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

both touch’d a chord of the tenderest tone;

      For thy spirit, then near, shed its influence o’er me,

      And told me that still thou wast truly my own. 20

      Yet—I thought at the moment—how dear was the thought!

      That there still was a union, which death could not break;

      And if with some sorrow the feeling was fraught,

      Yet even that sorrow was sweet for thy sake.

      Thus musing on thee, every object around 25

      Seem’d to borrow thy sweetness to make itself dear;

      Each murmuring wave reach’d the shore with a sound

      As soft as the tone of thy voice to my ear.

      The lights and the shades on the surface of ocean

      Seem’d to give back the glimpses of feeling and grace, 30

      Which once so expressively told each emotion

      Of thy innocent heart, as I gaz’d on thy face.

      And when I look’d up to the beautiful sky,

      So cloudless and calm—O! it harmoniz’d well

      With the gentle expression which spoke in thy eye, 35

      Ere the curtain of death on its loveliness fell!

      How proud is the prize which thy virtues have won,

      When their memory alone is so precious to me,

      That this world cannot give what my soul would not shun,

      If it tore from my breast the remembrance of thee! 40

       THE CONVICT’S APPEAL [STANZAS 1–15]

      The hours fly fast, and soon the beam

      Of life’s last day must break;

      And soon must be fulfill’d the dream,

      From which ’twas joy to wake.

      I dreamt just now, when feverish sleep 5

      My heavy eye-lids seal’d,

      I could not sigh, I could not weep,

      My heart was sear’d and steel’d.

      I stood, methought, in mute despair,

      Upon the scaffold’s height, 10

      And mark’d the thousands gather’d there,

      To gaze upon the sight.

      O pardon, Heav’n! the impious thought,

      For impious it must be,

      Which in that dreadful hour was brought, 15

      Unconsciously to me.

      Forgive me, if I wildly pray’d,

      The yawning earth might ope,

      And swallow those who thus survey’d,

      A being ’reft of hope. 20

      ’Twas frenzied anguish brought that prayer,

      To slumbering misery;

      Yet sure ’twas cruel to come there,

      My wretched death to see.

      For there were Fathers, Husbands too, 25

      Who wives and daughters had;

      And even Mothers came to view,

      While mine!—it made me mad!

      A suffocating thirst, a swell,

      Which seem’d my breath to choak, 30

      Came over me:—it broke the spell

      Of sleep, and I awoke.

      Though momentary the relief,

      It seem’d a respite given;

      A something to give vent to grief, 35

      To weep, and kneel to Heaven.

      Now, thanks to God’s most gracious name,

      That frenzied hour is past;

      Yet still o’erwhelm’d with grief and shame,

      I can but dread the last. 40

      Must I then meet my death so soon?

      Can they who power possess,

      To grant of life the glorious boon,

      Be deaf to my distress?

      From Virtue’s paths though I have swerv’d, 45

      And injur’d man, can I,

      For bloodless crimes, have e’er deserv’d

      That dreadful doom—to die?

      Such is, it seems, the Law’s decree,

      No mercy can be shown; 50

      My life the sacrifice must be,

      Though ill it can atone.

      To Thee, O God! who, through thy Son,

      Hast proffer’d life to all,

      Who feel themselves by sin undone, 55

      I turn,—before Thee fall;—

      And supplicate with streaming eyes,

      And heart with anguish rife,

      From Thee, that mercy man denies,

      From Thee, eternal life. 60

       ON SILENT WORSHIP

      “Thou worshipp’st at the temple’s inner shrine,

      God being with thee when we know it not.”

      Wordsworth.

      Though glorious, O GOD! must thy temple have been

      On the day of its first dedication,

      When the Cherubim’s wings widely waving were seen

      On high, o’er the ark’s holy station;—

      When even the chosen of Levi, though skill’d 5

      To minister, standing before Thee,

      Retir’d from the cloud which the temple then fill’d;—

      And Thy Glory made Israel adore Thee:—

      Though awfully grand was thy majesty then;—

      Yet the worship thy Gospel discloses, 10

      Less splendid in pomp to the vision of Men,

      Far surpasses the ritual of Moses.

      And by whom was that ritual for ever repeal’d?

      But by Him, unto whom it was given

      To enter that Oracle, where is reveal’d 15

      Not the Cloud,—but the brightness of Heaven!

      Who, having once enter’d, hath shown us the way,

      O GOD! how to worship before Thee;

      Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day,

      But in Spirit and Truth to adore Thee! 20

      This, this is the worship the Saviour made known

      When She of Samaria found Him

      By the Patriarch’s well, sitting weary, alone,

      With the stillness