 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
155
STANZAS
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF H--- A---.
Would I deck truth in fiction's graceful dress,
Easy it were for votary of the Nine
To find, in fair creation's loveliness,
Apt emblems of a life and death like thine.
Easy it were for votary of the Nine
To find, in fair creation's loveliness,
Apt emblems of a life and death like thine.
The first, a streamlet scattering, though unseen,
Its silent virtues, well might represent;
The last, a light cloud, lovely and serene,
View'd on the verge of a bright firmament.
Its silent virtues, well might represent;
The last, a light cloud, lovely and serene,
View'd on the verge of a bright firmament.
But these are poor comparisons.—The stream
One summer's radiance may for ever dry;
The cloud, so beauteous in the sunset's gleam,
May be forgotten in night's starless sky.
One summer's radiance may for ever dry;
The cloud, so beauteous in the sunset's gleam,
May be forgotten in night's starless sky.
Not so with thee; thy memory long shall live,
Through starless nights, through dark and distant days;
Thy virtues! 'twere more fitting they should give
Impulse to imitation, than to praise.
Through starless nights, through dark and distant days;
Thy virtues! 'twere more fitting they should give
Impulse to imitation, than to praise.
156
Indeed, they were not thine! That gentleness,
That patient resignation—kindness—truth;
That candour—sympathy with all distress,
And quiet cheerfulness, surpassing youth;—
That patient resignation—kindness—truth;
That candour—sympathy with all distress,
And quiet cheerfulness, surpassing youth;—
That self-forgetfulness—unbounded love:
These were not thine, though thou wert lov'd for them;
Thou knew'st they were but lent thee from above;
This knowledge was their crown and diadem!
These were not thine, though thou wert lov'd for them;
Thou knew'st they were but lent thee from above;
This knowledge was their crown and diadem!
Thou art no longer of this world: and even
While yet its path of flowers and thorns was trod
By thee, thy “conversation was in heaven,”
Where thy pure spirit now beholds its God!
While yet its path of flowers and thorns was trod
By thee, thy “conversation was in heaven,”
Where thy pure spirit now beholds its God!
2d Mo. 5th, 1820.
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |