414 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



VERSES 



Occasioned by the Death of Henry KirJce White. 



"NVhat is this world at best. 

 Though deck'd in vernal bloom, 

 By hope and youthful fancy drest. 

 What, but a ceaseless toil for rest, 

 A passage to the tomb ? 

 If flow Vets strew 

 The avenue, 

 Though fair, alas ! how fading, and how few ! 



And every hour comes arm'd 

 By sorrow, or by woe : 

 ConceaVd beneath its little wings, 

 A scythe the soft-shod pilf'rer brings, 

 To lay some comfort low : 

 Some tie t' unbind, 

 By love entwined, 

 Some silken bond that holds the captive mind. 



And every month displays 

 The ravages of time : 

 Faded the flowers I — The Spring is past 

 The scatter'd leaves, the wintry blast, 

 "NVarn to a milder clime ; 

 The songsters flee 

 The leafless tree, 

 And bear to happier realms their melody. 



Henry : the world no more 

 Can claim thee for her own ! 

 , In purer skies thy radiance beams ! 

 Thy lyre employ "d on nobler themes 

 Before th' eternal throne : 

 Yet, spirit dear. 

 Forgive the tear 

 "WTiich those must shed who're doom'd to lingor here. 



Although a stranger, I 



In friendship's train would weep : 

 Lost to the world, alas ! so young, 

 And must thy lyre, in silence hung. 



On the dark cypress sleep ? 



