ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
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Called him to realms of clear and perfect light,
The mysteries of science opened to his sight,
Unveiling beauties which the mists of sense
Enveloped in thick clouds, obscure and dense.
Not like an eagle stretched upon the plain,
No more on venturous wing to soar again,
But like Him who descended from the skies
To raise man there, Kirke White but fell to rise!
The mysteries of science opened to his sight,
Unveiling beauties which the mists of sense
Enveloped in thick clouds, obscure and dense.
Not like an eagle stretched upon the plain,
No more on venturous wing to soar again,
But like Him who descended from the skies
To raise man there, Kirke White but fell to rise!
