Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Poems. IV. A Colloquy with MyselfBernard Barton (1784–1849)
W
May, indeed, thy coffers fill;
Yet, like earth’s most fleeting pleasures,
Leave thee poor and heartless still.
But by gauds that pass away,
Read its fate in lines recorded
On the sea-sands yesterday.
She her worth can best express.
What is moping Melancholy?
Go and learn of Idleness.
For the prosperous and the gay;
But a safe and wholesome teacher
In Adversity’s dark day.
Like some beacon’s heavenward glow:
If on false pretensions grounded
Like the treacherous sand below.
Like a meteor of the night
Shining but to leave more lonely
Hearts that hailed its transient light:
Purified from passion’s stain,
Like the moon, in gentle splendour,
Ruling o’er the peaceful main.
Glancing darkest clouds between;
Or foam-crested waves, whose whiteness
Gladdens ocean’s darksome green.
Shadows o’er the pilgrim’s way,
Every moment darker growing,
If we yield unto their sway.
Followed but by deeper gloom.
Patience?—More than sunshine, bright’ning
Sorrow’s path, and labour’s doom.
To Eternity’s vast sea;
Forward, whither all are going,
On its bosom bearing thee.
On that silent, rapid stream;
Few, too few, its progress noting,
Till it bursts, and ends the dream.
Every tie we love so well?
But the gate to life unending,
Joy, in heaven! or, woe in hell!
Lose their magnitude or weight?
Estimate thine own condition,
Ere thou pass that fearful gate.
Much may still be left to do:
Be not by profession cheated;
Live—as if thou knew’st them true.