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

Since Summer invites you to visit once more
The haunts she most loves on the ocean's cool shore,
Where billows are foaming, and breezes are free,
Accept at our parting one farewell from me.

My fancy can picture the pleasures in view;
Because before now I have shar'd them with you:
But unable this season to taste them again,
I must feast on such pleasures as flow from my pen.

Let fancy then give me what fate has denied,
And grant me at seasons to roam by your side;
Nor will I repine while remembrance can be
Still blest with the moments I've spent by the sea.

The ramble at morning, when morning first wakes,
And the sun through the haze like a beacon-fire breaks;
Illuming to sea-ward the billows' white foam,
And tempting the loiterer ere breakfast to roam.

The stroll after breakfast, when all are got out:
The saunter, the lounge, and the looking about:
The search after shells, and the eye glancing bright,
If cornelian, or amber, should come in its sight.

Nor must I forget the last ramble at eve,
When the splendours of daylight are taking their leave;
When the sun's setting beams, with a tremulous motion,
Are reflected far off on the bosom of ocean.

This, this is the time, when I think I have found
The deepest delight from the scenery round:
There's a freshness in morning's enjoyments, but this
Brings with it a feeling of tenderer bliss.

I remember an evening, though years are gone by,
Since that evening was spent: to my heart and my eye
It is present, by memory's magical power,
And reflects back its light on this far distant hour.

'Twas an evening the loveliest that Summer had seen,
The sky was unclouded, the ocean serene:
The sun's setting beams so resplendently bright,
On the billows were dancing like streamers of light.

So soothing the sounds were, which faintly I heard,
They were sweeter than notes of the night-loving bird;
And so peaceful the prospect before me, it seem'd
Like a scene of delight of which fancy had dream'd.

There's a soothing enjoyment the pen cannot paint;
There are feelings which own that all language is faint;
And such on that eve to my heart were made known,
As I mus'd by the murmuring billows alone.

But enough.—May your sea-side excursion fulfil
Every hope you have form'd, be those hopes what they will;
And may I, although absent, in fancy create
Those joys which on you in reality wait.