Close Close Previous Poem Next Poem Follow Us on Twitter! Poem of the Day Award Follow Us on Facebook! Follow Us on Twitter! Follow Us on Pinterest! Follow Our Youtube Channel! Follow Our RSS Feed! envelope star quill

Quaker Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Quakers by John Jacob Dickson
  2. A Quaker Church by Thaddeus Pomeroy Cressey
  3. A Quaker Maid by James B. Kenyon
  4. To a Beautiful Quaker by Lord Byron

  1. The Quakers

    by John Jacob Dickson

    A sincere purpose to do right
    Proceeding from within,
    A walking by the Inward Light
    Protects the soul from sin.

    George Fox, the Friend, built on this rock,
    The building stands secure;
    The only sect the world's rude shock
    Has left unstained and pure.

    They sought the Heavenly Father's care,
    No thronging crowds around;
    They bowed their heads in silent prayer,
    And that is "holy ground."

    No titled men—no useless forms
    Within their building found;
    No unpaid toil, no clash of arms,
    Ah, there is "holy ground."

    Though men of peace they charged upon
    The citadel of sin;
    Moved by the Holy Spirit on,
    They conquered foes within.

    They make no compromise to gain
    The world's admiring throng;
    Their record is without a stain
    Of blood, or crime, or wrong.

    If Heaven is for those alone
    Who have subdued the tares
    The enemy of souls hath sown,
    What great reward is theirs?

    The warlike sects for dogmas fight,
    And with the world unite;
    Their morals in a rusty plight,
    Their fighting weapons bright.

    The eagle's claws are on the dove
    Since Adam's race begun;
    O, Prince of Peace, O God of Love,
    When will Thy will be done?

  2. A Quaker Church

    by Thaddeus Pomeroy Cressey

    Eastward from my window on the hillside,
    A Quaker church, with architecture plain,
    Stands clad in unpretentious drab outside,
    With windows small and glass without a stain.

    No steeple pointing from its roof above,
    To show the worshipers the way to heaven,
    Believing, if they live in peace and love,
    That here below a rich reward is given.

    No pulpit to adorn its sacred walls,
    Or organ notes, or tuneful voices raise,
    But, listening to the inward voice that calls,
    Their very silence is a song of praise.

    They find, when sorrows steal upon their way,
    A sweet release within that sacred place;
    Their burdened spirits there can watch and pray,
    And build within their souls a throne of grace.

    There, without words, their worship pure has flown,
    And error s monstrous shape from earth is driven;
    While trusting safely in the great unknown,
    A living truth will make this world a heaven.

    The progress their expanded souls have made
    In their maturer years and bolder right,
    Each gleam of brightness coming to their aid
    Will guide their footsteps in the path of right.

    These sainted witnesses to brighter skies—
    When parting with this world of endless strife—
    Bear to the sunny dawn of paradise
    The fruitful blossoms of an earnest life.

  3. A Quaker Maid

    by James B. Kenyon

    She sits beneath the trellised vine
    Beside the open door;
    Warm arabesques of sunlight shine
    Along the checkered floor.

    Her busy needles wink and glance
    As still her task she plies;
    By bordered walks the midges dance;
    Above, the swallow flies.

    Her face is calm; her eyes are meek;
    About her smooth young throat,
    And lightly blown o'er either cheek,
    The silken tendrils float.

    Beneath the snow-white kerchief spread
    Across her placid breast,
    Unvexed by change or darkling dread,
    Her spirit lies at rest.

    Peace is her world; no thought of ill,
    Nor breath of sordid strife,
    E'er taints the pure desires that fill
    Her cool hushed round of life.

    Afar the city roars; there sweeps
    The long white way that gleams
    For other feet; she sits and keeps
    Alone her quiet dreams.

  4. To a Beautiful Quaker

    by George Gordon, Lord Byron

    Sweet girl! though only once we met,
    That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
    And though we ne'er may meet again,
    Remembrance will thy form retain.
    I would not say, "I love," but still
    My senses struggle with my will:
    In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
    My thoughts are more and more represt;
    In vain I check the rising sighs,
    Another to the last replies:
    Perhaps this is not love, but yet
    Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

    What though we never silence broke,
    Our eyes a sweeter language spoke.
    The toungue in flattering falsehood deals,
    And tells a tale in never feels;
    Deceit the guilty lips impart,
    And hush the mandates of the heart;
    But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
    Spurn such restraint and scorn disguise.
    As thus our glances oft conversed,
    And all our bosoms felt, rehearsed,
    No spirit, from within, reproved us,
    Say rather, "'twas the spirit moved us."
    Though what they utter'd I repress,
    Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;
    For as on thee my memory ponders,
    Perchance to me thine also wanders.
    This for myself, at least, I'll say,
    Thy form appears through night, through day:
    Awake, with it my fancy teems;
    In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
    The vision charms the hours away,
    And bids me curse Aurora's ray
    For breaking slumbers of delight
    Which make me wish for endless night:
    Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
    Shall joy or woe my steps await,
    Tempted by love, by storms beset,
    Thine image I can ne'er forget.

    Alas! again no more we meet,
    No more former looks repeat;
    Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
    The dictate of my bosom's care:
    "May heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
    That anguish never can o'ertake her;
    That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
    But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
    Oh, may the happy mortal, fated
    To be by dearest ties related,
    For her each hour new joys discover,
    And lose the husband in the lover!
    May that fair bosom never know
    What 't is to feel the restless woe
    Which stings the soul with vain regret,
    Of him who never can forget!"

Related Poems

Follow Us On: