On the Death of Henry Kirke White
By T. Park
Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell,
Impassion’d minstrel! when its pitying wail
Sigh’d o’er the vernal primrose as it fell
Untimely, wither’d by the northern gale.1
Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime!
Whose opening bloom, ’mid many an adverse blast,
Charm’d the lone wanderer through this desert clime,
But charm’d him with a rapture soon o’ercast,
To see thee languish into quick decay.
Yet was not thy departing immature;
For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away,
And pure in spirit, as the bless’d are pure;
Pure as the dewdrop, freed from earthly leaven,
That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven!