428 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



Alas, poor j'outli ! for thee this robe of death ! 

 Ye Nine, that lave in the Castalian spring, 

 "Whose full-toned waves, responsive to the strain 

 Of your Parnassian harps, with solemn flow, 

 Peel the deep dirge around, — pluck each a wreath 

 Of baneful yew, and twine it round your lyres. 

 For your own IIekry sleeps to wake no more ! 



Alas ! alas ! immortal youth ! 

 Thine the richly varied song, 

 Simple, clear, subliinc, and strong; 



Thy sunny eye beam'd on the page of Truth, 

 Thy God adored, and fraught with cherub fire, 

 'Twas thine to strike, on earth, a heavenly lyre ! 



Ah ! lost too soon ! through tangled groves, 

 'Midst the fresh dews no more 



He pensive roves 



The varied Passions to explore. 



Silent, silent, is his tongue. 



Whose notes so powerful through the woodlands rung, 



When on the wing of hoary Time,* 



With energy sublime, 

 He soar'd, and left this lessening world below : — 

 Hai-k ! hark ! methinks, e'en now, I hear his numbers flow 

 Ah ! no, he sings no more. • 



Oh ! thou greedy cormorant fell. 



Death ! insatiate monster ! tell, 



"Why so soon was sped the dart 



Which pierced, alas ! his youthful heart ? 



Oh, despoiler ! tyrant ! know. 



When thy arm, that dealt the blow, 



Wither'd sinks, inactive, cold, 



By a stronger arm controll'd. 

 Then shall this youth the song of triumph raise, 

 Throughout eternity immeasurable days ! 



Bard of nature, heaven-graced child ! 

 Sweet, majestic, jjlaintive, wild; 

 Who, on rapid pinion borne. 

 Swifter than the breeze of morn, 

 Circled now the Aonian mount. 

 Now the Heliconian fount, 



* One of Kirke White's most animated and beantifnl Poemg, en- 

 titled " Time." 



