File:The poetical and prose works of Henry Kirke White (1856) (14598033347).jpg

Identifier: poeticalprosew00whit (find matches)
Title: The poetical and prose works of Henry Kirke White
Year: 1856 (1850s)
Authors: White, Henry Kirke, 1785-1806 Southey, Robert, 1774-1843
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Publisher: Edinburgh, Gall & Inglis (etc., etc.)
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: The Library of Congress

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ow, Though the cold crowd the secret never know; With them I laugh—yet when no eye can see, I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. Yes, thou didst wrong me, ; I fondly thought, In thee Id found the friend my heart had sought;I fondly thought that thou couldst pierce the guise,And read the truth that in my bosom lies ;( fondly thought ere Times last days were gone,Thy heart and mine had mingled into one !Yes—and they yet will mingle. Days and yearsWill fly, and leave us partners in our tears:We then shall feel that friendship has a power,To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;Times trial oer, shall clasp each others hand,And wait the passport to a better land.Thine, H. K. White. Half-past 11 oclock at night. VERSES. Composed extempore in the presence of B. Mad-dock, as anevidence of the Authors ability to write Poetry. Thou base repiner at anothers joy, Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own;Oh far away from generous Britons fly, And find in meaner climes a fitter throne !
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tke lone EaicL at midnight sr ais pale features streams ) MISCELLANEOUS. JQl Away, away, it shall not be, That thou shalt dare defile our plains :The truly generous heart disdains Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while heJoys at anothers joy, and smiles at others jollity. Triumphant monster ! though thy schemes succeed,— Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night,Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, Thy happy victim will emerge to light;When oer his head, in silence that reposes, Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear,Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses, Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe ;Then will thy baseness stand confessd, and all Will curse the ungenerous fate that bade a Poet fall. Yet ah : thy sorrows are too keen, too sure ! Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey ?Alas ; in robbing him thou robbst the poor, Who only boast what thou wouldst take away.See the lone bard at midnight study sitting ; Oer his pale features streams his dying lamp;Wrhile

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