Poems by Bernard Barton Fourth Edition, with Additions |
 |
VERSES,
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF
Tighe's Psyche. |
 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
28
VERSES, WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF Tighe's Psyche.
“Fond dreamer! meditate thine idle song,
But let thine idle song remain unknown:”
O guard its beauties from the vulgar throng,
Unveil its charms to friendship's eye alone.
To thee shall friendship's partial praise atone
For all the incense of the world beside;
Unthinking mirth may slight thy pensive tone,
Folly may scorn, or ignorance deride:
The lay so idly sung, let prudence teach to hide.
But let thine idle song remain unknown:”
O guard its beauties from the vulgar throng,
Unveil its charms to friendship's eye alone.
To thee shall friendship's partial praise atone
For all the incense of the world beside;
Unthinking mirth may slight thy pensive tone,
Folly may scorn, or ignorance deride:
The lay so idly sung, let prudence teach to hide.
Sweet Minstrel! couldst thou think a song like thine,
With grace replete, with harmony inspir'd,
Thy timid modesty could e'er confine
Within those limits which thy fears desir'd?
Ah no! by all approv'd, by all admir'd,
Its charms shall captivate each listening ear;
Thy “Psyche,” by the hand of taste attir'd,
To virtue, grace, and delicacy dear,
Shall consecrate thy name for many a future year.
With grace replete, with harmony inspir'd,
Thy timid modesty could e'er confine
Within those limits which thy fears desir'd?
Ah no! by all approv'd, by all admir'd,
Its charms shall captivate each listening ear;
Thy “Psyche,” by the hand of taste attir'd,
To virtue, grace, and delicacy dear,
Shall consecrate thy name for many a future year.
29
Oh! had indulgent Heaven but spar'd thy Lyre,
Which first it strung and tun'd to melody,
How many a heart had felt increasing fire,
Dwelling enraptur'd on its minstrelsy:
How many an ear had drank its harmony,
And listen'd to its strains with sweet delight;
But He, whose righteous will is sovereignty,
Hath bid thy sun of glory set in night,
And, though we mourn thy loss, we own his sentence right.
Which first it strung and tun'd to melody,
How many a heart had felt increasing fire,
Dwelling enraptur'd on its minstrelsy:
How many an ear had drank its harmony,
And listen'd to its strains with sweet delight;
But He, whose righteous will is sovereignty,
Hath bid thy sun of glory set in night,
And, though we mourn thy loss, we own his sentence right.
Yet, plaintive Songstress! on thy gentle lay
Fancy with pensive tenderness shall dwell;
Memory shall snatch from Time thy transient day,
And soft regret each feeling breast shall swell.
But, why regret? Let faith, exulting, tell
That she, whose tuneful voice had sung before,
In allegoric strain, love's witching spell,
Now sings His love whom wondering worlds adore,
And still shall chant His praise when time shall be no more.
Fancy with pensive tenderness shall dwell;
Memory shall snatch from Time thy transient day,
And soft regret each feeling breast shall swell.
But, why regret? Let faith, exulting, tell
That she, whose tuneful voice had sung before,
In allegoric strain, love's witching spell,
Now sings His love whom wondering worlds adore,
And still shall chant His praise when time shall be no more.
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |