[51 HENRY KIRKE WHITE S POEMS. 



The rustic swains believe thj power 

 Can hush the wild winds when they roar, 

 And still the billowy main. 



V. 



These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, 

 I, still unknown, may live with thee, 

 And gentle zephj^r's wing will sweep 

 Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, 

 Beneath the alder tree. 



VI. 



This little dirge will please me more 



Than the full requiem's swelling peal *, 

 I'd rather than that crowds should sigh 

 For me, that from some kindred eye 

 The trickling tear should steal. 



VII. 



Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, 



Perhaps from me debar'd ; 

 And dear to me the classic zone, 

 Which snatch'd from learning's laboured throne, 



Adorns the accepted bard. 



VIII. 



And O ! if yet 'twere mine to dwell 

 Where Cam, or Isis, winds along. 



Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, 



I yet might call the ear of taste 

 To listen to my song. 



IX. 



Oh ! then, my little friend, the style 



I'd change to happier lays. 

 Oh ! then, the cloister'd glooms should smile. 

 And through the long, the fretted aisle 



Should swell the note of praise. 



