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

Father then shall smile, and greet thee with, “Well done!” 135

      Could I but hope a lot so blest as thine

      Awaited me, no happier would I crave:

      That hope should then forbid me to repine

      That Heaven so soon resum’d the gift it gave;

      That hope should teach me every ill to brave;— 140

      Should whisper, ’mid the tempest’s loudest tone,

      Thy spirit walk’d with me life’s stormiest wave;

      And lead me, when Time’s fleeting span was flown,

      Calmly to share thy couch, which needs no graven stone.

       9th Mo. 14th, 1819

       LEISTON ABBEY

      Beautiful fabric! even in decay

      And desolation, beauty still is thine:

      As the rich sunset of an autumn day,

      When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine

      To render homage to its slow decline, 5

      Is more majestic in its parting hour;

      Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine

      Possesses now a more subduing power,

      Than in thine earlier sway with pomp and pride thy dower.

      To voice of praise or prayer, or solemn sound 10

      Of sacred music, once familiar here,

      Thy walls are echoless; within their bound,

      Once holy deem’d, and to religion dear,

      No sound salutes the most attentive ear

      That tells thy former destiny; unless 15

      It be when fitful breezes wandering near

      Wake such faint sighs, as feebly might express

      Some unseen spirit’s woe for thy lost loveliness.

      Or when on stormy nights the winds are high,

      And through thy roofless walls and arches sweep, 20

      In tones more full of thrilling harmony

      Than art could reach; while from the neighbouring deep

      The roar of bursting billows seems to keep

      Accordant measure with the tempest’s chime;

      Oh, then! at times have I, arous’d from sleep, 25

      Fancied that thou, even in thy proudest prime,

      Couldst never have given birth to music more sublime.

      But to the eye, revolving years still add

      Fresh charms, which make thee lovelier to the view;

       For nature has luxuriantly clad 30

      Thy ruins; as if wishing to renew

      Their claim to homage from those hearts that woo

      Her gentle influence: with indulgent hand

      She has aton’d for all that time could do,

      Though she might not his ravages withstand; 35

      And now thou art her own: her skill thy beauties plann’d.

      The mantling ivy’s ever-verdant wreath

      She gave thee as her livery to wear;

      Thy wall-flowers, waving at the gentlest breath,

      And scattering perfume on the summer air, 40

      Wooing the bee to come and labour there;

      The clinging moss, whose hue of sober grey

      Makes beautiful what else were bleak and bare;

      These she has given thee as a fit array

      For thy declining pomp, and her delightful sway. 45

      Yet is it not her power, or these alone

      That make thee interesting as thou art;

      The merely beautiful, however prone

      We are to prize it, could not touch the heart.

      Mere form and colour would not thus impart, 50

      Unto the pensive, contemplating mind,

      Thoughts which might almost cause a tear to start

      In eyes not given to weep: there is assign’d

      To thee a stronger power in deeper feeling shrin’d.

      It is a consciousness of what thou wert, 55

      Compar’d with what thou art; a feeling sense

      Which even steals upon the most inert,

      Who have the least conception how, or whence

      Such mixt sensations should arise from thence;

      But so it is, that few there are can gaze 60

      Upon the wrecks of old magnificence,

      Nor own the moral that their fate conveys,

      How all that man can build his own brief power betrays.

      And most of all this truth arrests the heart,

      When edifices that were meant to be, 60

      Not mere mementos of the builder’s art,

       That future ages should with wonder see;

      But monuments of wealth and piety,

      To the Most High for ever consecrate;

      When these, too, share the fate now fallen on thee, 70

      Who can with stoic coldness contemplate

      Their splendour thus defac’d, their pomp thus desolate.

      No Catholic am I, in whom the sight

      Of glories tarnish’d, altars overthrown,

      Aught of revengeful feeling could excite: 75

      Pope, Cardinal, and Abbot, I disown

      Alike, as empty titles; seldom shown

      More insignificant and profitless,

      Than where they once assum’d their haughtiest tone;

      Yet do I feel what words cannot express, 80

      Viewing the faded pride of fancied holiness.

      Of fancied holiness! O say not so,

      Nor judge unkindly of another’s creed;

      The intent and motive God alone can know,

      And these condemn, or sanctify the deed. 85

      Ave-maria, crucifix, and bead

      Are nothing in themselves; but if they were

      Imagin’d helpful in the votary’s need,

      Although a faith more spiritual may spare

      Such outward aids to seek, from blame it may forbear. 90

      And thus this gorgeous edifice, if rear’d

      By piety, which sought with honest aim

      The glory of The Lord, should be rever’d,

      Even for that cause, by those who seek the same.

      Perchance the builders err’d; but who shall blame 95

      Error, nor feel that they partake