Selected Poems of Bernard Barton, the 'Quaker Poet'. Christopher Stokes W.
me; 20
When the freshness of feeling and heart were mine,
As they never more can be,—
Yet think not I ask thee to pity my lot,
Perhaps I see beauty where thou dost not.
Hast thou seen, in winter’s stormiest day, 25
The trunk of a blighted oak,
Not dead, but sinking in slow decay
Beneath time’s resistless stroke,—
Round which a luxuriant ivy had grown,
And wreath’d it with verdure no longer its own? 30
Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then,
As I, at thy years might do,
Pass’d carelessly by, nor turned again
That scathed wreck to view.
But now I can draw, from that mould’ring tree, 35
Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me.
O smile not! nor think it a worthless thing,
If it be with instruction fraught;
That which will closest and longest cling
Is alone worth a serious thought! 40
Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed
Grace on the dying, and leaves not the dead?
Now in thy youth beseech of Him
Who giveth, upbraiding not,
That his light in thy heart become not dim, 45
And his love be unforgot;—
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be,
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee!
Part I.
There is a lone valley, few charms can it number,
Compar’d with the lovely glens north of the Tweed;
No mountains enclose it where morning mists slumber,
And it never has echoed the shepherd’s soft reed.
No streamlet of crystal, its rocky banks laving, 5
Flows through it, delighting the ear and the eye;
On its sides no proud forests, their foliage waving,
Meet the gales of the Autumn or Summer wind’s sigh;
Yet by me it is priz’d, and full dearly I love it,
And oft my steps thither I pensively turn; 10
It has silence within, Heaven’s proud arch above it,
And my fancy has nam’d it the Valley of Fern.
O deep the repose which its calm recess giveth!
And no music can equal its silence to me;
When broken, ’tis only to prove something liveth, 15
By the note of the sky-lark, or hum of the bee.
On its sides the green fern to the breeze gently bending,
With a few stunted trees, meet the wandering eye;
Or the furze and the broom their bright blossoms extending,
With the braken’s soft verdure delightfully vie;— 20
These are all it can boast; yet, when Fancy is dreaming,
Her visions, which Poets can only discern,
Come crowding around, in unearthly light beaming,
And invest with bright beauty the Valley of Fern.
Sweet Valley! in seasons of grief and dejection, 25
I have sought in thy bosom a shelter from care;
And have found in my musings a bond of connexion
With thy landscape so peaceful, and all that was there:
In the verdure that sooth’d, in the flowers that brighten’d,
In the blackbird’s soft note, in the hum of the bee, 30
I found something that lull’d, and insensibly lighten’d,
And felt grateful and tranquil while gazing on thee.
Yes! moments there are, when mute nature is willing
To teach, would proud man but be humble and learn;
When her sights and her sounds on the heart-strings are thrilling; 35
And this I have felt in the Valley of Fern.
For the bright chain of being, though widely extended,
Unites all its parts in one beautiful whole;
In which Grandeur and Grace are enchantingly blended,
Of which GOD is the Centre, the Light, and the Soul! 40
And holy the hope is, and sweet the sensation,
Which this feeling of union in solitude brings;
It gives silence a voice—and to calm contemplation,
Unseals the pure fountain whence happiness springs.
Then Nature, most lov’d in her loneliest recesses, 45
Unveils her fair features, and softens her stern;
And spreads, like that Being who bounteously blesses,
For her votary a feast in the Valley of Fern.
And at times in its confines companionless straying,
Pure thoughts born in stillness have pass’d through my mind; 50
And the spirit within, their blest impulse obeying,
Has soar’d from this world on the wings of the wind:—
The pure sky above, and the still scene around me,
To the eye which survey’d them, no clear image brought;
But my soul seem’d entranced in the vision which bound me, 55
As by magical spell, to the beings of thought!
And to Him, their dread Author! the Fountain of Feeling!
I have bow’d, while my heart seem’d within me to burn;
And my spirit contrited, for mercy appealing,
Has call’d on his name in the Valley of Fern. 60
Farewell, lovely Valley!—when Earth’s silent bosom
Shall hold him who loves thee, thy beauties may live;—
And thy turf’s em’rald tint, and thy broom’s yellow blossom,
Unto loiterers like him soothing pleasure may give.
As brightly may morning, thy graces investing 65
With light, and with life, wake thy inmates from sleep;
And as softly the moon, in still loveliness resting,
To gaze on its charms, thy lone landscape may steep.
Then, should friend of the bard, who hath paid with his praises
The pleasure thou’st yielded, e’er seek thy sojourn, 70
Should one tear for his sake fill the eye while it gazes,
It may fall unreprov’d, in the Valley of Fern.
1817.