On Reading Henry Kirke White's Poem On Solitude, By Josiah Conder

But art thou thus indeed “alone?”
Quite unbefriended-all unknown?
And hast thou then his name forgot
Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot?

Is not his voice in evening's gale?
Beams not with him the “star” so pale?
Is there a leaf can fade and die
Unnoticed by his watchful eye?

Each fluttering hope-each anxious fear-
Each lonely sigh-each silent tear-
To thine Almighty Friend are known;
And say'st thou, thou art “all alone?”