Sonnet in Memory of Henry Kirke White
By J. G.
“’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 dewdrops trickle down the trees,
And every flower withholds its rich perfume:
’Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground
Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound!