430 TRIBUTARY VERSES. I 



Oh, say, sweet youth ! what genius fires thy soul ? | 



The same which tuned the frantic nervous strain 



To the wild harp of Collins ? — By the pole, 

 Or 'mid the seraphim and heav'nly train, 



Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold, 



To sing Hell's flaming gulf, or Heav'n high arch'd vUh 

 gold? 



H Welker. 



SONNET, 



In Memory of Mr H. K. White. 



" 'Tis now the dead of night," and I will go 

 To where the brook soft-murmuring glides along 



In the still wood ; yet does the plaintive song 

 Of Philomela through the welkin flow ; 

 And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw 



Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, 



Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree strong, 

 And intermingle with the streams my woe : 

 Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze ; 



No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom ; 

 Cold, chilling dew-drops trickle down the trees. 



And every flower withholds its rich perfume : 

 'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground 

 Where Henry moxilders in a sleep profound ! 



J. G. 



LINES 



Written on reading the " Remains of Henry Kirke White, of Kot- 

 tingham, late of St John's College, Cambridge ; with an Account 

 of Ilia Life, hy Robert Southey, Esq." 



BY MRS M. H. HAY. 



Thy gentle spirit now is fled, 

 Thy body in its earthy bed 

 Is laid in peaceful sleep ; 



