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

      An end at last; for charity, more kind

      Than proud munificence could ever boast, 60

      To leave no entrance for regret behind,

       Hath rais’d of pious ranks a countless host,

      Who rear her standard high, and shout from coast to coast.

      The Bible! sacred pledge of love divine,

      The christian’s treasure, now the heathen’s prize, 65

      Shall soon complete redemption’s grand design,

      And bring salvation home to Afric’s eyes.

      Soon shall the sun of righteousness arise,

      And shine o’er every zone from pole to pole:

      Then, O my Country! ever just as wise, 70

      ’Till planets in their orbits cease to roll,

      Shalt thou remain enshrin’d in every grateful soul.

       ODE TO AN ÆOLIAN HARP

      Sweet instrument! whose tones beguile the ear

      With mingled strains of sadness and delight,

      Recal the scenes to melancholy dear,

      Or to the bowers of former bliss invite;

      The sweet aerial sylph, or seraph bright, 5

      That sweeps thy strings with more than mortal skill,

      Although of frame too subtle for the sight,

      May well a bard’s imagination fill.

      Hark! what a heavenly strain was there!

      A dirge for some departed soul 10

      Angels have taken to their care,

      With kindred spirits to enrol.

      Such were the sounds that softly stole

      Erewhile on Cowper’s faltering sense,

      As onward he survey’d the goal 15

      That hasten’d his departure hence.

      A bolder and a bolder note

      To gladness now directs my mind,

      Like distant bells whose changes float

      Across the water on the wind; 20

      To hail some married pair, design’d

      For mutual love, or mutual strife;

      By habit or by will inclin’d

      To strange vicissitudes of life.

      And while the rapid chariot rolls, 25

      In noisy pride, the streets along;

      Attracts the gaze of vulgar souls,

      And mocks and interrupts my song;

      How I despise the restless throng,

      Who scorn the meed of sober thought; 30

      Whose pulses beat with rapture strong,

      Whose transient bliss is dearly bought!

      That dying fall, which now succeeds

      The uproar that subdued thy sound,

      Tells me of many a heart that bleeds 35

      With guilt in fashion’s giddy round;

      Who never since their childhood found

      A day, an hour of cheap repose,

      But vainly thought their wishes crown’d.

      When riot with the morning rose. 40

      The lofty song, the sprightly dance,

      To them was life, to them was all.

      The studied sigh, the wanton glance,

      And all the arts that grace the ball,

      My unapproving heart appal; 45

      But while I listen to thy strains,

      I fit my mind for duty’s call,

      And bless the lot that pride disdains.

      The trumpet tells of streaming blood,

      Of valour’s feats, of victory’s prize, 50

      Of broken hearts, and many a flood

      Of tears that gush from widows’ eyes.

      But thy celestial breath supplies

      With thoughts of peace and joy my mind;

      It lifts my soul above the skies 55

      To transports for the just design’d.

      And when, arising on the final day,

      Mortals shall hear the first immortal sound;

      When millions shall reluctantly obey

      The call, and look in mute amazement round; 60

      Sensations purer still than e’er I found

      From the light breeze, as over thee it blew,

      Shall realize the fancied spell that bound

      My grosser sense, and prove the pleasure true.

       A GUESS AT THE CONTENTS OF LALLA ROOKH

      Sunshine and Moonshine by hook or by crook;

      With Bowers, and Flowers, and many a Brook;

      Fairy regions which never were dreamt of by Cook;

      Rosy lips, rosy cheeks too, and tresses, which, shook

      By the amorous breezes, inchantingly look; 5

      With bright eyes which glance into every nook,

      Speaking language which might even puzzle Horne Tooke,

      If Purley his spirit from Pluto could hook;—

      In short, you can’t guess what you’ll find in the Book

      Which Tom Moore has written, and call’d Lalla Rookh! 10

       STANZAS (“THE HEAVEN WAS CLOUDLESS”)

      The Heaven was cloudless—the Ocean was calm,

      For the breeze which blew o’er it scarce ruffl’d its breast;—

      Not a sight, not a sound, that might waken alarm,

      Could the eye, or the ear, of the wanderer molest.

      As I roam’d on the beach, to my memory rose, 5

      The bliss I had tasted in moments gone by;

      When my soul could rejoice in a scene of repose,

      And my spirit exult in an unclouded sky.

      I thought of the past—and, while thinking, thy name

      Came uncall’d to my lips:—but no language it found: 10

      Yet my heart felt how dear, and how hallow’d its claim;

      I could think, though my tongue dared not utter a sound.

      I did not forget how with thee I had paced

      On the shore I now trod—and how pleasant it seem’d;

      How my eye then sought thine, and how gladly it traced 15

      Every glance of affection which mildly it beam’d.

      The