The Goal; or, Clarkson in Old Age, by Bernard Barton
Near half a century hath flown;
That way-side wanderer now
A venerable sage has grown,
With years traced on his brow.
More bent in form, more dim of eye,
More faltering in his pace;
But time has stamped in dignity,
More than it reft of grace.
And joy is his, age cannot chill,
Memories it need not shun;
The lone enthusiast of Wades-Mill
His glorious goal hath won!
Not vainly has he watched the ark
Wherein his hopes were shrined,
Nor vainly fanned fair Freedom's spark
In many a kindling mind.
At times, indeed, those hopes might seem
Lost in the whelming wave;
That spark--a faintly, struggling gleam--
Quenched to the hapless slave.
Anon the dove, with weary wing,
Her olive-branch would bear;
A sign to which his hopes might cling
In hours of anxious care.
The bow of promise has come forth;
It stands as erst it stood,
When the old land-marks of the earth
Emerged above the flood!
And Christian states have owned His right,
Who bade the waves recede,
As Freedom's champions, in His might,
For Afric rose to plead.
Well may the vet'ran of that band,
In life's declining days,
Offer, with lifted heart and hand,
Thanksgiving, glory, praise!
His name, with those of his compeers,
Have travelled earth's wide round;
And grateful hearts, and listening ears,
Have hailed their welcome sound.
His toils are o'er, his part is done;
The Captive is set free;
But, Europe, though his goal be won,
Much yet devolves on thee.
The bondage that made Afric vile
Can ne'er be wrapt in night,
Until her barren wastes shall smile
Beneath the Gospel's light.
'Till where the Scourge created fear,
The Cross shall waken love,
And Afric's children altars rear
To Him who reigns above!
Bernard Barton.
finis.