FR 
 
 Ai 
 
 Al 
 
 01 
 01 
 01 
 
 1 i 
 
 4! 
 
 1 l 
 
 7i 
 
 2 
 
 
 
 3
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES

 
 . >t , 
 
 ,,/
 
 A DAY IN AUTUMN.
 
 DAY IN AUTUMN ; 
 
 21 i&oem, 
 
 BY 
 
 BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 it was a day that sent into the heart 
 a summer feeling. 
 
 South ey. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 BALDWIN, CRADOCK, AXD JOY ; 
 LODER, WOODBRIDGE. 
 
 1820.
 
 H 
 
 ho n 9 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I do not inscribe this short Poem 
 to Thee, under any impression that the celebrity 
 of thy Name will confer permanent fame upon what 
 may be thought, by some, unworthy of temporary 
 favour. At the same time, had my own sober 
 judgment enforced the latter opinion, I think I 
 should not have so gratuitously insulted thee, or 
 so egregiously have exposed myself, as to venture, 
 unauthorised, on such a freedom. 

 
 VI 
 
 I cannot plead in my excuse lor taking this 
 liberty, either the intimacy of personal friendship, 
 or the attainmsnt of contemporary eminence : my 
 very slight pretensions to the first, are derived solely 
 from thy courtesy ; to the last I have no pretensions 
 whatever. But having been almost irresistibly in- 
 duced, by its own appropriateness, and my par- 
 tiality, to ornament my Title-page with a quotation 
 from thy "Madoc"; it is not unnatural that I 
 should turn over to the next leaf, with renewed 
 recollections of an Author, to whom I am indebted 
 for repeated and various gratification ; or that 1 
 should avail myself of this opportunity of confessing 
 my obligations for pleasure received, when the mere 
 act of doing so, seems the only return in my power 
 to make.
 
 Y1I 
 
 Whether the picture I have drawn of "A Day 
 in Autumn," be a record of reality, or an attempt 
 to give its semblance to the creations of my own 
 fancy, Thou art alike competent to appreciate its 
 merits, and not less likely, I believe, to forgive 
 its faults. I cheerfully submit both to thy in- 
 dulgence and candour, and subscribe myself, 
 
 With respect, and esteem, 
 Thy Friend, 
 
 BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 WOODBRIDGE.
 
 DAY IN AUTUMN. 
 
 " It was a day that sent into the heart 
 
 A summer feeling ! " — May its memory, now 
 Its own inspiring influence so impart 
 
 Unto my fancy, as to teach me how 
 To give it fitting utterance : aid me, thou 
 
 Delightfullest season of the circling year ! 
 Before my leaf of life upon its bough, 
 
 In the chill blasts of age shall rustle sere, 
 To frame a votive song to hours so justly dear. 
 
 B
 
 2 
 
 Autumn ! soul-soothing season, thou who spreadest 
 
 Thy lavish feast for every living thing, 
 Around whose leaf-strew'd path, as on thou treadest, 
 
 The year its dying odours loves to fling, 
 Their last faint fragrance sweetly scattering ; — 
 
 O ! let thy influence, meek, majestic, holy, 
 So consciously around my spirit cling, 
 
 That its fix'd frame may be, remote from folly, 
 Of sober thought combin'd with gentle melancholy. 
 
 If, in the morning of my life, to Spring 
 
 I paid my homage with a heart elate ; 
 And with each fluttering insect on the wing, 
 
 Or small bird, singing to his happy mate, 
 And Flora's festival, then held in state ; — 
 
 If joyous sympathy with these was mine, 
 O ! still allow me now to dedicate 
 
 To Thee a loftier song : — that tone assign 
 Unto my murmuring lyre, which Nature gives to thine.
 
 A tone of thrilling softness, now, as caught 
 
 From light winds sweeping o'er a stubble field ; — 
 And, now and then, be with those breezes brought 
 
 A murmur musical, of winds conceal'd 
 In coy recesses, by escape reveal'd : — 
 
 And, ever and anon, still deeper tone 
 Of winter's gathering dirge, at distance peal'd, 
 
 By harps and hands unseen ; and only known 
 To some enthusiast's ear when worshipping alone. 
 
 No more of invocation ! Bright the day 
 
 Arose ; as if the glorious sun were bent, 
 (Like some proud monarch, whose declining sway 
 
 Is still majestic and magnificent,) 
 On once more filling his own firmament 
 
 With undiminish'd splendour : — if, at first, 
 His beams, 'mid clouds where richest hues were blent, 
 
 Shone struggling, soon those clouds his raysdispers'd, 
 And from heavens eastern gate in royal pride he burst —
 
 4 
 
 Upon a smiling world ! It seem'd a day 
 
 Might "send into the heart a summer thrill ;" 
 For, as its visible ruler held his way 
 
 Up the vast concave of the sky, at will 
 Exhaling morning's mists ; and bright'ning still 
 
 Garden, and lawn, and trees, no longer green ; — 
 The atmosphere itself, now scarcely chill, 
 
 Was such as suited well that lovely scene 
 Of blue sky, auburn woods, and waters' glittering sheen. 
 
 And now upon the encircl'd board was set 
 The matin meal; and round the steaming urn 
 
 Youth, manhood, infancy — with pleasure met, 
 While social greetings all exchang'd in turn : 
 
 And well might stranger from those greetings learn 
 That visitors were there, from distant home, 
 
 Who now no longer might as guests sojourn- 
 Beneath that happy, hospitable dome, 
 Prepar'd this beauteous day still further on to roam.
 
 But though some natural regret might be 
 
 Attendant on this knowledge, yet it threw 
 No gloom upon the calm festivity 
 
 The friendly circle, thus collected, knew. 
 No ! the last hour, spent ere we bid adieu 
 
 To those united by pure Friendship's tie, 
 Possesses witchery, more tender, — true, 
 
 In its brief sweetness, as it hurries by, 
 Than hours of previous converse often may supply. 
 
 It is not when we meet, — with gratulation, 
 
 And eager question, glance encountering glance, 
 Tongues tund to welcome, and anticipation 
 
 Chang'd to reality of circumstance ; — 
 It is not then, although the spirits dance 
 
 As if inspir'd by some resistless spell ;— 
 We feel those purer pleasures that enhance, 
 
 Beyond the power of even verse to tell, 
 The moments which precede that simple word " farewell !
 
 6 
 
 For in them are call'd forth the truest, best, 
 
 And tenderest feelings of our nature ; — those 
 Which give to joy its most delightful zest, 
 
 And no less soften sorrows keenest throes. 
 I speak not now of agonies and woes 
 
 By guilt inflicted ; nor of that deep pain 
 Affection feels at nature's solemn close, 
 
 When tears seem life-drops from a staunchless vein 
 I speak of Friends who part — on earth to meet again. 
 
 And in such parting hours I do contend 
 
 More sweetness may exist, than in the flush 
 Of eager joy that our first meetings lend ; — 
 
 Aye ! far beyond it — as the tranquil hush 
 Of eve, gives bliss, awoke not by the blush 
 
 Of morning's beauty ; or the dying fall 
 Of musics melting close outvies the gush 
 
 Of its tirst prelude, as it seems to call 
 On echo to prolong its soul-subduing thrall.
 
 But, wherefore dwell on parting's dear delights ? 
 
 Our circle is not doom'd to sever yet : — 
 I left it sharing in the festive rites 
 
 Of morning's meal ; unconscious of regret, 
 And only happy to have once more met. 
 
 That meal is past ; — the Christian Volume now 
 Is open'd, and we hear how Christ was set, 
 
 A mark for impious scoffers, wondering how 
 To gentleness like his knees could in mockery bow. 
 
 It was a solemn chapter, and was grac'd 
 
 By one good action left upon record ; 
 That Woman's pious deed, whose seeming waste 
 
 By those around was thoughtlessly deplor'd : — 
 She who upon her Saviour's head outpour'd 
 
 The box of ointment ; — doing all she could 
 Against the burial of her gracious Lord, 
 
 And winning that pure fame which virtue should, 
 From Him whose lips pronounced the work she wrought 
 was Good !
 
 8 
 
 O ! how that action, mid the chronicle 
 
 Of darkest crimes, with which the chapter teems, 
 Shines forth, with lustre inexpressible, 
 
 Unearthly brightness shedding from its beams, 
 All uneclips'd its gentle glory seems 
 
 By the dense clouds that wrap our lower sphere ; 
 We turn to it, from those more painful themes, 
 
 Iscariot's treachery, and Peter's fear, 
 The Priest's hypocrisy, the Soldiers' cruel sneer ; — 
 
 From such we turn to it — as to a thing 
 
 Gentle, compassionate, pure, holy, good! 
 And the heart's better feelings, as they cling 
 
 Unto its memory, lead us, as they should, 
 To genuine virtue's most congenial mood ; 
 
 Not taught by speculative creeds, which draw 
 The mind's attention from its heavenly food; — 
 
 We feel this truth impress'd, with holy awe, 
 That Love is in itself fulfilment of God's law !
 
 » 
 
 Tell me, thou strenuous advocate of creeds, 
 
 Dogmas, and systems ; overlooking still 
 Those milder charities, and christian deeds 
 
 Without which faith is dead : — with all thy skill 
 Know'st thou not this — the Letter can but kill, 
 
 The Spirit giveth life? — O! far above 
 The proudest theorists, does he fulfil 
 
 The precepts of our faith, whose actions prove 
 That he has learnt aright this truth that Goo is Love ! 
 
 Return we to our theme. The Book is clos d ; 
 
 A pause of silence, eloquent appeal 
 To hearts awake, affections well-dispos"d ? 
 
 Upon that record stamps its solemn seal. 
 And now, dispatchd that social, temp rate meal. 
 
 They who partook of it obey the call 
 Duty or inclination may reveal. 
 
 The younger urchins, eager, joyous all, 
 Begin their morning sports, delights that seldom pall. 
 
 c
 
 10 
 
 He who now traces by his taper's light, 
 
 Ris'n long ere dawn of day, this simple page ; 
 Upon that well-remember'd morning, might 
 
 To wealth or rank have proudly thrown his gage, 
 And challeng'd any on life's pilgrimage 
 
 To show more joyous company than he ; — 
 An hypochondriac's mood it might assuage 
 
 To have look'd round upon that scene of glee, 
 Of smiles devoid of care, and brows from sorrow free. 
 
 The bright sun threw his glory all around, 
 
 And then the balmy, mild, autumnal breeze 
 Swept, with a musical, and fitful sound, 
 
 Among the fading foliage of the trees ; 
 And, now and then, a playful gust would seize 
 
 Some falling leaf, and, like a living thing 
 Which flits about wherever it may please, 
 
 It floated round in many an airy ring, 
 'Till on the dewy grass it lost its transient wing.
 
 11 
 
 We wander'd on, for I was not alone, 
 
 Though such a scene, and such a morning might 
 Have suited well the contemplative tone 
 
 Of some secluded, saintly, anchorite, 
 Whose dreams had peopl'd it with phantoms bright : 
 
 I could not wish them, for around me were 
 Beings more real ; who, in my delight, 
 
 Appreciating its source, were pleas'd to share, 
 When we stood still to gaze, or held high converse there. 
 
 "High converse," — gentle reader! dost thou ask, 
 
 With scornful doubt, what mighty themes were ours ? 
 Thy scorn I heed not ; 'tis a grateful task, 
 
 Spite of the frown which on thy forehead lowers, 
 For me to tax my memory's willing powers, 
 
 And tell of themes — that freshly summon nigh 
 Past pleasures : — we convers'd of donjons, towers, 
 
 Hid in *St. John's vale from Sir Roland's eye, 
 Or melting, soon as seen, into the vapoury sky. 
 
 * Vide Scott's Bridal of Trieruiain.
 
 It 
 
 We talk'd of Byron's vagrant, lawless "Childe"; 
 
 Of Moore's enchanting lovely Nourmahal ; 
 Or of that other tale so sweetly wild, 
 
 Of what the gentle Peri did befall, 
 Who told, so tenderly, that over all 
 
 The flowers of Eden which on earth can bloom, 
 An heavenly eye can pensively recal 
 
 That "Serpent's trail," who sipp'd their first perfume, 
 And left their tainted charms to wreathe his victims' tomb. 
 
 We talk'd of Wordsworth, whose unequall'd skill, 
 
 In loftier moods, no critic dares deride ; 
 And I avow'd my admiration still 
 
 Of his more lowly songs ; though at my side 
 Were pouting lips prepar'd my taste to chide ; 
 
 And laughing eyes, which spake of " Peter Bell :"-- 
 Had such spok'n out, I had perchance replied 
 
 "Rail at mv taste : I like the storv well, 
 And should be passing proud just such an one to tell.'
 
 13 
 
 "And this is converse high ! " — exclaims some reader, 
 
 Whose heart, perhaps, has never known its charm 
 Fling down thy gauntlet ! I will be the pleader 
 
 For Poesy, and in its cause will arm, 
 Meeting thee in mid lists without alarm : 
 
 I re-assert, and fearlessly contend, 
 That in such themes, ennobling, pure, and calm, 
 
 Are germs of lofty thought, which well may lend 
 Access to prouder heights than vulgar steps ascend. 
 
 To prouder heights ! but O ! let man beware 
 
 To walk their summits without humble dread; 
 For scatter'd round is many an hidden snare, 
 
 By man's unwearied adversary spread ; 
 And "fools rush in where angels fear to tread;" — 
 
 That he who climbs Parnassus' lofty hill, 
 Should ponder well his steps, nor there be led 
 
 By spurious taste, or vanity's fond thrill ; 
 But, having gain'd its top, look up to Calvary still!
 
 14 
 
 The Muses are not innately oppos'd 
 
 To pure religion :— witness Cowper's lyre ; 
 And those more awful visions once disclos'd 
 
 To Him, the loftiest of our tuneful choir, 
 Seraphic Milton, whose lips felt the fire 
 
 Caught from the altar's live coal ; prompted whence, 
 In verse which, although numerous, could not tire, 
 
 He sang of themes beyond our finite sense, 
 And pour'd his heavenly song with holy eloquence. 
 
 Not that a Poet by his craft is bound 
 
 To be for ever harping heavenly themes ; 
 Though palms unfading grow on holy ground, 
 
 And at their feet are everlasting streams. 
 And many a spot with holiest vision teems, 
 
 Replete with inspiration : still, we may 
 Be more familiar with them than beseems 
 
 True reverence : and unguardedly betray 
 The cause we wish to serve by our unworthy lay.
 
 15 
 
 Yet he who scans aright the end for which 
 
 The gift of song, if genuine, was bestow'd, 
 "Will ever strain its most commanding pitch 
 
 In virtue's praise ; and seek to strew the road 
 That leads to her immortal, blest abode ; 
 
 With amaranthine flowers : — even when he plays 
 With lighter theme, in seeming mirthful mode, 
 
 Or nature's loveliness in song pourtrays, 
 His end and aim through all should be the Giver's praise. 
 
 And inexhaustible the beauties are 
 
 Of this fair universe. — The boundless main; 
 Heaven's out-stretch'd cope, begemm'd with many a star; 
 
 And earth's rich loveliness, — the ample plain, 
 And stream which marks it like a silver vein ; 
 
 Mountain, and forest, lake, and water-fall : — 
 Can minstrel e'er want subject for his strain, 
 
 While such display their charms so prodigal ? 
 Or how, while singing them, forget who form'd them all ?
 
 16 
 
 O Poesy ! thou dear delightful art ! 
 
 Of sciences — by far the most sublime ; 
 Who, acting rightly thy immortal part, 
 
 Art virtue's handmaid, censor stern of crime, 
 Nature's high priest, and chronicler of time ; 
 
 The nurse of feeling ; the interpreter 
 Of purest passion : — who, in manhood's prime, 
 
 In age, or infancy, alike canst stir 
 The heart's most secret thoughts : — to Thee I now prefer 
 
 My aspirations. — Unto thee I owe 
 
 Nor wealth, nor fame; yet hast thou given to me 
 Some secret joys the world can ill bestow. 
 
 Delights which ope not to its golden key, 
 And wait not on its pride and pageantry : 
 
 For thou hast nourish'd, in those lonely hours 
 That have been spent in intercourse with thee, 
 
 Kind feelings, chastend passions, mental powers, 
 And hopes which look through time. These are not 
 worldlv dowers.
 
 17 
 
 For such I thank thee ! Thou hast granted all 
 
 I could expect in life ; yet, when I must 
 Return to nature's chill original 
 
 That portion of me which is form'd of dust, 
 When I go down to darkness ! take in trust 
 
 Some scatter'd fragments of my transient Name ! 
 I ask no storied urn, no marble bust, 
 
 These move me not ; yet could I wish to claim 
 From some few left behind a dearer meed than fame. 
 
 I mean that tender feeling, which outlives, 
 
 In the survivor's heart, the silent grave, 
 And such as slumber in it ; that which gives 
 
 To those it mourns for all their hearts would crave. 
 I ask no laurels o'er my turf to wave, 
 
 But, when the sun of my brief day be set, 
 I would not so all softer ties out-brave 
 
 As not to wish, when those 1 love be met, 
 For me that cheeks be wan, and eyes with sorrow wet. 
 
 D
 
 18 
 
 And should some portion of my song survive 
 
 The death of him who frames it ; may it be 
 Such only as may keep his name alive 
 
 In hearts of spotless moral purity, — 
 Of virtuous feeling, gentle sympathy, 
 
 And elevated thoughts ; — such have I known : — 
 May these but cherish my lov'd memory 
 
 In some few silent hours, when left alone, 
 And "fame's obstreperous trump"' I willingly disown. 
 
 Of minstrel aspirations now no more ; — 
 
 Yet — ere, sweet Poesy! from thee I turn, 
 While the fond love of thy delightful lore 
 
 Bids in my breast thy blameless ardors burn 
 With gentle fires ; such as illume the urn 
 
 Of Ilesper, shining in eve's cloudless sky ; — 
 Fain would I sing, how, unto those who learn 
 
 To love thee truly, thou canst bliss supply, 
 Though such have never dar'd their skill in song to try.
 
 19 
 
 " Fain would I sing, much yet unsung remains," 
 
 How thy pure influence is not all confin'd 
 To such as, hymning thy enchanting strains, 
 
 Have round their harps undying wreaths entwin'd, 
 Scattering their sweets unto the vagrant wind, 
 
 Music and odour wafting all abroad ; — 
 Until, surcharg'd with raptures so combind, 
 
 Soul, sense, and passion, spell-bound, overaw'd, 
 We venture not to praise, but silently applaud. 
 
 But there be many who have never strove 
 
 To tune their harps, nor had a harp to tune ; 
 Who, notwithstanding, show their genuine love 
 
 Of thee, by reverencing each tender boon 
 Thy impulses confer. These, when the moon 
 
 Unveils her cloudless glory to the sea, 
 Or, on a still and lovely night in June, 
 
 Shoots her soft radiance through some leafy tree/ 
 These at such moments turn instinctively to thee.
 
 20 
 
 Conscious, while soft emotions round them throng, 
 
 Of more than language ever can convey ; 
 Their thoughts are poetry ! their feelings — song ! 
 
 As if they dwelt not in these forms of clay, 
 But walk'd with spirits. — Or if such should stray, 
 
 As I did in the hours which now I sing, 
 When nature's beauties yield to calm decay, 
 
 With chosen friends among them loitering, — 
 To such an Autumn day no transient joy may bring. 
 
 "A day in Autumn !" — Turn we, it is time, 
 
 (The words may well re-call me back to it) 
 Unto the theme with which began my rhyme :— 
 
 Nor lavish on me thy ungentle wit, 
 My patient reader, if what I have writ 
 
 Appear to thee devoid of well form'd plan. 
 I took my pen up, in no formal fit, 
 
 The feelings of a few bright hours to scan ; 
 And as they rise I trace their course as best I can.
 
 21 
 
 I must not linger, though well pleas'd I might, 
 
 (And memory would enjoy the dear delay) 
 Upon each hour that wing'd its noiseless flight 
 
 Over my head on that delightful day. 
 Yet would I not, in this my faint essay 
 
 To register its pleasures, wrong it so, 
 As not endeavour briefly to pourtray 
 
 Our mornings ride ; though lacking power to shew 
 The lovely scenes spread round in Autumn's richest glow. 
 
 For they indeed were beautiful ! we drove 
 
 Through bowering lanes ; their lofty trees between, 
 Whose leaves were ting'd with beauty far above 
 
 Spring's gayest hues, or brightest freshest green : 
 Their blending shades of every tint were seen ; 
 
 Pale amber, half transparent in the ray 
 Of the bright sun ; while others, in his sheen, 
 
 Assum'd more gorgeous colours ; others — grey, 
 Wither'd, and lifeless now, bestrew'd our narrow way.
 
 22 
 
 Nor was the distant scenery aught surpass'd 
 
 By nearer objects; there, expanding wide, 
 And by unclouded sunshine brightly glass'd, 
 
 Flow'd, Orwell ! thy serenely rippling tide : 
 Hemm'd in by hilly slopes on every side, 
 
 Whose tufted woods upon its margin break, 
 It more resembl'd, as by us descried, 
 
 Some quietly reposing inland lake, 
 Than ocean's briny branch, which ebb and flow o'ertake. 
 
 Yet on its bosom, mark'd by vivid gleam 
 
 Of sunny glory, peacefully did sleep 
 A puny vessel, whose white sail might seem 
 
 The lonely monarch of its little deep : 
 And where its banks arose abruptly steep, 
 
 Though cliffs it boasts not, lines of lengthened shade 
 Over its silvery breast appear 'd to creep ; 
 
 Yet even those shadowy lines but lovelier made 
 Its sparkling radiance seem, by contrast's heightning aid.
 
 23 
 
 Orwell ! lov'd stream ; may I not fitly pause, 
 
 And pay the tribute thou from me must claim? 
 Scene of my boyish pleasures ! for that cause 
 
 Worthy such song as muse of mine can frame. 
 Not mine the power to bid thy humble name 
 
 To aught of classic dignity aspire ; 
 Yet all I can bestow of fleeting fame 
 
 Thy sweet recesses from my song require, 
 And well might these demand a worthier, louder lyre. 
 
 England may boast of streams more beautiful, 
 
 More boldly grand, romantically wild; 
 From whose enchanting banks a bard might cull 
 
 Rich flowers of fancy as he rov'd beguil'd, 
 With rocks on rocks around him rudely pil'd, 
 
 Whose clustering pinnacles half hid the sky : — 
 But seldom has storm lowerd, or sunshine smil'd, 
 
 Upon a stream whose features could supply 
 With harvests passing thine a poets quiet eye.
 
 24 
 
 The bolder charms of savage scenery may, 
 
 Auspiciously beheld, demand delight, 
 Enforcing admiration, and delay, 
 
 Which thy weak charms more winningly invite : 
 But though the former fill the roving sight 
 
 With mute astonishment ; yet soon it grows 
 Sated with wonder, and, bewilder'd quite, 
 
 Longs for some scene on which it may repose, 
 Such scenes as thy sweet banks so lavishly disclose. 
 
 Thus in the deepest, strongest facination 
 
 Beauty can boast, in woman's lovely face ; — 
 Charms there may be that waken admiration, 
 
 When first beheld, that have no dwelling-place 
 On memory's tablet ; while on it we trace 
 
 Features less perfect, and less mark'd at first, 
 But made indelible by softer grace ;— 
 
 Too unobtrusive all at once to burst 
 Upon the gazer's soul : — once known, for ever nurs'd,
 
 25 
 
 With cherish'd fondness ;— for the much lov'd sake 
 
 Of purest happiness, which these alone 
 Have had the power within our hearts to wake, 
 
 By witchery peculiarly their own. 
 Such faces live ; even when the life is flown 
 
 "Which made their smiles so truly eloquent, 
 And gave such harmony to every tone, 
 
 And accent that, united with them, lent 
 Unto their passing spell an influence permanent. 
 
 They rise upon us in our sweetest dreams 
 
 By night ; they break on sorrow's cloudiest day ; 
 And on the mind such more than sunshine gleams . 
 
 From their blest smiles, it seems a heavenly ray 
 Vouchsaf 'd to dash the darkness all away, 
 
 And let in glorious light upon the soul : — 
 But, all too rare their visits, brief their stay ; 
 
 Such soothing visions own not our controul, 
 They rise, they shine, they set — like orbs in heaven thai 
 
 roll. 
 
 i:
 
 26 
 
 But Orwell ! I have wander'd far from thee ; 
 
 And now I turn, 'tis but to say "Adieu !" 
 Much might I add, would I set fancy free, 
 
 And give full scope to faithful memory too, 
 Of many a beautiful and peaceful view 
 
 Upon thy quiet banks ; of feelings born, 
 And nourish'd there ; of early thoughts that grew 
 
 Beside thy waters, in life's happy morn ; 
 And idle schemes of bliss, which reason now would scorn. 
 
 Farewell! then, and for ever! though thou must 
 
 Be with me as a thing that cannot die, 
 Until my memory shall resign its trust 
 
 Of what life's brightest moments can supply, 
 Hopes, friendships, love, that charm'd me andpass'd by 
 
 Though far apart, perhaps, we may not sever, 
 And sometimes I may gaze, with pensive eye, 
 
 Upon thy winding shores ; yet never, never, 
 Canst thou re-call again enjoyments fled for ever !
 
 27 
 
 And now our morning's ride is ended ; past 
 
 The hour of dinner ; — round us gathers eve : — 
 And he who frames this legend must, at last, 
 
 Of the kind circle round him take his leave. 
 Nor would he foolishly repine, or grieve, 
 
 Though some there be whom he may meet no more ; 
 Even should it prove so, why should this bereave 
 
 His breast of some fond thoughts unknown before, 
 Which friends 'till then unmet have added to its store ? 
 
 No ! every object worthy of our love, 
 
 Esteem, or friendship, in a world like this, 
 Where he whose friend it is not, doom'd to rove, 
 
 Some thorns of anguish scarce can hope to miss, — 
 Must, when encounter'd, wear the form of bliss ; 
 
 And even confer it : — -though its angel smile 
 May, like a star in night's profound abyss 
 
 By clouds surrounded, beam but for awhile, 
 Yet when it does break forth the gloom it may beguile.
 
 28 
 
 And if its loveliness awaken aught 
 
 Of grateful feeling ; if it leave behind 
 Of human nature one relenting thought, 
 
 Gentle, affectionate, indulgent, kind ; — 
 Convincing us how closely are entwin'd 
 
 All human hearts whose element is Love ! 
 O ! doubt not then it boasts a charm refin'd, 
 
 The momentary joys of sense above, 
 Which He who form'd the heart will graciously approve. 
 
 The day is over :— it is night, dark night ! 
 
 But such as should succeed a day so fair. 
 Nought is there in its darkness to affright ; 
 
 No gusty winds of rising storms declare, 
 But peaceful silence fills the dewy air. 
 
 Even such a night as now with voiceless spell 
 Has gather'd round me : can I then forbear, 
 
 Ere to my theme I bid a last farewell, 
 The present hour to paint ; Nights calm delights to tell ?
 
 Soul-soothing season ! period of repose ! 
 
 Or introverted thought, which day debars ; 
 Can language "paint, can poetry disclose, 
 
 The magic of thy silence, dews, and stars? 
 When the loud mirth of day no longer mars 
 
 Our better feelings with its empty sound ; 
 When we forget, awhile, the cruel jar* 
 
 Our souls in worldly intercourse have found, 
 How welcome are thy shades, with peaceful quiet crown'd ! 
 
 They gather round us, from their silent wings 
 
 Scattering kind blessings; to the wretched — dear ; 
 Prosperity to gaudy day-light clings, 
 
 But thou art Sorrow's chosen, meek compeer : 
 Thou hid'st her from the cold and heartless sneer 
 
 Of wealth's sleek minions, pride's contemptuous crew; 
 Hushest her sigh, conceal'st her bitter tear, 
 
 And, by thy healing influence, dost renew 
 Her fortitude to bear ! her courage to subdue !
 
 30 
 
 And, if thou didst not this, there is in thee 
 
 Yet ample scope for Poesy's fair themes : — 
 For thou, O Night! art guardian of the key 
 
 That opes the portal of the land of dreams. 
 Touch'd by thy spell our roving fancy teems 
 
 With things to which Day has no parellel ; 
 Beings too beauteous far to brave its beams, 
 
 Much too ethereal upon earth to dwell ; 
 And glories dreams alone render accessible. 
 
 Waving, however, these thy wilder flights, 
 
 As joys ideal, unsubstantial, vain ; 
 And passing o'er thy soothing, calm delights 
 
 Administer'd to sorrow's pallid train; — 
 Enough is left to bid us bless thy reign : 
 
 For thy revolving periods health renew 
 Unto our wearied nature ; — flush again 
 
 Beauty's wan cheek, curtain her eye of blue, 
 Or with fresh splendors fill its orb of darker hue.
 
 31 
 
 One topic more, Still Night ! will yet intrude 
 
 Upon my serious thought, while hymning Thee :— ■ 
 Thou art the emblem, type, similitude, 
 
 Of silence yet more awful ; although we 
 Are loath the approach of Death's dark night to see ! 
 
 Father of mercies ! Thou whose goodness gave 
 Thy Son Belov'd, man's sacrifice to be, 
 
 Grant that in life's last hour my soul may crave, 
 Nor crave in vain, Hrs Love to light me through the 
 Grave ! 
 
 LOUER, PRINTKK, WOUDIIRIDGl.
 
 3n tU $#$$. 
 
 A SECOND EDITION IN 12mO. OF 
 
 BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 BALDWIN, CRADOCK, AND JOY, 
 LONDON.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 *CAKW0 7JS9(i 
 
 315
 
 PP Part.nn - 
 
 U079 
 BPRria 
 
 -• day in autumn 
 
 
 ■ I 
 
 PR 
 U079 
 
 B28da 
 
 L 007 Of 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGI 
 
 AA 000 1