TRIBUTARY VERSES. 427 



Sweet flower ! not lowg thy spotless heart will fear 

 The cruel blast that bows thy slender form : 



Thou wert not made for winter's frown severe ; 

 Soon wilt thou droop, unconscious of the storm. 



Thus genius springs, and thus the storms of earth 

 Kip the young bud, just opening to the day : 



Awhile it blooms, to prove its heavenly birth, 

 Awhile it charms, then withers, — dies away. 



Thus Henry graced the world — Too soon the power 

 Of stern affliction seized his youthful breast ; 



He saw the clouds arise, the tempest lower, 

 He bowed his head, and meekly sunk to rest. 



MONODY. 



To the Ilemoiy of Henry Kirke White, 



BY JOSEPH BLACKETT.* 



•■' No marble marks ihy couch of lowly sleep. 

 But living statues there are seen to -weep ; 

 Aft'.iction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 

 AiHiction's stl/ deplores thy youthful doom !" 



LoaD Brao-v. 



To yon streamlet's rippling flow, 

 Through the grove meandring slow, 

 Heart-heaving sighs of sorrow let me pour. 

 And those " living statues'' join, 

 For no " marble" grief is mine. 

 Mine is sympathy's true tear. 

 Love and pity's sigh sincere. 

 And to " Affliction's self I give the mournful hour! 



What means yon new-raised mould beneath the yevr ? 



And why scoop "d out the coffin's narrow cell. 



Fashion 'd, alas ! to human shape and size ? 



AVhy crawls that earthworm from the dazzling ray 



Of day's unwelcome orb ? And why, at length. 



Lingering, advances, with grief-measured pace. 



The sable hearse, in raven plumes array "d ? 



And hark ! oh, hark ! the deep-toned funeral knell 



Breathes, audible, a sad and sullen sound ! 



* Vide his Poems. 



