Poems by Bernard Barton :: :: University of Virginia Library

“He whom the wretched and the poor knew best,
Whom, when the ear his footstep heard, it blest;
To whom the eye, with age or sorrow dim,
Gave witness, and whose works shall follow him:
Who silently his Saviour's steps pursued;
Whose creed was love, whose life was gratitude.”
Josiah Conder.

Belov'd, rever'd, and mourn'd,—Farewell!
Though lost to every human eye,
Thy memory in our hearts shall dwell,
'Till we, like thee, in earth shall lie:
Thy name, now utter'd with a sigh,
As we thy recent loss deplore,
Hereafter shall a theme supply
For fondest thoughts to linger o'er.

277

Though well we knew thy zenith past,
And westward saw thy sun decline;—
So brightly, warmly—to the last
That orb in glory seem'd to shine;
We can but mournfully resign
A splendour which had known no chill,
Though, with a lustre more benign,
In brighter skies 'tis glowing still.

There are who in advancing years
Yet more and more our love engage,
In whom the worth that most endears
Seems mellow'd, not impair'd, by age;
Who blend the wisdom of the Sage
With Childhood's tenderness and truth,
And bear about to life's last stage
The earlier greenness of its youth.

From such, although their locks be grey,
Oh! who can feel prepared to part?
For them affection would delay
By each procrastinating art
Life's certain close;—and tears will start
When Death has snapt the vital chain,
And sighs uncheck'd will rend the heart,
Though sighs and tears alike are vain.

278

Thus have we mourn'd, thus mourn we yet;—
And cold indeed that heart must be
Which owns no pensive, fond regret,
When Death removes a friend like thee:
Oh! Spring may hang on many a tree
Green leaves by after Winter reft,
Ere we can hope on earth to see
Fill'd up the void which thou hast left.

How deeply will thy loss be known
In many a low and wretched cot,
Where oft thy kindness has been shown
To cheer the inmates' joyless lot!
From many a sweet, secluded spot
Whose beauties tell thy forming taste,
The eye which seeks, and finds thee not—
Will turn—as from a dreary waste.

I dare not pause o'er every scene
Where it was sweet with thee to share
Of social life each joy serene,
For Thou wast oft the centre there!
Nor will I—in The House of Prayer—
Dwell on that vacant seat—in thought,
Where thy deep meditative air
With silent eloquence has taught.

279

Rather let thought and feeling turn—
From themes that vain regret excite,
That Principle's true worth to learn
Which gave thy soul its inward light;
Which, far beyond the transient might
Of aught that we can deem thine own,
Gave thee that influential right—
More deeply lov'd—as longer known.

This last, this crowning gift of all
Was Grace Divine—belov'd, obey'd;
Follow'd, at Duty's secret call,
With meek reliance on its aid:
Through life's bright sunshine or its shade
Thy Spirit view'd with reverend awe
This inward guide, nor less display'd
Obedience to God's written law.

Here shone the finish'd charm that lent
Such brightness to thy lengthen'd days;
And—in the mortal instrument
Proclaimed Thy Master's power and praise:
The glory of the world decays,
As added years its splendour dim;
Thine seem'd to borrow brighter rays
As age but brought thee nearer Him.

280

Therefore thy memory long shall live
In hearts that truly knew thy worth,
Because the light it there may give
Is not a meteor born of earth:
The flash of wit, the gleam of mirth,
Death's shadowy clouds may veil in gloom;
But thine—immortal in its birth,
Is unextinguish'd by the tomb!