TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



429 



Teach me to string thy harp, and wake its strain 

 To mourn thy early fate, till every chord complain ! 



No ! let thy harp remain, 

 On yon dark cypress hung, 

 By death unstrung ; 



To touch it were profane ! 



But, now, oh ! now, at this d^ep hour, 



While I feel thy thrilling power ; 



"While I steal from pillow "d sleep. 



O'er thy urn to bend and weep ; 



Spirit, robed in crystal light. 



On the fleecy clouds of night, 



Descend ; and, oh ! my breast inspire, 



"With a portion of thy fire ; 



Teach my hand, at midnight's noon, 

 Hover o'er me while I s"ng, 

 Oh ! spirit loved and bless'd, attune the string ! 



Yes, now, when all around are sunk in rest ; 

 And the night-vapour sails along the west ; 

 \yhen darkness, brooding o'er this nether ball. 

 Encircles nature with her sable pall ; 

 Still let me tarry, heedless of repose, 

 To pour the bosom's — not the Muse's, woes ! 

 To thy loved mem'ry heave the sigh sincere. 

 And drop a kindred, — a prophetic, tear ! 



Fast flow, ye genial drops — 



Gush forth, ye tender sighs ! 

 And who, dear shade ! can tell — but — 

 AATiile thus I, mournful, pause and weep for Thee, 

 Shortly a sigh may heave,— a tear be shed, for me / 



TO MR H. K. WHITE. 



Hark ! 'tis some sprite who sweeps a fun'ral knell 

 For Dermody no more. That fitful tone 

 From Eolus' wild harp alone can swell. 



Or Chatterton assumes the lyre unknown. 



No ; list again ! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh 



Swells with the breeze, and dies upon the stream 



'Tis Margaret mourns, as swift she rushes by. 

 Roused by the daemons from adulterous dream. 



