 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
101
VERSES To the Memory of P. Burgess,
A CHILD OF SUPERIOR ENDOWMENTS AND EXTRAORDINARY PIETY.
It is not length of years which lends
The brightest loveliness to those
Whose memory with our being blends,
Whose worth within our bosom glows.
The brightest loveliness to those
Whose memory with our being blends,
Whose worth within our bosom glows.
The age we honour standeth not
In locks of snow, or length of days;
But in a life which knows no spot,
A heart which heavenly wisdom sways.
In locks of snow, or length of days;
But in a life which knows no spot,
A heart which heavenly wisdom sways.
For wisdom, which is taught by truth,
Unlike mere worldly knowledge, finds
Its full maturity in youth,
Its image e'en in infant minds.
Unlike mere worldly knowledge, finds
Its full maturity in youth,
Its image e'en in infant minds.
Thus was this child made early wise,
Wise as those sages, who, from far,
Beheld, in Bethlehem's cloudless skies,
The Christian church's gathering star.
Wise as those sages, who, from far,
Beheld, in Bethlehem's cloudless skies,
The Christian church's gathering star.
102
What more could wisdom do for them,
Than guide them in the path they trod?
And the same star of Bethlehem
Hath led his spirit home to God!
Than guide them in the path they trod?
And the same star of Bethlehem
Hath led his spirit home to God!
Well may his memory be dear,
Whose loss is still its sole alloy,
Whose happy lot dries every tear
With holy hopes and humble joy.
Whose loss is still its sole alloy,
Whose happy lot dries every tear
With holy hopes and humble joy.
“The brightest star of morning's host,”
Is that which shines in twilight skies;
“Scarce risen, in brighter beams 'tis lost,”
And vanishes from mortal eyes.
Is that which shines in twilight skies;
“Scarce risen, in brighter beams 'tis lost,”
And vanishes from mortal eyes.
Its loss inspires a brief regret;
Its loveliness is ne'er forgot;
We know full well 'tis shining yet,
Although we may behold it not.
Its loveliness is ne'er forgot;
We know full well 'tis shining yet,
Although we may behold it not.
And thus the spirit which is gone,
Is but absorb'd in glory's blaze;
In beaming brightness burning on,
Though lost unto our finite gaze.
Is but absorb'd in glory's blaze;
In beaming brightness burning on,
Though lost unto our finite gaze.
There are, who watch'd it to the last;
There are, who can forget it never;
May these, when death's dark shade is past,
Partake with joy its light for ever!
There are, who can forget it never;
May these, when death's dark shade is past,
Partake with joy its light for ever!
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |