A LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. AS, by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam An endless exile from his home, Pensive he treads the destined way, And dreads to go, nor dares to stay, Till on some neighboring mountain's brow He stops and turns his eyes below, There, melting at the well-known view, Drops a last tear and bids adieu,So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay queen of fancy and of art, Reluctant move with doubtful mind, Oft stop and often look behind. Diseases taint the murky air, And midnight conflagrations glare; Shakespeare, no more thy sylvan son, Nor all the art of Addison, Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, Nor Milton's mighty self, must please: In furs and coifs around me stand; Oh let me pierce the secret shade And other doctrines thence imbibe Thus, though my noon of life be past, I wore my bridal robe, As the bride of another. And a fair girl was near him; Once 'twas mine, and mine only; I wept, for I deserved To feel wretched and lonely. And all the bells. are ringing round- I at my study-window sit, But, though impressions calm and sweet The teardrop stands in either eye, Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pur- And yet I cannot tell thee why: suit : She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low. So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart. Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel, While the same plumage that had warmed his nest I am pleased, and yet I'm sad. The silvery rack that flies away Like mortal life or pleasure's ray Does that disturb my breast? Nay! what have I, a studious man, To do with life's unstable plan Or pleasure's fading vest? Is it that here I must not stop, yon Must bend my lonely way? No-surely no! for give but me My own fireside, and I shall be At home where'er I stray. Then is it that yon steeple there With music sweet shall fill the air When thou no more canst hear? Oh no! oh no! for then, forgiven, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding I shall be with my God in heaven, breast. LORD BYRON. *Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such Released from every fear. Then whence it is I cannot tell, But there is some mysterious spell That holds me when I'm glad; And so the teardrop fills my eye, beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret When yet, in truth, I know not why that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume. Or wherefore I am sad. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. The vain fictitious glitter of the crown, As toward his home in Israel's sheltered vales A stately rabbi drew. His camels spied Afar the palm trees' lofty heads that decked The dear domestic fountain, and in speed Pressed with broad foot the smooth and dewy glade. The holy man his peaceful threshold passed With hasting step. The evening meal was spread, And she who from life's morn his heart had shared Circled by splendors far more bright about Breathed her fond welcome. Bowing o'er The splendors of their own sublime renown. Thus woman needeth not the crown's poor pride: the board, The blessing of his fathers' God he sought, She reigns-she reigns where'er her smile "And let me bless them ere their hour of The observant mother spake with gentle | Even in those hallowed courts, to Israel's voice, Somewhat of soft excuse that they were wont To linger long amid the prophets' school, His sweet repast with sweet discourse was God Two spotless lambs well pleasing in his sight. But yet, methinks, thou'rt paler grown, my love, And the pure sapphire of thine eyes looks dim. Of journeying and return: "Would thou As though 'twere washed with tears." hadst seen Faintly she smiled: "One doubt, my lord, I fain would have thee solve: With me the golden morning break to light Yon mountain-summits whose blue, waving line Scarce meets thine eye, where chirp the joy- Gems of rich lustre and of countless cost ous birds, Were to my keeping trusted. Now, alas! And breath of fragrant shrubs and spicy They are demanded. Must they be restored, gales, Or I not a little longer gaze may And sigh of waving boughs, stirred in the Upon their dazzling hues?" His eye grew soul near stern Warm orisons. Yet most I wished thee And on his lip there lurked a sudden curl Clad in his robe pontifical, invoked The God of Abraham, while from lute and harp, Cymbal and trump and psaltery and glad Of tuneful Levite, and the mighty shout With brighter crimson. 'Mid their raven My hand I'll lay, and dedicate them there, claim |