, 

 Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song. 



Moon of harvest, I do love 

 O'er the uplands now to rove, 

 While thy modest ray serene 

 Gilds the wide surrounding scen9 ; 

 And to watch thee riding high 

 In the blue vault of the sky, 



