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Sea-Weeds

Gathered at Aldborough, Suffolk: in the Autumn of 1846. By Bernard Barton

Barton, Bernard (1784-1849)

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TO SIR ROBERT PEEL, Bart.

Small as my Offering is, in size,
It may not worthless be;
If, gather'd as its name implies
Beside the billowy Sea,
Unto Thy Spirit it shall bear
Aught of the freshness stirring there.

I owe thee much, for kindness shown,
When grave affairs of state
Over that Spirit might have thrown
More than enough of weight
To cancel, in most hearts but thine,
A claim so brief and slight as mine.

In thine it did not! and I now
This tribute offer Thee;
For none can better feel than Thou
Its most persuasive plea;
If to thy own it may impart
Proof of a Poet's grateful heart.

BERNARD BARTON.

SEA-WEEDS;

OR BRIEF RECORDS OF THOUGHT, AND FEELING, BY THE SEA-SIDE.

1

Ocean! once more upon thy breast
Delightedly I gaze;
Dearer in Life's decline confest,
Than in its earlier days.

2

Then unto sight, and sense, alone,
Thy loveliness appeal'd;
Whether a stern, or joyous tone
Were by its charms reveal'd.

3

Boyhood needs no remoter grace,
Unborrowed from the eye;
Grandeur or Beauty thus to trace
Enough of bliss supply.

4

But when Life's brief and fitful day
Hath lost its early bloom,
When clouds obscure its onward way,
With evening's gathering gloom.

6

When health and strength begin to fail,
And spirits are deprest,
Finding less “pleasure in the tale,
“Less smartness in the jest”!

6

'Tis then, when fades full many a flower,
And life grow near its lees;
We find how much has lost its power,
E'en momently to please.

7

We say of Laughter—“it is mad!”
Of Mirth—“what can it do?”
And much that used to make us glad,
Now makes us mournful too!

8

But still to every grander phase
Of Nature's form we turn;
And find in our declining days,
Yet more to love, and learn.

9

Of all the Objects which supply
This rich, exhaustless store,
How few with Thee, old Ocean! vie,
Or soothe, or teach us more.

10

Whether our mood be gay, or grave,
Our spirits high, or low,
There's music in thy dashing wave,
Or in thy rippling flow.

11

Earth is too prone to chance, and change,
Though her sweet face be fair;
We ever find, where-e'er we range,
How much is alter'd there!

12

The loftiest woods in time grow sere,
Are fell'd, or else decay;
The proudest piles that Man can rear
Are oft more brief than they.

13

But Thou, in sunshine, or in storm,
In grandeur, or in grace,
Retain'st thy old primeval form,
Thy old familiar face.

14

Beneath the vast o'er-arching sky,
Beneath each stedfast star,
Thy beauty, and thy majesty
Man hath no power to mar.

15

His Ships upon thy waves may ride,
His Steamers there may be;
And He may, in his petty Pride,
Call himself “Lord of Thee!”

16

But Thou art far beyond the sway
Of mortal power, or will;
These cannot one proud breaker stay,
Or one poor ripple still!

17

Thou! whether Storms above thee lour,
Or Sunshine smile serene;
Retain'st thy old exhaustless dower,
And wear'st thy wonted mien.

18

The boasts of Art, which breast thy waves,
And those their course who guide,
In thy vast depths, oft find their graves,
To humble human pride!

19

But when all these have pass'd away,
Even as before they came
To vaunt o'er thee their transient sway,
Thou wast—and art, the same!

20

The same in every varying mood,
Or lovely, or sublime,
As when thy billowy anthem woo'd
The ear of earliest Time!

21

'Twas then His Fiat first went forth
Which form'd and fashion'd thee;
Up-gathering thee from kindred earth,
A watery world to be.

22

Thy waves, obedient to their God,
Their habitation sought;
By human footsteps never trod;
Sound-less to human thought!

23

And there, from that creative hour,
With freedom still unquell'd,
In glory, majesty, and power,
Hast thou dominion held!

24

Yet, long as seems thy backward reign,
And mighty as thou art;
Thy Sceptre Thou can'st not retain;
This must from thee depart.

25

For Prophecy, with voice sublime,
Hath said concerning Thee,
When there shall be no longer Time!
There shall be no more sea!

26

When Earth shall shrivel as a scroll:
And Elements decay;
And stars above shall cease to roll;
Thou, too, must pass sway!

27

In the “New Heavens,” and “Earth as New,”
Which God shall then create,
There shall be found no need of You,
To hold your regal state.

28

By what new laws, yet undeclared,
Each “House not made with hands,”
For blissful Spirits now prepared,
On its foundation stands;—

29

Or how this Mortal shall put on
That immortality
Which Christ hath for His followers won
Seems all a Mystery!

30

A marvel! which no finite powers
Can fathom, solve, or scan;
Which by no mastery of ours,
Man can reveal to Man!

31

But why should Man a path pursue,
By human thought untrod?
We know but this—“All shall be New”!
“And all shall be of God!”

A POST-SCRIPT;

TO THE MEMORY OF CRABBE.

1

How could I tread this winding shore,
In sadness, or in glee,
By Thee so often paced of yore!
Nor turn, in thought, to thee?

2

The hasty wreath my Muse would frame,
Which to this spot owes birth,
Without some tribute to Thy fame,
Would lose full half its worth.

3

For here were pass'd thy early days,
With fortune waging strife;
And here Thy Muse's embryo Lays
First struggled into Life.

4

Thy Verse hath stamp'd on all around
The impress of its Truth?
And render'd, far and near, renown'd,
“The Borough” of thy youth!

5

The self-same Sea in foam may break
On shores less tame or drear;
But this is honour'd for Thy sake!
And that should make it dear.