 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
94
STANZAS
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.
We knew that the moment was drawing nigh,
To fulfil every fearful token;
When the silver cord must loosen its tie,
And the golden bowl be broken;
When the fountain's vase, and the cistern's wheel,
Should alike to our trembling hearts appeal.
To fulfil every fearful token;
When the silver cord must loosen its tie,
And the golden bowl be broken;
When the fountain's vase, and the cistern's wheel,
Should alike to our trembling hearts appeal.
And now shall thy dust return to the earth,
Thy spirit to God who gave it;
Yet affection shall tenderly cherish thy worth,
And memory deeply engrave it,—
Not upon tables of brass or stone,
But in those fond bosoms where best 'twas known.
Thy spirit to God who gave it;
Yet affection shall tenderly cherish thy worth,
And memory deeply engrave it,—
Not upon tables of brass or stone,
But in those fond bosoms where best 'twas known.
Thou shalt live in mine, though thy life be fled,
For friendship thy name shall cherish;
And be one of the few, and the dearly-lov'd dead,
Whom my heart will not suffer to perish:
Who in loveliest dreams are before me brought,
And in sweetest hours of waking thought.
For friendship thy name shall cherish;
And be one of the few, and the dearly-lov'd dead,
Whom my heart will not suffer to perish:
Who in loveliest dreams are before me brought,
And in sweetest hours of waking thought.
95
But oh! there is one, with tearful eye,
Whose fondest desires fail her;
Who indeed is afraid of that which is high,
And fears by the way assail her;
Whose anguish confesses that tears are vain,
Since dark are the clouds that return after rain!
Whose fondest desires fail her;
Who indeed is afraid of that which is high,
And fears by the way assail her;
Whose anguish confesses that tears are vain,
Since dark are the clouds that return after rain!
May He, who alone can scatter each cloud,
Whose love all fear dispelleth;
Who, though for a season his face he shroud,
In light and in glory dwelleth,
Break in on that mourner's soul, from above,
And bid her look upwards with holy love.
Whose love all fear dispelleth;
Who, though for a season his face he shroud,
In light and in glory dwelleth,
Break in on that mourner's soul, from above,
And bid her look upwards with holy love.
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |