And I stood, all alone, on that gentle hill,
With a landscape so lovely before me;
And its spirit and tone, so serene and still,
Seemed silently gathering o'er me.
Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood,
By its winding banks was sweeping;
And just at the foot of the hill were I stood,
The dead in their damp graves were sleeping.
How lonely and lovely their resting-place seemed!
An enclosure which care could not enter:
And how sweetly the gray lights of evening gleamed
On the solitary tomb in its centre!
When at morn, or at eve, I have wandered near,
And in various lights have viewed it,
With what differing forms, unto friendship dear,
Has the magic of fancy endued it.
Sometimes it has seemed like a lonely sail,
A white spot on the emerald billow;
Sometimes like a lamb, in a low grassy vale,
Stretched in peace on its verdant pillow.
But no image of gloom, or of care, or strife,
Has it e'er given birth to one minute;
For lamented in death, as beloved in life,
Was he who now slumbers within it.
He was one who in youth, on the stormy seas,
Was a far and a fearless ranger;
Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze,
Counted lightly of death or of danger.
Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept
All the freshness of gentle feeling;
Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever slept,
More of softness or kindness revealing.
And here, when the bustle of youth was past,
He lived, and he loved, and he died too!
Oh! why was affection, which death could outlast,
A more lengthened enjoyment denied to?
But here he slumbers! and many there are
Who love that lone tomb and revere it;
And one far off, who, like eve's dewy star,
Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it.
THE works of man may yield delight,
And justly merit praise;
But though awhile they charm the sight,
That charm in time decays.
The sculptor's, painter's, poet's skill,-
The art of mind's creative will,
In various modes may teem;
But none of these, however rare
Or exquisite, can truth declare
A poet's noblest theme.
The sun, uprising, may display
His glory to the eye,
And hold in majesty his way
Across the vaulted sky;
Then sink resplendent in the west
Where parting clouds his rays invest,
With beauty's softest beam;
Yet not unto the sun belong
The charms which consecrate in song
A poet's noblest theme.
moon, with yet more touching grace, The silent night may cheer,
And shed o'er many a lonely place
A charm to feeling dear;
The countless stars which grace her reign, A voiceless, but a lovely train,
With brilliant light may gleam;
But she, nor they, though fair to see,
And formed for love, can ever be
A poet's noblest theme.
The winds, whose music to the ear
With that of art may vie,
Now loud awakening awe and fear,
Then soft as pity's sigh;-
The mighty ocean's ample breast,
Calm or convulsed, in wrath or rest,
A glorious sight may seem:
But neither winds nor boundless sea,
Though beautiful or grand, can be
A poet's noblest theme.
The earth, our own dear native earth!
Has charms all hearts may own;
They cling around us from our birth,—
More loved as longer known;
Hers are the lovely vales, the wild
And pathless forests, mountains piled
On high, and many a stream
Whose beauteous banks the heart may love,
Yet none of these can truth approve
A poet's noblest theme.
The virtues, which our fallen estate
With foolish pride would claim,
May, in themselves, be good and great,—
To us an empty name.
Truth, justice, mercy, patience, love,
May seem with man on earth, to rove,
And yet may only seem;
To none of these, as man's, dare I
The title of my verse apply-
"A poet's noblest theme."
To GOD alone, whose power divine
Created all that live;
To GOD alone, can truth assign
This proud prerogative:
But how shall man attempt His praise,
Or dare to sing in mortal lays
OMNIPOTENCE SUPREME!
When seraph-choirs, in heaven above,
Proclaim His glory and His love,
Their noblest, sweetest theme?
Thanks be to God! His grace has shown
How sinful man on earth
May join the songs which round His throne
Give endless praises birth:
HE gave HIS SON for man to die!
He sent HIS SPIRIT from on High
To consummate the scheme:
Oh! be that consummation blest!
And let REDEMPTION be confest
A poet's noblest theme.
LIKE Barton, belong to the Society of Friends, and, like him, their poetry is marked by the most amiable peculiarities of the Quaker Society.
THERE was a temple, a glorious one,
Of the noble in death the dwelling;
Its gilded dome was bright in the sun,
And its organ's tones were swelling.
A varied light through its windows strayed,
All painted in antique story;
And over its marble pavement played,
Like a gem diffusing glory.
I saw the Lamb on its altar-stone,
The banner of love displaying;
And heard in a deep unearthly tone,
Who their hallowed rites were paying.
There was a city, the home of the free,
Where wisdom and wit were abiding;
The boast of the land, the queen of the sea,
Where her fleets were gallantly riding.
The great and the good, the fair and the brave,
All, all in that city abounded;
She never had stooped to bow as the slave,
Nor by tyrants had been confounded.
Oh! she was a city to liberty dear!
And never had dreamed of danger;
Her wealth was the boast of the far and near,
And none to her name was a stranger.
There was a home like one above,
A home of many the dearest;
Where the mother clasped in tenderest love,
All that to her heart was nearest.
The sire and the son, and the daughter fair,
And the youth to whom she was plighted,
In a bower of bliss and beauty where
A seraph had been delighted.
They were bound in the dearest of earthly ties;
They loved, and in love requited,
Had learned the bliss of their lot to prize,
Ere the bud of hope was blighted.
There rose on the earth a mighty one,
On a blood-dyed charger mounted;
His arms were bright in the morning sun,
And Fame his deeds recounted.
With a great and valorous host he came,
In whirlwind fury speeding:
With him rode Might, but Want and Flame,
And Ruin and Death succeeding.
And he hath polluted that altar's fane,
Like the demon of wrath descending;
And they who worshipped shall never again
In its marble courts be bending.
For low they are sleeping the sleep of the slain;
They are laid in death's long slumbers;
And that altar's stone hath a crimson stain,
From the best heart's blood of numbers.
And none now regard those windows high,
Nor gaze on that antique story;
And its beautiful, chequering lustres lie
On a pavement soiled and gory.
That mighty one hath forged a chain
For that city so wise and glorious;
Her children of freedom no more remain;
Her wealth hath lured the victorious.
And her boasted name is a boast no more;
And past is her pride of bravery;
And they who never were bound before
Are wearing the bonds of slavery.
Her walls, and her domes, and her princely towers,
And her fleet's imperial token,
Are seen no more; and in distant bowers,
The hearts of the great are broken.
He has parted hence, and rapine and fire
Have levelled that love-hallowed dwelling;
And she who erst had her heart's desire,
With anguish the gale is swelling.
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