The bard of the dales or poems and miscellaneous pieces; with a life of the author, written by himself. By John Castillo |
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A VISIT TO FARNDALE. |
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 | The bard of the dales |  |
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A VISIT TO FARNDALE.
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Where many fellow-soldiers of the cross had left the church militant, and joined the church triumphant; on passing a deserted cottage, where we use to assemble to pray and sing hymns, in which blessed exercise many of them were wonderfully gifted, especially the Fords and Rickabys. Some were dead, and others were in America.
Where are ye, my Friends! of this dear belov'd valley,
Whom I listen and look for, and search for in vain?
You'r gone from a land of disorder and folly,
Where I still a stranger and pilgrim remain!
Whom I listen and look for, and search for in vain?
You'r gone from a land of disorder and folly,
Where I still a stranger and pilgrim remain!
Our meetings, and partings, I right well remember,
Our rambles in different parts of the dale;
It was no matter which, whether June or December,
The smile of your presence would season the gale.
Our rambles in different parts of the dale;
It was no matter which, whether June or December,
The smile of your presence would season the gale.
As soon as from either side the mountain I landed
A shelter I found from the tempest that blew,
Each want was supplied which nature demanded,
Your songs were harmonious, your friendships were true.
A shelter I found from the tempest that blew,
Each want was supplied which nature demanded,
Your songs were harmonious, your friendships were true.
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I seek, but in vain for that fireside party
Who sang, or convers'd on those things that we lov'd,
Where children smiled so youthful and hearty,
The cottage's inmates are dead or remov'd!
Who sang, or convers'd on those things that we lov'd,
Where children smiled so youthful and hearty,
The cottage's inmates are dead or remov'd!
I seek for a friend to unbosom my story,
But all are too busy at other employ,
Yet few appear so much in earnest for glory
As sweetens life's toil with the purest of joy.
But all are too busy at other employ,
Yet few appear so much in earnest for glory
As sweetens life's toil with the purest of joy.
All sad and forlorn, as a mountain-side ranger,
I visit the haunts of our juvenile days,—
Dogs bark, men suspect, children gaze at the stranger,
And brooks seem to murmur disconsolate lays.
I visit the haunts of our juvenile days,—
Dogs bark, men suspect, children gaze at the stranger,
And brooks seem to murmur disconsolate lays.
Where are ye, my Friends! of this dear belov'd valley?
For you I may listen, and search for in vain,—
You are gone from a land of disorder and folly,
Where I still a stranger and pilgrim remain!
For you I may listen, and search for in vain,—
You are gone from a land of disorder and folly,
Where I still a stranger and pilgrim remain!
All glory to Jesus! who suffer'd to save us,
In whose glorious presence we oftens were blest,
By the words that ye dropt, and the tokens ye gave us,
You've taken your flight to the mansions of rest.
In whose glorious presence we oftens were blest,
By the words that ye dropt, and the tokens ye gave us,
You've taken your flight to the mansions of rest.
| The bard of the dales | |