42S TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



Still they preserve a lasting bloom, 

 But, all ! they blossom on thy tomb ? 



Hush'd is the melting cadence of the lyre 

 That once could sweetest melodies impart ; 

 Its soften'd echoes vibrate on the heart. 

 But dews of death have quench'd the jDoet's fire. 

 Sure — 'twas a phoenix flame ; 

 Kindled from heaven it came, 

 And with its native spark so closely blended. 

 That soon to heaven impell'd, it re-ascended. 



As wandering o'er the waste of desert lands, 



Some wearied pilgrim seeks a holy shrine, 

 And speeds him o'er the blaze of torrid sands. 



His soul with purest ardour to refine ; 

 So to thy saered turf would I repair. 



And while on Fame's recording page I see 

 Thy polish'd graces, and thy virtues fair. 



Thy wisdom mild or heaven-taught piety, 

 The vestige of thy worth would share, 

 And thence some precious relic bear. 



"N^Tiat, though no longer beaming here below. 

 Thy radiant star of life has ceased to burn. 

 Still shall its fire on Fancy's vision glow, 



And Memory shed her moonbeam on thine urn. 

 Though early vanish'd hence, an angel band 



^Marked its swift progress o'er this realm of night, 

 Watch'd the last lustre of its parting light, 

 And hailed its rising on a fairer land, 

 Above the flaming zone of day 

 Sparkling with exhaustless ray, 

 Fixed, shall it shine with li\'ing glory bright 

 When Time's last midnight long has rolled away. 



A REFLECTION 



On the early Death of Henry KirTce White, 



BY A LADY. 



The pensive snowdrop lifts her modest head. 

 While yet stern winter binds the icy stream, 



On chilling snow her taper leaves are spread, 

 Uncheer'd by balmy dew and summer's beam. 



