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304 SONNETS. Xe �TO THE SPIRIT OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. THo' as the dews of morning short thy date, Tho' Sorrow 1ook'd on thee, and said--" be mine i';' Yet, with a holy ardour, Bard divine,. I burn--I burn to share thy glorious fate, Above whate'er of honours, or estate, This transient world can give; I would resign, With rapture, Fortune's choicest gifts, for thine, More truly noble--more sublimely great. For thou hast galn'd the prize of well-trled worth, That prize, which from thee never can be riven; Thine, Henry; is a deathless name on earth, Thine, amaranthine wrealhs, new-pluck'd in Heaven ! By what aspiring child, of mortal birth, Could more be ask'd--to whom might more be given ?'
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