Poems by Bernard Barton :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Unhappy White! while life was in its Spring,
And thy young Muse just wav'd her joyous wing,
The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to rest for ever there.”
Byron.

“Unhappy White?”—Expression misapplied!
Who blends unhappiness with thoughts of Thee?
Not Faith,—for Faith is more than eagle-eyed,
Beholding what no glance but hers can see:
Not Hope,—for hers are glories yet to be
In purer realms, and these she trusts are thine;
Not Charity, last, greatest of the three,
For hers is patience that can ne'er repine,
Enduring trust in Heaven, and every thought benign.

245

“Unhappy White?”—Oh! how much happier Thou
Than he who thus miscall'd Thee. When has Time
'Twin'd a more fadeless wreath for Age's brow,
Than grac'd thy own in Manhood's opening prime?
How many a lonely Votary of rhyme
Has labour'd, late and early, to ascend
Where 'twas thy happier destiny to climb
In few brief years, and with thy Name to blend
Fame pure as ever crown'd Life's most protracted end.

Grant that, though brief, the conflict was severe,
Hast'ning thy passage to the silent tomb;
That many a hope of thine was chill'd by fear,
And many a gleam of brightness quench'd in gloom;
Yet such hath been the not unfrequent doom
Of hearts like thine:—in temporary woe
Hath most enduring glory found its womb,
And many a keen and agonizing throe
Attends upon its birth, and marks its course below.

But thou hadst hopes, sustaining, pure, and high,
And thou hadst Friends—affectionate and true;
Those glorious hopes that cheer a heaven-ward eye
Oft rose in nightly vigils to thy view,
Reviv'd thy heart, and strung thy nerves anew;
What though at last thy strength was worn away,
Who would the heavenly gift of Genius rue,
Which “o'er-inform'd thy tenement of clay,”
Because in early youth it mark'd thee for decay?

246

We rate not honour'd age by length of days,
Nor estimate its span by number'd years;
He lives the longest—who in Wisdom's ways
Travels with steadiest step: Truth more reveres
The spotless life, which Youth like thine endears,
Than Age's hoary locks:—Life's longest span,
Unless the Vet'ran may surpass his peers
In what most graces it,—we coldly scan,
And try Life's noblest worth by what ennobles Man.

Thus view'd and valued, who could wish thy own
Had been on earth a more protracted date?
Had lengthen'd years been thine—to us unknown
It must remain, if fruit commensurate
To thy young bloom had follow'd:—not blind fate—
But God's omniscient goodness governs all;
We know but this—that He, the Good, the Great,
Chose to himself thy spirit to recal,
Nor can his wise decree the Christian's heart appal.

Could we conceive that all “the promise fair”
Of thy bright soul was veil'd by Death's dark shade,
And “sought the Grave to rest for ever there,”—
Then had thy early death our hearts dismay'd,
And round thy urn the mournful Cypress braid
Had Sorrow wreath'd; while o'er the honour'd spot,
Where thy cold reliques in the dust are laid—
Might anguish'd hearts that own thee unforgot
Confess with painful grief unhappy was thy lot.

247

But now we count thee Happy! Who can claim
That proud distinction—if to thee denied?
Happy in having sav'd thy humble Name
From the cold depths of dark Oblivion's tide,
To do which thousands fruitlessly have sigh'd:—
Happy in Friendship and Affection here,
Whose kindly sympathy so oft supplied
Joy in thy sorrow, hope in hours of fear,
Watch'd o'er thy living worth, and holds its memory dear.

Happiest of all in this—that Thou didst give
To heavenly themes, and Heaven's Almighty King,
While yet it was thy lot on Earth to live,
The richest, fairest blossoms of thy Spring;
Thy Harp—when woke by thee its sweetest string,
Was vocal in Religion's sacred cause;
Thy proudest aim a Saviour's praise to sing,
With thought attentive—in each silent pause,
To a far higher meed than mortal Man's applause.

And rich hath been thy recompense.—On earth
Thy honour'd Name, with noble ones enroll'd,
Has given in ardent hearts bright visions birth,
Bade Genius in its Giver's praise be bold;
Electrified the young, reviv'd the old:—
While Faith, before whose vision brightly shine
Glimpses of joy too glorious to be told,
Owns with The Bard “full bliss is bliss divine,”
And feels a hope assured such happiness is Thine.