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

II.

      Thou art chang’d, lovely spot! and no more thou displayest

      To the eye of thy votary, that negligent grace,

      Which, in moments the saddest, the tenderest, the gayest, 75

      Allur’d him so oft thy recesses to trace.

      The hand of the spoiler has fallen upon thee,

      And marr’d the wild beauties that deck’d thee before;

      And the charms, which a poet’s warm praises had won thee,

      Exist but in memory, and bless thee no more. 80

      Thy green, palmy fern, which the softest and mildest

      Of Summer’s light breezes could ruffle,—is fled;

      And the bright-blossom’d ling, which spread o’er thee her wildest

      And wantonest hues,—is uprooted and dead.

      Yet now, even now, that thou neither belongest, 85

      Or seem’st to belong, unto Nature or Art;

      The love I still bear thee is deepest and strongest,

      And thy fate but endears thee the more to my heart.

      Thou art passing away, like some beautiful vision,

      From things which now are, unto those that have been! 90

      And wilt rise to my sight, like a landscape elysian,

      With thy blossoms more bright, and thy verdure more green.

      Thou wilt dwell in remembrance, among those recesses

      Which fancy still haunts; though they were, and are not;

      Whose loveliness lives, and whose beauty still blesses, 95

      Which, though ceasing to be, can be never forgot.

      We know all we see in this beauteous creation,

      However enchanting its beauty may seem,

      Is doom’d to dissolve, like some bright exhalation,

      That dazzles, and fades in the morning’s first beam. 100

      The gloom of dark forests, the grandeur of mountains,

      The verdure of meads, and the beauty of flowers;

      The seclusion of valleys, the freshness of fountains,

      The sequester’d delights of the loveliest bowers:

      Nay, more than all these, that the might of old ocean, 105

      Which seems as it was on the day of its birth,

      Must meet the last hour of convulsive commotion,

      Which, sooner or later, will uncreate earth.

      Yet, acknowledging this, it may be that the feelings

      Which these have awaken’d, the glimpses they’ve given, 110

      Combin’d with those inward and holy revealings

      That illumine the soul with the brightness of heaven,

      May still be immortal, and destin’d to lead us,

      Hereafter, to that which shall not pass away;

      To the loftier destiny God hath decreed us, 115

      The glorious dawn of an unending day.

      And thus, like the steps of the ladder ascended

      By angels, (beheld with the patriarch’s eye,)

      With the perishing beauties of earth may be blended

      Sensations too pure, and too holy to die. 120

      Nor would Infinite Wisdom have plann’d and perfected,

      With such grandeur and majesty, beauty and grace,

      The world we inhabit, and thus have connected

      The heart’s better feelings with nature’s fair face,

      If the touching emotions, thus deeply excited, 125

      Towards Him who made all things, left nothing behind,

      Which, enduring beyond all that sense has delighted,

      Becomes intellectual, immortal, as mind!

      But they do; and the heart that most fondly has cherish’d

      Such feelings, nor suffer’d their ardour to chill, 130

      Will find, when the forms which inspir’d them have perish’d,

      Their spirit and essence remain with it still.

      Thus thinking, I would not recall the brief measure

      Of praise, lovely valley! devoted to thee;

      Well has it been won by the moments of pleasure 135

      Afforded to some, justly valued by me.

      May their thoughts and mine, often silently ponder

      Over every lov’d spot that our feet may have trod;

      And teach us, while through nature’s beauties we wander,

      All space is itself but the temple of God! 140

      That so, when our spirits shall pass through the portal

      Of Death, we may find, in a state more sublime,

      Immortality owns what could never be mortal!

      And Eternity hallows some visions of Time!

      1819.

       VERSES, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN A BURIAL-GROUND BELONGING TO THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS

      What though no sculptur’d monuments around,

      With epitaphs engraven, meet me here,

      Yet conscious feeling owns, with awe profound,

      The habitation of the dead is near:

      With reverend feeling, not with childish fear, 5

      I tread the ground which they, when living, trod,

      Pondering this truth, to Christians justly dear,

      Whose influence lends an interest to the sod

      That covers their remains:—The dead still live to God!

      Is it not written in the hallow’d page 10

      Of Revelation, God remains to be

      The Lord of all, in every clime and age,

      Who fear’d and serv’d him living? Did not He,

      Who for our sins expir’d upon the tree,

      Style him of Abram, Isaac, Jacob,—Lord! 15

      Because they liv’d to Him? Then why should we,

      (As if we could no fitter meed afford,)

      Raise them memorials here?—Their dust shall be restor’d.

      Could we conceive Death was indeed the close

      Of our existence, Nature might demand 20

      That, where the reliques of our friends repose,

      Some record to their memory should stand,

      To keep them unforgotten in the land:—

      Then, then indeed, urn, tomb, or marble bust,

      By sculptor’s art elaborately plann’d, 25

      Would seem a debt due to their mouldering dust,

      Though time would soon efface