Edward Henry Bickersteth Poems

I once could hope—alas! no more
Her bright wings wave for me;
The sunlit hours of life are o'er,
I weep, dear love, for thee!
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Thy melody has ceased to charm,
A nation mourns for thee.
Loved songstress! whither art thou fled?
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“The balmiest sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to this speaking quietude
That wraps this moveless scene.”—
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Why do I think on thee,
Dearest, oh! say?
Why do I think on thee,
Far—far away?
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Oh no!—I will not give my heart to thee,
Cold, mocking world!—I still would wish to be
Apart from thy caress; for thou canst smile
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Spring is the time when the sunshine is stealing
And breaking through clouds o'er a landscape of green,
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On Sarum's plains I trod,
Where many a Druid sleeps,
Upreared upon the sod,
The wind their altar sweeps.
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The Lord my Shepherd is; I shall not want:
He leads me in green pastures, and beside
Still waters; and restores my soul to tread
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Child of an alien creed, thy heavier sorrows bewailing,
Weep not—for ah! more pure—more fair—none with thee may compare them:
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The sun is bright o'er hill and dale,
And summer's breath is on the gale;
While mirth and jest are heard afar,
I only watch the western star.
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