Poems by the late John Bethune With a sketch of the author's life, by his brother |
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THE COUCH BY FRIENDSHIP SPREAD. |
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 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
THE COUCH BY FRIENDSHIP SPREAD.
How sweet the couch by friendship spread,
Though coarse its quilt, and hard its fold!
Where shall the wanderer find a bed,
Though heap'd with down, and hung with gold,
So dearly loved, so warm, so soft,
As that where he hath lain so oft?
Though coarse its quilt, and hard its fold!
Where shall the wanderer find a bed,
Though heap'd with down, and hung with gold,
So dearly loved, so warm, so soft,
As that where he hath lain so oft?
Oh! when our forms with toil are tired,
Or travel-worn our wearied feet—
What then so much to be desired,
So cheering, soothing, and so sweet,
As our own ingle's fitful gleams,
And our own couch of rosy dreams?
Or travel-worn our wearied feet—
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So cheering, soothing, and so sweet,
As our own ingle's fitful gleams,
And our own couch of rosy dreams?
When 'nighted on the mountain road,
While o'er the rugged rocks we climb,
Fancy pourtrays our own abode,
And nerves anew each fainting limb,
To struggle with the dreary steep—
For dear is our own bed of sleep.
While o'er the rugged rocks we climb,
Fancy pourtrays our own abode,
And nerves anew each fainting limb,
To struggle with the dreary steep—
For dear is our own bed of sleep.
And oh! when on a distant coast,
Our steps are stayed by dire disease,
Who then, of those who watch the most,
Though kind, can have the power to please
Like those who watch'd disease's strife
At home, and soothed us back to life?
Our steps are stayed by dire disease,
Who then, of those who watch the most,
Though kind, can have the power to please
Like those who watch'd disease's strife
At home, and soothed us back to life?
Where is the heart's soft silver chain
Which binds to earth our spirits weak—
Pardons the peevishness of pain—
Supplies the wants we cannot speak—
And with well-tried and patient care
Inspires our love, and prompts our prayer?
Which binds to earth our spirits weak—
Pardons the peevishness of pain—
Supplies the wants we cannot speak—
And with well-tried and patient care
Inspires our love, and prompts our prayer?
Alas! though kind the stranger's eye,
And kind his heart as heart can be,
There is a want—we know not why—
A face beloved we cannot see—
A something round our aching head
Unlike our own endearing bed.
And kind his heart as heart can be,
There is a want—we know not why—
A face beloved we cannot see—
A something round our aching head
Unlike our own endearing bed.
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When fired by fever's phantom chase,
We fling aside the curtain's fold,
It shews a face—a pitying face—
But ah! to us its cast seems cold;
And, with our last remains of pride,
We vainly strive our pain to hide.
We fling aside the curtain's fold,
It shews a face—a pitying face—
But ah! to us its cast seems cold;
And, with our last remains of pride,
We vainly strive our pain to hide.
But dear to us are those who wait
Around our couch, with kindred pain—
The long familiar friend or mate,
Whose softness woos us to complain—
Whose tear meets every tear that flows—
Whose sympathy relieves our woes.
Around our couch, with kindred pain—
The long familiar friend or mate,
Whose softness woos us to complain—
Whose tear meets every tear that flows—
Whose sympathy relieves our woes.
O may I have, in life and death,
A bed where I may lay me down;
A home, a friend, whose every breath
May blend and mingle with my own;
Whose heart with mine in joy may beat,
Whose eye with mine in pain may meet.
A bed where I may lay me down;
A home, a friend, whose every breath
May blend and mingle with my own;
Whose heart with mine in joy may beat,
Whose eye with mine in pain may meet.
And when at last the hour is come
Which bids my joy and sorrow cease,
When my pale lips grow hush'd and dumb,
And my tired soul hath fled in peace—
Then may some friend lay down my head
Into its last cold earthy bed.
Which bids my joy and sorrow cease,
When my pale lips grow hush'd and dumb,
And my tired soul hath fled in peace—
Then may some friend lay down my head
Into its last cold earthy bed.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |