 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
136
STANZAS,
COMPOSED WHILE WALKING ON THE WARREN HILL EARLY ON A SUMMER'S MORNING.
Lonely and low is thy dwelling-place now,
On which the bright sunbeams are dawning;
But oh! I remember the moments when thou
Wast as blithe as the breeze of the morning.
On which the bright sunbeams are dawning;
But oh! I remember the moments when thou
Wast as blithe as the breeze of the morning.
Silent and sad is the place of thy rest,
Where thou sleep'st the last slumber decreed thee;
But well I remember, when warm was that breast,
How few in gay mirth could exceed thee.
Where thou sleep'st the last slumber decreed thee;
But well I remember, when warm was that breast,
How few in gay mirth could exceed thee.
137
Yet, rest in thy mansion! sleep quietly on:
There was nought in that mirth which should cost thee,
Or those who best knew thee, one sigh now thou'rt gone;
Were it not that too early we lost thee.
There was nought in that mirth which should cost thee,
Or those who best knew thee, one sigh now thou'rt gone;
Were it not that too early we lost thee.
Thine was not the laughter which leaves us more sad;
Unnatural, unheeded, unglowing;
'Twas a gush of enjoyment, which seem'd to be glad
To get loose from a heart overflowing.
Unnatural, unheeded, unglowing;
'Twas a gush of enjoyment, which seem'd to be glad
To get loose from a heart overflowing.
But 'tis not the memory of moments of mirth,
Which thy claim to remembrance now gives thee;
Their light is obscur'd by the grave! but thy worth,
In spite of the grave, still outlives thee.
Which thy claim to remembrance now gives thee;
Their light is obscur'd by the grave! but thy worth,
In spite of the grave, still outlives thee.
Thy sterling integrity, candour, and sense,
Thy benevolence, frank and warm-hearted,
Which sham'd the professions of empty pretence:
These live, though thy life has departed.
Thy benevolence, frank and warm-hearted,
Which sham'd the professions of empty pretence:
These live, though thy life has departed.
And long shall they lend to thy lonely tomb
A glory like that the sun grants us;
When the clouds he hath set in have lost all their gloom,
And a beautiful twilight enchants us.
A glory like that the sun grants us;
When the clouds he hath set in have lost all their gloom,
And a beautiful twilight enchants us.
8th Mo. 4th, 1817.
The Warren Hill is an eminence near Woodbridge, commanding a view of the river Deben and part of the town of Woodbridge. It is perhaps one of the pleasantest walks in the vicinity: just below it is the Barrack burial-ground, in which a solitary tombstone is erected to the memory of W. H. Finnie, Esq. several years Barrack-master of the Garrison at that place: a man no less respected for the uprightness of his character, than beloved for his social qualifications.
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |