TRIBUTAKY VERSES. 423 



Chaste as the Psalmist's harjD, his lyre 

 Celestial raptures could inspire, 

 And lift the soul to Heaven. 



Twas not the laurel earth bestows, 

 'Twas not the praise from man that flows, 



With classic toil he sought : 

 He sought the crown that martyrs wear, 

 When rescued from a world of care ; 



Their spirit, too, he caught. 



Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, 

 Who idly range in Folly's way. 



And learn the worth of time : 

 Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, 

 How to redeem this pearl at last. 



Atoning for your crime. 



This flower, that droop 'd in one cold clime. 

 Transplanted from the soil of time 



To immortality. 

 In full perfection there shall bloom : 

 And those who now lament his doom 



Must bow to God's deci'ee. 

 London, 27tli Feb. 1808. 



TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. 



BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYEK, D.D. 



O, LOST too soon ! accept the tear 

 A stranger to thy memory pays ! 

 Dear to the muse, to science dear ! 

 In the young morning of thy days ! 



All the wild notes that pity loved 

 Awoke, responsive still to thee, 

 While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved 

 In softest, sweetest harmony. 



The chords that in the human heart, 

 Compassion touches as her o^vn, 

 Bore in thy symphonies a part — 

 With them in perfect unison. 



