Rev. B. Bailey, Poetical Sketches of the Interior
of the Island of Ceylon. Columbo: printed at the Herald Press, 1841.
A FEW dark years have slowly passed
In suffering,in agony begun,
Since a sad pilgrim, at the close
Lit by the last beams of the setting
Landed a stranger herebut
But Thou, alas! didst melt from
my fond sight,
And went'st to Heaven: and whither
thou art gone,
Thy birth-place seemed by a celestial
For thither saints and angels wing their happy flight.
And I was left to struggle with
Heart-broken, prostrate, lonely,
I hung upon the world,as a
Mid buds and blossoms in their vernal
The joy of others seemed to mock
Sorrow had blighted, in my wintry
All happiness; nor aught could renovate
My withered heart, but that my mind
With faith in HIM with whom the weary are at rest.
My heart grew calmer. Hope, not
of the earth,
Revived within the mansion of my
The hope to share with Thee a brighter
While Faith,whose viewless
wings from pole to pole
Are smoothly spread, though deafening
Shone inward, as a solitary star,
And soothed the sorrow it could
All other things but clouds and
Its steady light alone can soothe the bosom's care.
Alone, unnerved, and weak, and
With sorrow journeying, instead
Once more I found me on the restless
I felt at large, but not at liberty:
To other scenes my thoughts did
And brighter visions my dark mind
With light of other days. Together
In distant climes were wanderingI
I saw the empty seatI thought my heart would break.
Yes, on this earth we've witnessed
many a scene,
Which for a while charmed even thy
By mountain-sides, in valleys soft
And by the banks of loveliest streamsin
Death took thee from mebut
I will restrain
My grief,and with thy memory
These wild flowers culled from mountain
and from plain:
Oh! were they sweet as spirits round
That I with thee might hold communion from beneath.
This, the first product
of my stronger mind,
When I emerged from my deep solitude,
I dedicate to Thee! Thou wert not
To Nature, which with rapture thou
Or throned among thy own loved mountains
Or where she looked more beautiful
And virgin tints of tenderness imbued
Her features with the softness of
As when the Infant Saviour on His Mother smiled.
In fairer scenes
thy sainted spirit resteth;
More pure thy pleasures, brighter
A more ethereal light thy soul investeth
Than of the earth, by human footsteps
Now thou art in the presence of
A Spirit thou, if any be, most blest;
Meek sufferer wert thou here; the
Toucheth not thee; but, at His high
Thou art a saint in light, a soul in blessed rest.
In Eastern climes these wilder beauties glow,
"The utmost Indian Isle TAPROBANE."
He who would feast his spirit blamelessly,
The world of sense and wordly joys forego,
And feel the sabbath of the soul, may know,
Amid the might of mountain scenery,
And all the glories which the eye may see,
How to be blest, or soothe his bosom's woe.
Here Nature's hand so curiously hath wrought
Her web of wonder, beautiful and bright,
That even the spirits of another world
Were with the sense of admiration caught,
Which now my grosser spirit doth delight,
And from me hath my darker feelings hurled.