Poems (Hornblower)/Verses on the Illness of the late S. Austin, of Liverpool
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VERSES,
ON THE ILLNESS OF THE LATE S. AUSTIN. OF LIVERPOOL.
His lovely dreams are over now,
To gaze on nature's smiling face,
With throbbing heart, and kindling brow,
And all her varied charms to trace;
To brush away the morning dews,
And climb the mountain's loftiest height,
And mark the sun's first beam diffuse
On bill and vale its quivering light.
To gaze on nature's smiling face,
With throbbing heart, and kindling brow,
And all her varied charms to trace;
To brush away the morning dews,
And climb the mountain's loftiest height,
And mark the sun's first beam diffuse
On bill and vale its quivering light.
His lovely dreams are past—to gaze
Upon the water's gilded sheen,
And catch the bright and golden rays,
That evening hangs upon the scene;
To wander forth at starry night,
With feelings holy as the hour,
And gaze upon those worlds of light,
And silently admire, adore.
Upon the water's gilded sheen,
And catch the bright and golden rays,
That evening hangs upon the scene;
To wander forth at starry night,
With feelings holy as the hour,
And gaze upon those worlds of light,
And silently admire, adore.
To sit beneath some summer tree,
With a fair landscape round him spread,
And with firm touch, unerringly
To seize it, ere its charm be fled;
To stamp upon the tablet white,
With faithful hand, each flitting grace,
And there, with ever new delight,
His own still brighter mind to trace.
With a fair landscape round him spread,
And with firm touch, unerringly
To seize it, ere its charm be fled;
To stamp upon the tablet white,
With faithful hand, each flitting grace,
And there, with ever new delight,
His own still brighter mind to trace.
He sits no more beside the stream,
Gathering its fresh and verdant flowers;
No more he hails the morning beam,
Or wanders forth in evening hours.
The pale stars sorrowingly look down,
Upon his sleepless couch of pain;
And the moon's loveliest beam is thrown,
To tempt the sufferer's gaze—in vain.
Gathering its fresh and verdant flowers;
No more he hails the morning beam,
Or wanders forth in evening hours.
The pale stars sorrowingly look down,
Upon his sleepless couch of pain;
And the moon's loveliest beam is thrown,
To tempt the sufferer's gaze—in vain.
Yet light is round him—light more pure
Than ever lit the brightest star;
Deep love, to trust and to endure,
A faith—oh lovelier, fairer far.
Calm he reviews a virtuous life,
Looks up, and sees a Father's smile,
And even affection's bitter strife,
Religion gently can beguile.
Than ever lit the brightest star;
Deep love, to trust and to endure,
A faith—oh lovelier, fairer far.
Calm he reviews a virtuous life,
Looks up, and sees a Father's smile,
And even affection's bitter strife,
Religion gently can beguile.
An earthly fame he knows is bis,
On each loved painting turns bis eye;
Even then she whispers deeper bliss,
She breathes of immortality.
She brings the loved ones of his youth,
And each dear babe, to that bright place.
And tells him those blest words of truth,
'There he shall see them face to face.'
On each loved painting turns bis eye;
Even then she whispers deeper bliss,
She breathes of immortality.
She brings the loved ones of his youth,
And each dear babe, to that bright place.
And tells him those blest words of truth,
'There he shall see them face to face.'
'T is over now—he mourns no more,
His lovely visions, once so dear;
He feels, he knows, they are not o'er,
Rich treasures for some holier sphere.
There shall his noblest thoughts expand,
More fully perfected, and free;
For heaven, that pure, that holy land,
For spirits such as his must be.
His lovely visions, once so dear;
He feels, he knows, they are not o'er,
Rich treasures for some holier sphere.
There shall his noblest thoughts expand,
More fully perfected, and free;
For heaven, that pure, that holy land,
For spirits such as his must be.