 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
THE PARTING GIFT.
'Tis not the value of the gift,
As rated in the world's esteem,
Which makes the boon by Friendship left
A thing of such importance seem:
Its worth can ne'er be weigh'd in gold—
Its value never can be told.
As rated in the world's esteem,
Which makes the boon by Friendship left
A thing of such importance seem:
Its worth can ne'er be weigh'd in gold—
Its value never can be told.
It is the feelings which arise,
The recollections which endear,
The memory of those sympathies
Which flow'd forth with the parting tear,
When that last pledge of love was given
Full in the eye of earth and heaven.
The recollections which endear,
The memory of those sympathies
Which flow'd forth with the parting tear,
When that last pledge of love was given
Full in the eye of earth and heaven.
The lowliest flower, the simplest leaf,—
Whatever tends to bring to view
The friend who bow'd his head in grief,
And bade his cherish'd friends adieu,
To the lorn heart is dearer far
Than all the gold of Istakar.
Whatever tends to bring to view
The friend who bow'd his head in grief,
And bade his cherish'd friends adieu,
To the lorn heart is dearer far
Than all the gold of Istakar.
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Yes—those, and those alone, can tell,
Who've felt the heaviness of heart
Which follows that sad word “Farewell,”
When friends, by time endear'd, depart,
How fondly the lone spirit clings
To faithful love's minutest things.
Who've felt the heaviness of heart
Which follows that sad word “Farewell,”
When friends, by time endear'd, depart,
How fondly the lone spirit clings
To faithful love's minutest things.
What fixes most the exile's eye,
When wandering in a foreign land;
The lovely vale—the mountain high—
The rock magnificently grand?
Ah, no! it is that little token
Given by a heart, at parting, broken.
When wandering in a foreign land;
The lovely vale—the mountain high—
The rock magnificently grand?
Ah, no! it is that little token
Given by a heart, at parting, broken.
He wears it ever in his breast,
He bears it wheresoe'er he goes;
He holds it in his dreams of rest,
He grasps it 'mid his toils and woes;
And vain were Nature's brightest smile,
If it had caught his glance the while.
He bears it wheresoe'er he goes;
He holds it in his dreams of rest,
He grasps it 'mid his toils and woes;
And vain were Nature's brightest smile,
If it had caught his glance the while.
No more the cataract's roar he hears—
His ear hath caught a sweeter sound;
His kindled eye is blind with tears,
And all is vacancy around:
The home of his sweet infant years,
And those he loved, alone appears.
His ear hath caught a sweeter sound;
His kindled eye is blind with tears,
And all is vacancy around:
The home of his sweet infant years,
And those he loved, alone appears.
But happiest they who never heard
The wanderer's farewell ditty sung—
Whose hearts the last low whisper'd word
Of parting friendship never wrung;
Who never have been doom'd to mark
The dead man's bier, or exile's bark.
The wanderer's farewell ditty sung—
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Of parting friendship never wrung;
Who never have been doom'd to mark
The dead man's bier, or exile's bark.
But men were made to meet and part;
And while we breathe in mortal dust—
Although it tear and rend the heart
In twain, yet part, for once, we must;
For the strong arm of tyrant Death
Will break the firmest earthly faith.
And while we breathe in mortal dust—
Although it tear and rend the heart
In twain, yet part, for once, we must;
For the strong arm of tyrant Death
Will break the firmest earthly faith.
And hearts must bleed, and tears must fall,
And parting gifts again be given,
For this hath been decreed to all
Who breathe beneath the cope of heaven;
But those who meet in that domain
Shall never, never part again.
And parting gifts again be given,
For this hath been decreed to all
Who breathe beneath the cope of heaven;
But those who meet in that domain
Shall never, never part again.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |