TRIBUTARY VERSES. 421 



III. 



Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude, 

 O thou, the fragrant Rosemary, 



"Where he, " in marble solitude, 



So peaceful, and so deep," doth lie ! 



His harp prophetic sung to thee 



In notes of sweetest minstrelsy, 



IV. 



Ye falling dews, oh ! ever leave 



Your crystal drops these flow'rs to steep J 

 At earliest morn, at latest eve, 



Oh, let them for their Poet weep ! 

 For tears bedew'd his gentle eye, 

 The tears of heavenly sympathy, 



V. 



Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams ; 



For he was wont to pace the glade. 

 To watch in pale uncertain gleams, 



The crimson-zoned horizon fade — 

 Thy last, thy settling radiance pour, 

 "Where he is set to rise no more. 



ODE 

 On the late Henry Kirke White, 



And is the minstrel's voyage o'er ? 



And is the star of genius fled ? 

 And will his magic harp no more, 



Mute in the mansions of the dead, 

 Its strains seraphic pour ? 



A pilgrim in this world of woe, 

 Condemn'd, alas ! awhile to stray, 



"SYhere bristly thorns, where briers grow, 

 He bade, to cheer the gloomy way. 



Its heavenly music flow. 



And oft he bade, by fame inspired. 

 Its wild notes seek th' ethereal plain, 



Till angels, by its music fired, 



Have, list'ning, caught th' ecstatic strain, 



Have wonder'd, and admired. 



