 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
193
VERSES
TO HER WHO IS JUSTLY ENTITLED TO THEM.
In childhood thy kindness has often caress'd me,
Its memory is mix'd with my earliest days;
It brighten'd my boyhood, in manhood it bless'd me,
It thought not of thanks, and it pin'd not for praise.
Its memory is mix'd with my earliest days;
It brighten'd my boyhood, in manhood it bless'd me,
It thought not of thanks, and it pin'd not for praise.
Can I, in thy evening, forget the mild brightness
Which beam'd in thy zenith,—which shines round thee still?
No: ere I forget thee must memory be sightless,
And the heart thou hast cherish'd death only can chill.
Which beam'd in thy zenith,—which shines round thee still?
No: ere I forget thee must memory be sightless,
And the heart thou hast cherish'd death only can chill.
Long, long since belov'd, now as warmly respected,
To my fancy thou seem'st like some time-honour'd tree;
And the plant, which thy fostering shadow protected,
Still looks up with filial fondness to thee.
To my fancy thou seem'st like some time-honour'd tree;
And the plant, which thy fostering shadow protected,
Still looks up with filial fondness to thee.
194
Dark storms passing over, perhaps may have sear'd thee,
The moss of old age be thy livery now;
But much still survives which has justly endear'd thee;
Some greenness still graces each gently bent bough.
The moss of old age be thy livery now;
But much still survives which has justly endear'd thee;
Some greenness still graces each gently bent bough.
May that sun, which must set, in descending enwreath thee
With a mild pensive splendour no cloud can o'ercast;
And all that has flourish'd around and beneath thee,
Will preserve thy remembrance when sunset is past.
With a mild pensive splendour no cloud can o'ercast;
And all that has flourish'd around and beneath thee,
Will preserve thy remembrance when sunset is past.
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |