Читать книгу Selected Poems of Bernard Barton, the 'Quaker Poet' - Christopher Stokes W. - Страница 16

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The Heaven was cloudless—the Ocean was calm,

For the breeze which blew o’er it scarce ruffl’d its breast;—

Not a sight, not a sound, that might waken alarm,

Could the eye, or the ear, of the wanderer molest.

As I roam’d on the beach, to my memory rose, 5

The bliss I had tasted in moments gone by;

When my soul could rejoice in a scene of repose,

And my spirit exult in an unclouded sky.

I thought of the past—and, while thinking, thy name

Came uncall’d to my lips:—but no language it found: 10

Yet my heart felt how dear, and how hallow’d its claim;

I could think, though my tongue dared not utter a sound.

I did not forget how with thee I had paced

On the shore I now trod—and how pleasant it seem’d;

How my eye then sought thine, and how gladly it traced 15

Every glance of affection which mildly it beam’d.

The beginning and end of our loves were before me;—

And both touch’d a chord of the tenderest tone;

For thy spirit, then near, shed its influence o’er me,

And told me that still thou wast truly my own. 20

Yet—I thought at the moment—how dear was the thought!

That there still was a union, which death could not break;

And if with some sorrow the feeling was fraught,

Yet even that sorrow was sweet for thy sake.

Thus musing on thee, every object around 25

Seem’d to borrow thy sweetness to make itself dear;

Each murmuring wave reach’d the shore with a sound

As soft as the tone of thy voice to my ear.

The lights and the shades on the surface of ocean

Seem’d to give back the glimpses of feeling and grace, 30

Which once so expressively told each emotion

Of thy innocent heart, as I gaz’d on thy face.

And when I look’d up to the beautiful sky,

So cloudless and calm—O! it harmoniz’d well

With the gentle expression which spoke in thy eye, 35

Ere the curtain of death on its loveliness fell!

How proud is the prize which thy virtues have won,

When their memory alone is so precious to me,

That this world cannot give what my soul would not shun,

If it tore from my breast the remembrance of thee! 40