 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
141
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.
Pale and cold is the cheek that my kisses oft press'd,
And quench'd is the beam of that bright-sparkling eye:
For the soul, which its innocent glances confess'd,
Has flown to its God and its Father on high.
And quench'd is the beam of that bright-sparkling eye:
For the soul, which its innocent glances confess'd,
Has flown to its God and its Father on high.
No more shall the accents, whose tones were more dear
Than the sweetest of sounds even music can make,
In notes full of tenderness fall on my ear;
If I catch them in dreams, all is still when I wake!
Than the sweetest of sounds even music can make,
In notes full of tenderness fall on my ear;
If I catch them in dreams, all is still when I wake!
No more the gay smiles that those features display'd,
Shall transiently waken their own mirth in mine:
Yet, though these, and much more, be now cover'd in shade,
I must not, I cannot, and dare not repine.
Shall transiently waken their own mirth in mine:
Yet, though these, and much more, be now cover'd in shade,
I must not, I cannot, and dare not repine.
However enchantingly flattering and fair
Were the hopes, that for thee I had ventur'd to build,
Can a frail, finite mortal presume to declare
That the future those hopes would have ever fulfill'd?
Were the hopes, that for thee I had ventur'd to build,
Can a frail, finite mortal presume to declare
That the future those hopes would have ever fulfill'd?
142
In the world thou hast left, there is much to allure
The most innocent spirit from virtue and peace:
Hadst thou liv'd, would thy own have been equally pure,
And guileless, and happy, in age's increase?
The most innocent spirit from virtue and peace:
Hadst thou liv'd, would thy own have been equally pure,
And guileless, and happy, in age's increase?
Temptation, or sooner or later, had found thee:
Perhaps had seduc'd thee from pathways of light:
Till the dark clouds of vice, gath'ring gloomily round thee,
Had enwrapt thee for ever in horror and night.
Perhaps had seduc'd thee from pathways of light:
Till the dark clouds of vice, gath'ring gloomily round thee,
Had enwrapt thee for ever in horror and night.
But now, in the loveliest bloom of the soul,
While thy heart yet was pangless, and true, and unstain'd:
Ere the world one vain wish by its witcheries stole,
What it could not confer, thou for ever hast gain'd!
While thy heart yet was pangless, and true, and unstain'd:
Ere the world one vain wish by its witcheries stole,
What it could not confer, thou for ever hast gain'd!
Like a dew-drop, kiss'd off by the sun's morning beam,
A brief, but a beauteous existence was given;
Thy soul seem'd to come down to earth, in a dream,
And only to wake, when ascended to heaven!
A brief, but a beauteous existence was given;
Thy soul seem'd to come down to earth, in a dream,
And only to wake, when ascended to heaven!
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |