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Poem by Bernard Barton
I walk'd the fields at morning's prime, The grass was ripe for mowing; The skylark sang his matin chime, And all was brightly glowing. 'And thus,' I cried, 'the ardent boy, His pulse with rapture beating, Deems life's inheritance is joy - The future proudly greeting.' I wander'd forth at noon: - Alas! On earth's maternal bosom The scythe had left the with'ring grass, And stretch'd the fading blossom. And thus, I thought with many a sigh, The hopes we fondly cherish, Like flowers which blossom but to die, Seem only born to perish. Once more, at eve, abroad I stray'd, Through lonely hay-fields musing, While every breeze that round me play'd Rich fragrance was diffusing. The perfumed air, the hush of eve, To purer hopes appealing, O'er thoughts perchance too prone to grieve, Scatter'd the balm of healing. For thus 'the actions of the just,' When mem'ry hath enshrined them, E'en from the dark and silent dust Their odour leave behind them.
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