 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
23
STANZAS, TO M. P.
Mary! I wake not now for thee
My simple lyre's rude melody,
As once I touch'd its strings,
With joyful hand; for then I thought
That many years, with rapture fraught,
Might yet be thine, which should have brought
Fresh pleasure on their wings.
My simple lyre's rude melody,
As once I touch'd its strings,
With joyful hand; for then I thought
That many years, with rapture fraught,
Might yet be thine, which should have brought
Fresh pleasure on their wings.
But He, who gave thee vital breath,
Sovereign supreme of life and death!
Hath visited thy frame
With sickness, which forebodes thy end;
And heavenward now thy prospects tend,
And soon thy spirit must ascend
To God! from whence it came.
Sovereign supreme of life and death!
Hath visited thy frame
With sickness, which forebodes thy end;
And heavenward now thy prospects tend,
And soon thy spirit must ascend
To God! from whence it came.
Well, He is good! and surely thou
Mayst well in resignation bow,
And gratefully confess,
That this, his awful, wise decree,
Though hard to us, is kind to thee;
Since Death's dark portals will but be
The gate of happiness.
Mayst well in resignation bow,
And gratefully confess,
That this, his awful, wise decree,
Though hard to us, is kind to thee;
Since Death's dark portals will but be
The gate of happiness.
24
Then start not at its transient gloom;
Let Faith and Hope beyond the tomb
Their eagle glances fling:
Angels unseen are hovering nigh,
And seraph hosts exulting cry,
“O Grave! where is thy victory?
“O Death! where is thy sting?”
Let Faith and Hope beyond the tomb
Their eagle glances fling:
Angels unseen are hovering nigh,
And seraph hosts exulting cry,
“O Grave! where is thy victory?
“O Death! where is thy sting?”
For soon before Jehovah's throne,
Thy soul redeeming love shall own,
And join the sacred choir,
Who to the Lamb their anthems raise,
And tune their harps to deathless lays
Of humble, grateful, holy praise;
While list'ning saints admire.
Thy soul redeeming love shall own,
And join the sacred choir,
Who to the Lamb their anthems raise,
And tune their harps to deathless lays
Of humble, grateful, holy praise;
While list'ning saints admire.
And oh! may I, who feebly wake
My lyre's last murmurs for thy sake,
With joy that lyre resign;
Then call a loftier harp my own,
Whose chords are strung to God alone,
And wake its most exalted tone,
In unison with thine!
My lyre's last murmurs for thy sake,
With joy that lyre resign;
Then call a loftier harp my own,
Whose chords are strung to God alone,
And wake its most exalted tone,
In unison with thine!
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |