Selected Poems of Bernard Barton, the 'Quaker Poet'. Christopher Stokes W.

dead and the living!—’Tis barren and bare,

      But the grass below it is fresh and green,

      Though its roots can find no moisture there:—

      Yet still on its birth-place it loves to linger,

      And evermore points with its silent finger 90

      To the clouds, and the sun, and the sky so fair!

      * * * * * * *

       WRITTEN IN A LADY’S ALBUM

      Like one who, fruitlessly perchance,

      Engraves his name upon a tree,

      In hopes to win a casual glance,

      And woo remembrance still, when he

      A distant wanderer may be:— 5

      Thus have I claim’d a page of thine;

      Be it but reckon’d worthy thee,

      And I shall proudly own it mine.

       Jan. 5, 1818.

       STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO SOME FRIENDS GOING TO THE SEA-SIDE

      Since Summer invites you to visit once more

      The haunts she most loves on the ocean’s cool shore,

      Where billows are foaming, and breezes are free,

      Accept at our parting one farewell from me.

      I can easily picture the pleasures in view, 5

      Because before now I have shar’d them with you;

      But unable this season to taste them again,

      I must feast on such pleasures as flow from my pen.

      Let fancy then give me what fate has denied,

      And grant me at seasons to roam by your side; 10

      Nor will I repine while remembrance can be

      Still blest with the moments I’ve spent by the sea.

      The ramble at morning, when morning first wakes,

      And the sun through the haze like a beacon-fire breaks;

      Illuming to sea-ward the billows’ white foam, 15

      And tempting the loiterer ere breakfast to roam;—

      The stroll after breakfast, when all are got out;

      The saunter, the lounge, and the looking about;

      The search after shells, and the eye glancing bright,

      If cornelian, or amber, should come in its sight:— 20

      Nor must I forget the last ramble at eve,

      When the splendors of day-light are taking their leave;

      When the sun’s setting beams with a tremulous motion

      Are reflected far off on the bosom of ocean.

      This, this is the time, when I think I have found 25

      The deepest delight from the scenery round:

      There’s a freshness in morning’s enjoyments, but this

      Brings with it a feeling of tenderer bliss.

      I remember an evening, though years are gone by,

      Since that evening was spent;—to my heart and my eye 30

      It is present by memory’s magical power,

      And reflects back its light on this far distant hour.

      ’Twas an evening the loveliest that Summer had seen,

      The sky was unclouded, the ocean serene;

      The sun’s setting beams so resplendently bright, 35

      On the billows were dancing like streamers of light.

      So soothing the sounds were which faintly I heard,

      They were sweeter than notes of the night-loving bird;

      And so peaceful the prospect before me, it seemed

      Like a scene of delight of which fancy had dreamed. 40

      There’s a pensive enjoyment the pen cannot paint;

      There are feelings which own that all language is faint;

      And such on that eve to my heart were made known,

      As I mus’d by the murmuring billows alone.

      But enough—may your sea-side excursion fulfil 45

      Every hope you have formed, be those hopes what they will;

      And may I, although absent, in fancy create

      Those joys which on you in reality wait.

       SONNET TO THE DEBEN [‘THOU HAST THROWN ASIDE THY SUMMER LOVELINESS’]

      Thou hast thrown aside thy summer loveliness:—

      And those who sought thy banks are well content

      To spend at home in social merriment

      Their wintry day; no loitering footsteps press

      Thy cheerless border; yet I must confess 5

      I love thee still; and think an hour well spent

      In walking by thee; for thy winter dress

      To many a lonely hour a charm hath lent.—

      Instead of summer’s sun; and rippling tide,

      Flowing so softly that it seem’d to creep 10

      In silence to thy banks; are now descried

      Dark gathering clouds; and o’er thy bosom sweep

      The wintry winds, until thou seemst to be

      To fancy’s eye some little inland sea.

       STANZAS, TO HELEN M— M—

      “O! mayst thou ever be, what now thou art,

      Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring;

      As fair in form, as warm, yet pure in heart.”

      Byron.

      Believe not that absence can banish

      The memory of moments gone by;

      Could I deem they so lightly would vanish

      I should think on the past with a sigh.

      But thy image was never intended 5

      The source of one sorrow to be;

      For pleasure and hope are both blended

      In each thought which arises of thee.

      ’Tis not love—as that passion is painted,

      Its revival I never shall prove; 10

      For, long ere we two were acquainted,

      I had ceas’d e’en to think about love.

      The attachment I feel is another,

      ’Tis passion from penitence free;

      And had I to choose as a Brother, 15

      I would look for a Sister in thee.

      Thou need’st not, dear Helen, to doubt me,

      When I fondly and frankly confess,

      That