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HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1785-1806.

The Herb Rosemary.

WEET-SCENTED flower! who art wont to bloom
On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder tree;

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the Wind God, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,

It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

E Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again,

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers,

Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:

T Summer eve, when heaven's ethereal bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear

More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?-
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,

And robes the mountain in its azure hue.

Thus, with delight, we linger to survey

The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;

Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene

More pleasing seems than all the past hath been,

HOPE.

And every form, that Fancy can repair
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.

What potent spirit guides the raptured eye
To pierce the shades of dim futurity?

Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power,
The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour?
Ah, no she darkly sees the fate of man-
Her dim horizon bounded to a span;

Or, if she hold an image to the view,

'Tis Nature pictured too severely true.

With thee, sweet Hope! resides the heavenly light,
That pours remotest rapture on the sight:
Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way,
That calls each slumbering passion into play.
Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band,
On tiptoe watching, start at thy command,
And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer,
To Pleasure's path, or Glory's bright career.
Primeval Hope, the Aönian Muses say,
When Man and Nature mourned their first decay;
When every form of death, and every woe,
Shot from malignant stars to earth below;
When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car;
When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain,
Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again;
All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind,
But Hope, the charmer, lingered still behind.