Selected Poems of Bernard Barton, the 'Quaker Poet'. Christopher Stokes W.
II.
Thou art chang’d, lovely spot! and no more thou displayest
To the eye of thy votary, that negligent grace,
Which, in moments the saddest, the tenderest, the gayest, 75
Allur’d him so oft thy recesses to trace.
The hand of the spoiler has fallen upon thee,
And marr’d the wild beauties that deck’d thee before;
And the charms, which a poet’s warm praises had won thee,
Exist but in memory, and bless thee no more. 80
Thy green, palmy fern, which the softest and mildest
Of Summer’s light breezes could ruffle,—is fled;
And the bright-blossom’d ling, which spread o’er thee her wildest
And wantonest hues,—is uprooted and dead.
Yet now, even now, that thou neither belongest, 85
Or seem’st to belong, unto Nature or Art;
The love I still bear thee is deepest and strongest,
And thy fate but endears thee the more to my heart.
Thou art passing away, like some beautiful vision,
From things which now are, unto those that have been! 90
And wilt rise to my sight, like a landscape elysian,
With thy blossoms more bright, and thy verdure more green.
Thou wilt dwell in remembrance, among those recesses
Which fancy still haunts; though they were, and are not;
Whose loveliness lives, and whose beauty still blesses, 95
Which, though ceasing to be, can be never forgot.
We know all we see in this beauteous creation,
However enchanting its beauty may seem,
Is doom’d to dissolve, like some bright exhalation,
That dazzles, and fades in the morning’s first beam. 100
The gloom of dark forests, the grandeur of mountains,
The verdure of meads, and the beauty of flowers;
The seclusion of valleys, the freshness of fountains,
The sequester’d delights of the loveliest bowers:
Nay, more than all these, that the might of old ocean, 105
Which seems as it was on the day of its birth,
Must meet the last hour of convulsive commotion,
Which, sooner or later, will uncreate earth.
Yet, acknowledging this, it may be that the feelings
Which these have awaken’d, the glimpses they’ve given, 110
Combin’d with those inward and holy revealings
That illumine the soul with the brightness of heaven,
May still be immortal, and destin’d to lead us,
Hereafter, to that which shall not pass away;
To the loftier destiny God hath decreed us, 115
The glorious dawn of an unending day.
And thus, like the steps of the ladder ascended
By angels, (beheld with the patriarch’s eye,)
With the perishing beauties of earth may be blended
Sensations too pure, and too holy to die. 120
Nor would Infinite Wisdom have plann’d and perfected,
With such grandeur and majesty, beauty and grace,
The world we inhabit, and thus have connected
The heart’s better feelings with nature’s fair face,
If the touching emotions, thus deeply excited, 125
Towards Him who made all things, left nothing behind,
Which, enduring beyond all that sense has delighted,
Becomes intellectual, immortal, as mind!
But they do; and the heart that most fondly has cherish’d
Such feelings, nor suffer’d their ardour to chill, 130
Will find, when the forms which inspir’d them have perish’d,
Their spirit and essence remain with it still.
Thus thinking, I would not recall the brief measure
Of praise, lovely valley! devoted to thee;
Well has it been won by the moments of pleasure 135
Afforded to some, justly valued by me.
May their thoughts and mine, often silently ponder
Over every lov’d spot that our feet may have trod;
And teach us, while through nature’s beauties we wander,
All space is itself but the temple of God! 140
That so, when our spirits shall pass through the portal
Of Death, we may find, in a state more sublime,
Immortality owns what could never be mortal!
And Eternity hallows some visions of Time!
1819.
VERSES, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN A BURIAL-GROUND BELONGING TO THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS
What though no sculptur’d monuments around,
With epitaphs engraven, meet me here,
Yet conscious feeling owns, with awe profound,
The habitation of the dead is near:
With reverend feeling, not with childish fear, 5
I tread the ground which they, when living, trod,
Pondering this truth, to Christians justly dear,
Whose influence lends an interest to the sod
That covers their remains:—The dead still live to God!
Is it not written in the hallow’d page 10
Of Revelation, God remains to be
The Lord of all, in every clime and age,
Who fear’d and serv’d him living? Did not He,
Who for our sins expir’d upon the tree,
Style him of Abram, Isaac, Jacob,—Lord! 15
Because they liv’d to Him? Then why should we,
(As if we could no fitter meed afford,)
Raise them memorials here?—Their dust shall be restor’d.
Could we conceive Death was indeed the close
Of our existence, Nature might demand 20
That, where the reliques of our friends repose,
Some record to their memory should stand,
To keep them unforgotten in the land:—
Then, then indeed, urn, tomb, or marble bust,
By sculptor’s art elaborately plann’d, 25
Would seem a debt due to their mouldering dust,
Though time would soon efface