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

charity, whate’er thy name,

      Be thou a Pagan, Protestant, or Jew;

      Nor with a scornful glance these papal reliques view.

      I grant that Popery’s was a galling yoke, 100

      Its ritual, one that reason must disdain;

      And much I venerate their names who broke

      The fetters, and releas’d us from the chain.

       Dreadful indeed is superstition’s reign,

      And priestcraft has pollution in its touch; 105

      Yet, as extremes beget extremes again,

      There is a danger, or there may be such,

      That we in turn may doubt, as they believ’d, too much.

      To give implicit credence to each tale

      Of monkish legends; reliques to adore; 110

      To think God honour’d by the cowl or veil,

      Reckless or who, or what, the emblem wore;

      Indeed is mockery, mummery, nothing more:

      But if cold scepticism usurp the place

      That superstition held in days of yore, 115

      We may not be in much more hopeful case

      Than if we still implor’d the Virgin Mary’s grace.

      There is a medium, could we find it out,

      (And all may find it if they seek aright,)

      Between extreme credulity and doubt; 120

      A safe and middle path, not gain’d by might

      Or wisdom of our own; a path, whose light

      “Shines more and more unto the perfect day;”

      Not overcast by bigotry’s dark night,

      Nor faintly lit by reason’s twilight ray; 125

      But cloudless, straight, and plain; a high and holy way.

      And those who walk therein, with humble trust

      In Him who cast it up, and led them there,

      Remembering this, that they are form’d of dust,

      The gifts they have receiv’d with meekness bear: 130

      Reason and faith are such; a peerless pair,

      Would man but use them both with holy awe,

      And of the abuse of each, in turn, beware,

      They would instruct him what to love—to abhor,

      And how to live in peace, and keep God’s righteous law. 135

      But I have wander’d widely from my theme,

      And some perhaps may think have wander’d long;

      Yet others more indulgently may deem,

      Nor chide the minstrel for his sober song:

      It could not well be gay, thus fram’d among 140

       The desolate ruins of departed days

      And years gone by, whose presence wakes a throng

      Of pensive thoughts, compelling me to raise,

      In contemplative mood, chasten’d and solemn lays—

      Congenial to the scene; and, as is fit, 145

      Imprest with somewhat of its temper’d hues;

      One, if no more, I trust will cherish it,

      When she, the past retracing, shall peruse

      This frail memorial of an humble muse:

      For she will then remember how, erewhile, 150

      Far from her home upon the banks of Ouse,

      She wander’d with me through this ruin’d pile,

      When autumn’s setting sun shed round his softest smile.

      Yes, thou, my young friend, will not soon forget,

      Nor shouldst thou, visiting this lovely scene; 155

      Because upon thy brow thou bear’st as yet

      Youth’s joyous chaplet of unblighted green,

      Surpassing far the poet’s bay, I ween;

      For the fresh dews which unto thine dispense

      Its living loveliness—its charm serene, 160

      Rise from the fount of early innocence,

      That makes in happy hearts its hidden residence.

      Thou art exactly at the age, when all

      Within, each outward beauty can enhance;

      When bliss has too much novelty to pall, 165

      As it does afterwards in life’s advance,

      Even reality may seem romance;

      It often does, while yet delight is new;

      And time, and place, and trivial circumstance,

      That feed the eager fancy, charm the view, 170

      At such an age as thine, may last existence through.

      Therefore do I believe, that in thy heart

      These ruins will their own remembrance keep;

      And, sketch’d with them on memory’s faithful chart,

      Will be, the wild walk to the mighty deep, 175

      The lone and shady spot for washing sheep,

      Where the tall, trembling aspens ceaseless play,

       And we stood still to hear the light winds sweep

      Their rustling leaves, while, in the unseen bay,

      We heard the billows’ dash: these shall not pass away! 180

      Nor will the scene that hail’d us at the close

      Of our wild ramble, less survive to each;

      When we exchang’d the stillness and repose

      Of the lone common, for the open beach;

      And saw before us, far as eye could reach, 185

      The bursting breakers fling their foam on high,

      And felt how poor was all the power of speech

      To paint the grandeur and rude melody

      That spoke, in nature’s tone, to heart, and ear, and eye.

      Farewell! I may not lengthen out a strain 190

      Already too protracted; then, farewell!

      Nor shall I think that I have writ in vain,

      If they, who love such scenes, whose bosoms swell

      With those pure feelings that delight to dwell

      In yet untroubled hearts; if such shall own 195

      That I have spoken what their tongues would tell,

      Returning from such haunts: that praise alone

      Shall recompence me well, and for the task atone.

       9th Mo. 20th, 1819.

       STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

      Forests, and lakes, the majesty of mountains,

      The dazzling glaciers, and the musical sound

      Of