To Mr. Henry Kirke White
By H. Welker
Hark! ’tis some sprite who sweeps a funeral 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 demons from adulterous dream.
O! 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 heavenly train,
Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold,
To sing Hell’s flaming gulf, or Heaven high arch’d with gold?