The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Unpublished Poems

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The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë by Emily Brontë Unpublished Poems

UNPUBLISHED POEMS

These Poems, the copyright of the Editors, have never before been printed.

UNPUBLISHED POEMS

I

Gods of the old mythology  Arise in gloom and storm; Adramalec, bow down thy head,  Reveal, dark fiend, thy form, The giant sons of Anakim  Bowed lowest at thy shrine, And thy temple rose in Argola,  With its hallowed groves of vine; And there was eastern incense burnt,  And there were garments spread, With the fine gold decked and broidered,  And tinged with radiant red, With the radiant red of furnace flames  That through the shadows shone As the full moon when on Sinai's top  Her rising light is thrown.

II

Its faded buds already lie To deck my coffin when I die. Bring them here—'twill not be long, 'Tis the last line of the woeful song; And the final and dying words are sung To the discord of lute-strings all unstrung. O Adrian, do not harshly sweep The chords that are quivering to voiceless sleep. No; but I'd string them once more to a sound That should startle the nations that rest around. I'd call forth the glorious chorus again Which flooded the earth with a bloody main. Have I crushed you, Percy? I'd raise once more The beacon-light on the rocky shore. Percy, my love is so true and deep, That though kingdoms should wail and worlds should weep, I'd fling the brand in the hissing sea, The brand that must burn unquenchably. Your rose is mine; when the sweet leaves fade, They must be the chaplet to wreathe my head, The blossoms to deck my home with the dead. I repent not—that which my hand has done Is as fixed as the orb of the burning sun; But I swear by Heaven and the mighty sea That wherever I wander, my heart is with thee.

III

Bitterly, deeply I've drunk of thy woe; When thy stream was troubled, did mine calmly flow? And yet I repent not; I'd crush thee again If our vessels sailed adverse on life's stormy main. But listen! The earth is our campaign of war, Her children are rank and her kingdom's spread far. Who shall say Hah! to the mingling star? Is there not havoc and carnage for thee Unless thou couchest thy lance at me? The heart in my bosom beats high at the thought Of the deeds which by blended strength may be wrought. Then might thy Mary bloom blissfully still, This hand should ne'er work her sorrow or ill, No fear of grief in her bright eyes should quiver; I'd love her and guard her for ever and ever. What! shall Zamorna go down to the dead With blood on his hand that he wept to have shed? What! shall they carve on his tomb with the sword The slayer of Percy, the scourge of the Lord? Bright flashed the fire in the young Duke's eye As he spoke in the tones of the trumpet swelling; Then he stood still and watched earnestly How these tones were on Percy's spirit telling; Nothing was heard but his quick short breath And his fiery heart aroused panting. The dark wood lay as hushed as death, Nor drum nor murmur its valley haunting; Then the low voice of Percy woke, And thus in strange response he spoke.

IV

Companions all day long we've stood  The wild winds restless blowing, All day we've watched the darkened flood  Around our vessel flowing. Sunshine has never smiled since morn,  And clouds have gathered drear, And heavier hearts would feel forlorn  And weaker minds would fear. But look in each young shipmate's eyes  Lit by the evening flame, And see how little stormy skies  Our joyous blood can tame. No face one same expression wears,  No lip the same soft smile; Yet kindness warms and courage cheers,  Nerves every breast the while. It is the hour of dreaming now,  With blue and ghostly gleams, And sweetest in a reddened glow  The hour of dreaming seems. I may not trace the thoughts of all,  But some I read so well, As I can hear the ocean's fall  And sudden surging swell. The swifter soul is gone before,  It treads a forest wide, Where bowers are bending to the shore  And gazing on the tide. And one is there—I know the voice,  The thrilling, stirring tone, That makes his bounding pulse rejoice,  Yet makes not his alone. Mine own hand longs to clasp her hand,  Mine eye to meet her eye; The white sails win Zorayda's strand,  And flout against her sky. September 17, 1840, E.J. Brontë.

V

Oh, all the cares these noontide airs  Might seem to drive away, So glad and bright each sight appears,  Each sound so soft and gay; And through the shade of yonder glade,  Where thick the leaves are dancing, While jewels rare and flow'rets rare  A hundred plumes are glancing. For there the palace portals rise  Beyond its myrtle grove, Catching the whitest, brightest dyes  From the deep blue dome above. But has this little lonely spot,  No place among its trees, By all unknown, by all forgot,  Save sunshine and the breeze?

VI

There's something in this glorious hour That fills the soul with heavenly power, And dims our eyes with sudden tears That centre all the joys of years. For we feel at once that there lingers still, Like summer's sunshine o'er a hill, A glory round life's pinnacle; And we know, though we be yet below, That we may not always linger so, For still Ambition beckons on, Is this a height that may be won? And Hope still whispers in our ear, 'Others have been—thou mayst be there.' Land of the west! Thy glorious skies,  Their dreamy depths of azure blue, Their sunlit isles of paradise,  That float in golden glory through. These depths of azure o'er my sight  Their musing moments seem to expand, Revealing all their radiance bright  In cloud and gorgeous land. Land of the west! thine evening sun  Brings thousand voiceless thoughts to mind Of what I've said and seen and done  In years by time long left behind; And forms and faces lost for ever Seem arising round me now As if to bid farewell for ever Before my spirit go. Oh! how they gush upon my heart  And overflow my eyes. I must not keep, I cannot part  With such wild sympathies. I know it's called a sin and shame  To mourn o'er what I mourn. Aware her last hour approaching fast, Upon her dying bed she lies; Are her wild dreams of western skies, The shallow wrecks of memories  That glitter through the gloom Cast o'er them in the cold decay Which signs the sickening soul away  To meet its early tomb? What pleasant airs upon her face  With freshening fondness play, As they would kiss each transient grace  Before it fades away! And backward rolled each deep red fold, Begilt with tasselled cords of gold,  The open arch displays; O'er bower and trees that orb divine His own unclouded lights decline  Before her glistening gaze.

VII

Sleep, mourner, sleep! I cannot sleep,  My weary mind still wanders on; Then silent weep—I cannot weep,  For eyes and tears are turned to stone.

VIII

O might my footsteps find a rest!  O might my eyes with tears run o'er! O could the wound but leave my breast  To lapse in days that are no more! And if I could in silence mourn  Apart from lying sympathy, And man's remarks or sighs or scorn,  I should be where I wish to be. For nothing nearer paradise  Ought for a moment to be mine: I've far outlived such real joys—  I could not bear so bright a shine; For I Ve been consecrate to grief—  I should not be if that were gone— And all my prospect of relief  On earth would be to grieve alone! To live in sunshine now would be  To live in every sweetest thought; What I have been and seen below  Must first be utterly forgot. And I can not forget the years  Gone by as if they'd never been; Yet if I will remember—tears  Must always dim the dreary scene. So there's no choice. However bright  May beam the blaze of July's sun, 'Twill only yield another sight  Of scenes and times for ever gone. However young and lovely round  Fair forms may meet my cheerless eye, They'll only hover o'er the ground  Where fairer forms in darkness lie; And voices tuned to music's thrill,  And laughter light as marriage strain, Will only wake a ghostly chill,  As if the buried spoke again. All—all is over, friend or lover  Cannot awaken gladness here; Though sweep the strings their music over,  No sound will rouse the stirless air. I am dying away in dull decay,  I feel and know the sands are down, And evening's latest, lingering ray  And last from my wild heaven is flown. Not now I speak of things whose forms  Are hid by intervening years, Not now I fear departed storms  For bygone griefs and dried-up tears. I cannot weep as once I wept  Over my western beauty's grave, Nor wake the word that long has slept  By Gambier's towers and trees and wave. I am speaking of a later stroke,  A death the dream of yesterday; I am thinking of my latest shock,  A noble friendship torn away. I feel and say that I am cast  From hope, and peace, and power, and pride— A withered leaf on Autumn blast;  A shattered wreck on ocean's tide, Without a voice to speak to you  Save that deep gong which tolled my doom And made my dread iniquity  Look darker than my deepest gloom; Without companion save the light,  For ever present to my eye, Of that tempestuous winter's night  That saw my angel Mary die.

IX

How Edenlike seem palace walls  When youth and beauty join To waken up their lighted Halls  With looks and smiles divine! How free from care the perfumed air  About them seems to play! How glad and bright appears each sight,  Each sound how soft and gay! 'Tis like the heaven which parting days  In summer's pride imbue With beams of such impartial blaze,  And yet so tender too. Oh, memory brings a scene to mind  Beneath whose noble dome Rank, beauty, wealth, and power combine  To light their lordly home. Yet parting day, however bright,  It still is parting day— The herald of approaching night,  The trappings of decay.

X

Now—but one moment—let me stay  One moment, ere I go To join the ranks whose bugles play  On Eversham's woody brow. One calm hour on the brink of life Before I dash amid the strife  That sounds upon my ear; That sullen sound whose sullen roll Bursts over many a parting soul—  That deep-mouthed voice of war! Here am I standing lonely 'neath  The shade of quiet trees, That scarce can catch a single breath  Of this sweet evening breeze. And nothing in the twilight sky Except its veil of clouds on high,  All sleeping calm and grey; And nothing on the summer gale But the sweet trumpet's solemn wail  Slow sounding far away. That and the strange, uncertain sound  Scarce heard, yet heard by all; A trembling through the summer ground,  A murmuring round the wall.

XI

RETIREMENT

O let me be alone awhile!  No human form is nigh; And I may sing and muse aloud,  No mortal ear is by. Away! ye dreams of earthly bliss,  Ye earthly cares begone! Depart! ye restless, wandering thoughts,  And let me be alone! One hour, my spirit, stretch thy wings  And quit this joyless sod; Bask in the sunshine of the sky,  And be alone with God! Sunday, December 13, 1840.

XII

DESPONDENCY

I have gone backward in the work,  The labour has not sped, Drowsy and dark my spirit lies,  Heavy and dull as lead. How can I rouse my sinking soul  From such a lethargy? How can I break these iron chains,  And set my spirit free? There have been times when I have mourned,  In anguish o'er the past; And raised my suppliant hands on high,  While tears fell thick and fast. And prayed to have my sins forgiven,  With such a fervent zeal, An earnest grief—a strong desire  That now I cannot feel! And vowed to trample on my sins,  And called on Heaven to aid My spirit in her firm resolves  And hear the vows I made. And I have felt so full of love,  So strong in spirit then, As if my heart would never cool,  Or wander back again. And yet, alas! how many times  My feet have gone astray; How oft have I forgot my God,  How greatly fallen away! My sins increase, my love grows cold,  And Hope within me dies, And Faith itself is wavering now;  O how shall I arise! I cannot weep, but I can pray,  Then let me not despair; Lord Jesus, save me lest I die,  And hear a wretch's prayer. December 20, 1841.

XIII

IN MEMORY OF A HAPPY DAY IN FEBRUARY

Blessed be Thou for all the joy  My soul has felt to-day! O let its memory stay with me  And never pass away! I was alone, for those I loved  Were far away from me; The sun shone on the withered grass,  The wind blew fresh and free. Was it the smile of early spring  That made my bosom glow? 'Twas sweet, but neither sun nor wind  Could raise my spirit so. Was it some feeling of delight,  All vague and undefined? No, 'twas a rapture deep and strong,  Expanding in my mind! Was it a sanguine view of life  And all its transient bliss— A hope of bright prosperity?  O no, it was not this! It was a glimpse of truths divine  Unto my spirit given, Illumined by a ray of light  That shone direct from Heaven! I knew there was a God on high  By whom all things were made; I saw His wisdom and His power  In all His works displayed. But most throughout the moral world  I saw His glory shine; I saw His wisdom infinite,  His mercy all divine. Deep secrets of His Providence  In darkness long concealed, Were brought to my delighted eyes  And graciously revealed. And while I wondered and adored  His wisdom so divine, I did not tremble at His power—  I felt that God was mine. I knew that my Redeemer lived,  I did not fear to die; I felt that I should rise again  To immortality. I longed to view that bliss divine  Which eye hath never seen, To see the glories of His face  Without the veil between. Begun in February—finished November 10, 1842.

XIV

A PRAYER

My God! O let me call Thee mine!  Weak, wretched sinner though I be, My trembling soul would fain be Thine,  My feeble faith still clings to Thee. Not only for the past I grieve,  The future fills me with dismay; Unless Thou hasten to relieve,  I know my heart will fall away. I cannot say my faith is strong,  I have not hope my love is great; But strength and love to Thee belong:  O do not leave me desolate! I know I owe my all to Thee;  O take the heart I cannot give; Do Thou my Strength, my Saviour be,  And make me to Thy glory live! October 13, 1844.

XV

CONFIDENCE

Oppressed with sin and woe,  A burdened heart I bear, Opposed by many a mighty foe;  But I will not despair. With this polluted heart,  I dare to come to Thee, Holy and mighty as Thou art;  For Thou wilt pardon me. I feel that I am weak,  And prone to every sin; But Thou who giv'st to those who seek,  Wilt give me strength within. Far as this earth may be  From yonder starry skies, Remoter still am I from Thee;  Yet Thou wilt not despise. I need not fear my foes,  I need not yield to care, I need not sink beneath my woes;  For Thou wilt answer prayer. In my Redeemer's name  I give myself to Thee; And all unworthy as I am,  My God will cherish me. O make me wholly Thine!  Thy love to me impart, And let Thy holy Spirit shine  For ever on my heart! June 1, 1845.

XVI

There let thy bleeding branch atone  For every torturing tear. Shall my young sins, my sins alone,  Be everlasting here? Who bade thee keep that carvèd name  A pledge for memory? As if oblivion ever came  To breathe its bliss on me; As if through all the 'wildering maze  Of mad hours left behind I once forgot the early days  That thou wouldst call to mind.

XVII

I am the only being whose doom  No tongue would ask, no eye would mourn; I've never caused a thought of gloom,  A smile of joy, since I was born. In secret pleasure, secret tears,  This changeful life has slipped away, As friendless after eighteen years,  As lone as on my natal day. There have been times I cannot hide,  There have been times when this was drear, When my sad soul forgot its pride  And longed for one to love me here. But those were in the early glow  Of feelings that subdued by care, And they have died so long ago,  I hardly now believe they were. First melted off the hope of youth,  Then fancy's rainbow fast withdrew; And then experience told me truth  In mortal bosoms never grew. 'Twas grief enough to think mankind  All hollow, servile, insincere; But worse to trust to my own mind  And find the same Corruption there. May 17, 1839.

XVIII

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,  All soft, and still, and fair; The silent time of midnight  Shines sweetly everywhere. But most where trees are sending  Their breezy boughs on high, Or stooping low are lending  A shelter from the sky. And there in those wild bowers  A lovely form is laid, Green grass and dew-steeped flowers  Wave gently round her head. May 13, 1840.

XIX

A sudden chasm of ghastly light  Yawned in the city's reeling wall, And a long thundering through the night  Proclaimed our triumph—Tyrdarum's fall. The shrieking wind sank mute and mild,  The smothering snow-clouds rolled away; And cold—how cold! wan moonlight smiled  Where those black ruins smouldering lay. 'Twas over—all the battle's madness,  The bursting fires, the cannon's roar, The yells, the groans, the frenzied gladness,  The death the danger warmed no more. In plundered churches piled with dead  The heavy charger neighed for food, The wounded soldier laid his head  'Neath roofless chambers splashed with blood. I could not sleep through that wild siege,  My heart had fiercely burned and bounded; The outward tumult seemed to assuage  The inward tempest it surrounded. · · · · · But dreams like this I cannot bear,  And silence whets the fang of pain; I felt the full flood of despair  Returning to my breast again. My couch lay in a ruined Hall,  Whose windows looked on the minster-yard, Where chill, chill whiteness covered all,  Both stone and urn and withered sward. The shattered glass let in the air  And with it came a wandering moan, A sound unutterably drear,  That made me shrink to be alone. One black yew-tree grew just below—  I thought its boughs so sad might wail; Their ghostly fingers flecked with snow,  Rattled against an old vault's rail. I listened—no; 'twas life that still  Lingered in some deserted heart: O God! what caused the shuddering shrill,  That anguished, agonising start? An undefined, an awful dream,  A dream of what had been before; A memory whose blighting beam  Was flitting o'er me evermore. A frightful feeling frenzy born—  I hurried down the dark oak stair; I reached the door whose hinges torn  Flung streaks of moonshine here and there. I pondered not, I drew the bar,  An icy glory caught mine eye, From that wide heaven where every star  Stared like a dying memory. And there the great Cathedral rose,  Discrowned but most majestic so, It looked down in serene repose  On its own realm of buried woe. 'Tis evening now, the sun decends  In golden glory down the sky; The city's murmur softly blends  With zephyrs breathing gently by. And yet it seems a dreary moor,  A dark, October moor to me; And black the piles of rain-clouds lour  Athwart heaven's stormy canopy. October 14, 1837.

XX

AT CASTLE WOOD

The day is done, the winter sun  Is setting in its sullen sky, And drear the course that has been run,  And dim the hearts that slowly die. No star will light my coming night,  No morn of hope for me will shine; I mourn not Heaven would blast my sight  And I never longed for joys divine. Through life's hard task I did not ask  Celestial aid, celestial cheer; I saw my fate without its mask,  And met it too without a tear. The grief that prest my aching breast  Was heavier far than earth can be; And who would dread eternal rest  When labour's hour was agony? Dark falls the fear of this despair  On spirits born of happiness; But I was bred the mate of care,  The foster-child of sore distress. No sighs for me, no sympathy,  No wish to keep my soul below; The heart is dead in infancy,  Unwept for let the body go. February 2, 1844.

XXI

On its bending stalk a bonny flower  In a yeoman's home-close grew; It had gathered beauty from sunshine and shower,  From moonlight and silent dew, Till the tufted leaves of the garden bower  Like a star it sparkled through. It was a little budding rose,  Round like a fairy globe, And shyly did its leaves unclose  Hid in their mossy robe, But sweet was the slight and spicy smell It breathed from its heart invisible. Keenly his flower the yeoman guarded,  He watched it grow both day and night; From the frost, from the wind, from the storm he warded  That flush of roseate light, And ever it glistened bonnilie Under the shade of the old roof-tree. The morning sunshine had called him forth,  His garden was full of dew, And green light slept on the happy earth,  And the sky was calm and blue. The yeoman looked for his lovely flower; There were leaves, but no buds, in the sheltering bower. The rose was borne to another land,  And grew in another bed; It was cultured by another hand,  And it sprung and flourishèd; And fair it budded day by day Beneath a new sun's cheering ray. But long lies the dew on its crimson leaves,  It almost looks like tears; The flower for the yeoman's home-close grieves  Amid a King's parterres. Little moss-rose, cease to weep, Let regret and sorrow sleep. The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,  Its root has felt a worm, And like a heart beloved and slighted,  Failed, faded, shrunk its form. Bud of beauty, bonnie flower, I stole thee from thy natal bower. I was the worm that withered thee,  Thy tears of dew all fell for me; Leaf and stalk and rose are gone,  Exile earth they died upon. Yes, that last breath of balmy scent With alien breezes sadly blent.

XXII

And like myself lone, wholly lone,  It sees the day's long sunshine glow; And like myself it makes its moan  In unexhausted woe. Give we the hills our equal prayer,  Earth's breezy hills and heaven's blue sea; I ask for nothing further here  But my own heart and liberty. Ah! could my hand unlock its chain,  How gladly would I with it soar; And ne'er regret and ne'er complain  To see its shining eyes no more. But let me think, that if to-day  It pines in cold captivity, To-morrow both shall soar away,  Eternally, entirely free. Methinks this heart should rest awhile,  So stilly round the evening falls; The veiled sun shone no parting smile,  Nor mirth, nor music wakes my halls. I have sat lonely all the day,  Watching the drizzly mist descend, And first conceal the hills in grey,  And then along the valleys wend. And I have sat and watched the trees,  And the sad flowers, how drear they blew; Those flowers were formed to feel the breeze  Wave their light heads in summer's glow. Yet their lives passed in gloomy woe,  And hopeless comes its dark decline, And I lament because I know  That cold departure pictures mine. February 27, 1841.

IX

TO THE HORSE BLACK EAGLE
WHICH I RODE AT THE BATTLE OF ZAMORNA

Swart steed of night, thou hast charged thy last  O'er the red war-trampled plain; Now fall'n asleep is the battle blast,  It is stilled above the slain. Now hushed is the clang of armour bright;  Thou wilt never bear me more To the deadliest press of the gathering fight  Through seas of noble gore. And the cold eyes of midnight skies  Shall not pour their light on thee, When the wearied host of the conqueror lies  On a field of victory. Rest now in thy glory, noble steed;  Rest! all thy wars are done; True is the love and high the meed  Thou from thy lord hast won. In daisied lawns sleep peacefully,  Dwell by the quiet wave, Till death shall sound his signal cry,  And call thee to thy grave.

XXIV

All her tresses backward strayed  Look golden in the gleam, But her wan lips and sunken cheek And full eyes eloquently speak  Of sorrows gathering near, Till those dark orbs o'erflowing fast Are shadowed by her hand at last  To hide the streaming tear. Oh! say not that her vivid dreams  Are but the shattered glass Which but because more broken gleams  Move brightly in the grass. Her spirit is the unfathomed lake Whose face the sudden tempests break  To one tormented roar; But as the wild winds sink in peace All those disturbèd waves decrease Till each far-down reflection is  As lifelike as before. She thought when that confession crossed  Upon her dying mind, 'Twas sense and soul and memory lost,  Though feeling burned behind. But that bright heaven has touched a chord And that wide west has waked a word  Can still the spirit's storm; Till all the griefs that brought her here, Each gushing with a bitterer tear, Round her returning sight appear  In more tremendous form. In glimpses of a spirit shore The strength of eyesight to restore  Which coming death denied; That while the world was lost to her Her soul might rove a wanderer  Through visional wonders wide. And strange it is how oft in death,  When reason leaves the brain, What sudden power the fancy hath  To seize the falling rein. It cannot hold a firm control, But it can guide the parting soul,  Half leading and half led, Through dreams where startling imagery Hide with their feigned reality  The tossed and fevered bed. It seems as to the bleeding heart  With dying torments riven A quickened life in every part  By fancy's force was given. And all these dim, disjointed dreams Wherewith the failing memory beams  Are but the bright reflection Flashed upward from the scattered glass Of mirror broken on the grass, Which shapeless figures on each piece  Reveals without connection. And is her mirror broke at last  Who motionless is laid . . . · · · · ·

XXV

The wind was rough which tore  That leaf from its parent tree; The fate was cruel which bore  The withering corpse to me. We wander and we have no rest, It is a dreary way. What shadow is it That ever hovers before my eyes? It has a brow of ghostly whiteness. November 23, 1839.

XXVI

His land may burst the galling chain, His people may be free again, For them a thousand hopes remain,  But hope is dead for him. Soft falls the moonlight on the sea Whose wild waves play at liberty, And Gondal's wind sings solemnly  Its hollow midnight hymn. Around his prison walls it sings, His heart is stirred through all its strings, Because that sound remembrance brings  Of scenes that once have been. His soul has felt the storm below, And walked a realm of sunless snow, Dire region of most mighty woe,  Made voiceless by despair. And Harold's land may burst its chain, His subjects may be free again, For them a thousand hopes remain,  But hope is dead for him. Set is his sun of liberty; Fixed is his earthly destiny; A few years of captivity,  And then a captive's tomb.

XXVII

Start not! upon the minster wall  Sunshine is shed in holy calm, And lonely though my footsteps fall,  The saints shall shelter thee from harm. Shrink not if it be summer noon,  This shadow should night's welcome be; These stairs are steep, but landed soon  We'll rest us long and quietly. What though our path be o'er the dead,  They slumber soundly in the tomb; And why should mortals fear to tread  The pathway to their future home?

XXVIII

Redbreast, early in the morning,  Dark and cold and cloudy grey, Wildly tender is thy music,  Chasing angry thought away. My heart is not enraptured now,  My eyes are full of tears, And constant sorrow on my brow  Has done the work of years. It was not hope that wrecked at once  The spirit's calm in storm, But a long life of solitude,  Hopes quenched, and rising thoughts subdued, A bleak November's calm. What woke it then? A little child  Strayed from its father's cottage door, And in the hour of moonlight wild  Laid lonely on the desert moor. I heard it then, you heard it too,  And seraph sweet it sang to you; But like the shriek of misery  That wild, wild music wailed to me. February 1837.

XXIX

Through the hours of yesternight Hall and gallery blazed with light, Every lamp its lustre showered On the adorer and the adored. None were sad that entered there, All were loved and all were fair; Some were dazzling like the sun; Some shining down at summer noon. Some were sweet as amber even, Living in the depth of Heaven; Some were soft, and kind, and gay, Morning's face not more divine; Some were like Diana's day, Midnight moonlight's holy shrine.

XXX

Darkness was overtraced on every face,  Around clouded with storm and ominous gloom; In hut or hall smiled out no resting-place;  There was no resting-place but one—the tomb! All our hearths were the mansions of distress,  And no one laughed, and none seemed free from care; Our children felt their fathers' wretchedness;  Our homes, one, all were shadowed with despair: It was not fear that made the land so sad. May 1838.

XXXI

Harp of wild and dream-like strain,  When I touch thy strings, Why dost thou repeat again  Long-forgotten things? Harp, in other earlier days  I could sing to thee, And not one of all my lays  Vexed my memory. But now if I awake a note  That gave me joy before, Sounds of sorrow from thee float,  Changing evermore. Yet still steeped in memory's dyes  They come sailing on, Darkening all my summer skies,  Shutting out my sun.

XXXII

The old church tower and garden wall  Are black with autumn rain, And dreary winds foreboding call  The darkness down again. I watched how evening took the place  Of glad and glorious day; I watched a deeper gloom efface  The evening's lingering ray; And as I gazed on the cheerless sky,  Sad thoughts rose in my mind. October 1837.

XXXIII

There swept adown that dreary glen  A wider sound than mountain wind— The thrilling shouts of fighting men,  With something sadder far behind. The thrilling shouts they died away  Before the night came greyly down, But closed not with the closing day  The choking sob, the tortured moan. Down in a hollow sunk in shade,  Where dark forms waved in secret gloom, A ruined, bleeding form was laid,  Waiting the death that was to come. November 1838.

XXXIV

In dungeons dark I cannot sing,  In sorrow's thrall 'tis hard to smile; What bird can soar with broken wing?  What heart can bleed and joy the while?

XXXV

When days of beauty deck the vale,  Or stormy nights descend, How well my spirit knows the path  On which it ought to wend. It seeks the consecrated spot  Beloved in childhood's years; The space between is all forgot,  Its sufferings and its tears.

XXXVI

Still beside that dreary water  Stood beneath the cold moon's ray, Thinking on the deed of slaughter  On his heart that darkly lay. Soft the voice that broke his dreaming,  Stealing through the silent air, Yet before the raven's screaming,  He had heard regardless there. Once his name was sweetly uttered,  Then the echo died away; But each pulse in horror fluttered,  As the life would pass away.

XXXVII

The evening sun was sinking down  On low green hills and clustered trees; It was a scene as fair and lone  As ever felt the soothing breeze That cools the grass when day is gone,  And gives the waves a brighter blue, And marks the soft white clouds sail on  Like spirits of ethereal dew; Which all the morn had hovered o'er  The azure flowers where they were nursed, And now return to Heaven once more,  Where their bright glories shone at first. September 23, 1836.

XXXVIII

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me, Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night's decay Ushers in a drearier day.

XXXIX

Loud without the wind was roaring  Through the wan autumnal sky; Drenching wet the cold rain pouring,  Spoke of stormy winter nigh. All too like that dreary eve Sighed without repining grief, Sighed at first, but sighed not long;  Sweet, how softly sweet it came— Wild words of an ancient song,  Undefined, without a name. November 1836.

XL

All day I've toiled, but not with pain,  In learning's golden wine; And now at eventide again  The moonbeams softly shine. There is no snow upon the ground,  No frost on wind or wave; The south wind blew with gentlest sound  And broke their icy grave. 'Tis sweet to wander here at night,  To watch the winter die, With heart as summer sunshine light  And warm as summer sky. O may I never lose the peace  That lulls me gently now, Though time should change my youthful face,  And years should shade my brow! True to myself, and true to all,  May I be healthful still, And turn away from passion's call,  And curb my own wild will.

XLI

There was a time when my cheek burned  To give such scornful words the lie, Ungoverned nature madly spurned  The law that bade it not defy. Oh, in the days of ardent youth I would have given my life for truth. For truth, for right, for liberty,  I would have gladly, freely died; And now I calmly bear and see  The vain man smile, the fool deride, Though not because my heart is tame, Though not for fear, though not for shame. My soul still chokes at every tone  Of selfish and self-clouded error; My breast still braves the world alone,  Steeled as it ever was to terror. Only I know, howe'er I frown, The same world will go rolling on. October 1839.

XLII

Mild the mist upon the hill,  Telling not of storms to-morrow; No, the day has wept its fill,  Spent its store of silent sorrow. Oh, I'm gone back to the days of youth,  I am a child once more, And 'neath my father's sheltering roof  And near the old hall door, I watch this cloudy evening fall,  After a day of rain; Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall  The horizon's mountain chain. The damp stands in the long, green grass  As thick as morning's tears; And dreamy scents of fragrance pass  That breathe of other years. July 27, 1839.

XLIII

The starry night shall tidings bring,  Go out upon the breezy moor; Watch for a bird with sable wing,  And beak and talons dropping gore. Look not around, look not beneath,  But mutely trace its airy way, Mark where it lights upon the heath;  Then, wanderer, kneel thee down, and pray. What fortune may await thee there,  I will not, and I dare not tell; But Heaven is moved by fervent prayer,  And God is mercy—fare thee well! It is not pride, it is not shame,  That makes her leave the gorgeous hall; And though neglect her heart might tame,  She mourns not for her sudden fall. 'Tis true she stands among the crowd,  An unmarked and an unloved child, While each young comrade, blithe and proud,  Glides through the maze of pleasure wild. And all do homage to their will,  And all seem glad their voice to hear; She heeds not that, but hardly still  Her eye can hold the quivering tear. What made her weep, what made her glide  Out to the park this dreary day, And cast her jewelled chains aside,  And seek a rough and lonely way; And down beneath a cedar's shade,  On the wet grass regardless lie, With nothing but its gloomy head  Between her and the showering sky? I saw her stand in the gallery long,  Watching those little children there, As they were playing the pillars among  And bounding down the marble stair. August 13, 1839.

XLIV

The organ swells, the trumpets sound,  The lamps in triumph glow, And none of all those thousand round  Regard who sleeps below. Those haughty eyes that tears should fill  Glance clearly, cloudlessly; Those bounding breasts that grief should thrill  From thought of grief are free. His subjects and his soldiers there  They blessed his rising bloom, But none a single sigh can spare  To breathe above his tomb. Comrades in arms, I've looked to mark  One shade of feeling swell, As your feet stood above the dark  Recesses of his cell. September 30, 1837.

XLV

What winter floods, what streams of spring  Have drenched the grass by night and day, And yet beneath that speeding ring  Unmoved and undiscovered lay. Mute remembrancer of crime,  Long lost, concealed, forgot for years, It comes at last to cancel time,  And waken unavailing tears. March 27, 1832.

XLVI

None of my kindred now can tell The features once beloved so well Those dark brown locks that used to deck A snowy brow in ringlets small, Now wildly shade my sunburnt neck, And streaming down my shoulders fall. The pure, bright red of noble birth Has deepened to a gipsy glow, And care is quenched the smile of mirth, And tuned my heart to welcome woe. Yet you must know in infancy Full many an eye watched over me, Sweet voices to my slumber sung, My downy couch with silk was hung. And music soothed me when I cried, And when I laughed they all replied; And 'rosy Blanche,' how oft was heard In hall and bower that well-known word. Through gathering summers still caress'd, In kingly courts a favourite guest, A Monarch's hand would pour for me The richest gifts of royalty. But clouds will come: too soon they came; For not through age, and not through crime, Is Blanche a now forgotten name; True heart and brow unmarked by time, These treasured blessings still are mine. June 1838.

XLVII

Ladybird! ladybird! fly away home, Night is approaching, and sunset is come; The Herons are flown to their trees by the Hall; Felt, but unseen, the damp dewdrops fall. This is the close of a still summer day; Ladybird! ladybird! haste! fly away! The grand old Hall is wrapped in shade, The woodland park around it spread, In gathering gloom in every glade, This is the moment, this the hour, To feel romance in all her power. Is there not something in a name? In noble blood, and ancient fame, Something in that ancestral pride Which brings the memory of the dead Sailing adown times hoary tide, With sacred halos round it shed? Halos! O far too bright to shine Round ought whose home is still below, The starlight thoughts, the dreams divine, From man's creative soul that flow, And stream upon the Idols bright He forms through all his earthly way, As if grown weary of the light That smiles upon his own dull clay, That clay he feels will not for ever 'Cumber the spirit that would soar To that deep and swelling river Which bears the life tree on its shore; And he the hour would still foresee That sets his inward angel free. This Hall and park might wake such dreams,  They speak of pride, of ancestry; Yes! every fading ray which gleams  On antique roof and hoary tree, Shows in gnarled bough and mossy slate The grand remains of ancient state. And thinks he of Patrician pride,  He who sits lonely there, Where oaks and elms spread dark and wide  Their huge arms in the air? He wanders in the world of thought,  He's left this world behind; On that high brow are clearly wrought  A thousand dreams of mind. And are they dreams of bliss or bale,  Of happiness or woe? Methinks that face is all too pale  For pleasure's rosy glow. Methinks the mellowing haze of years  Is over that tall form spread, And time has poured her smiles and tears  Full freely round that head. He must have once been beautiful,  The relics still remain; Though wasted sore with sorrow,  And darkened much with pain. At morn he sought this lone retreat,  When the sun first crowned the hill, And now the twilight calm and sweet  Beholds him lingering still. Yet not to reveries of woe Clings Percy's wounded spirit so: Scarce bound by its worn chains of clay, The soul has almost soared away. Lightened and soothed insensibly By the lone home of wind and tree, Where now his mental broodings dwell, Vainly would man divine or tell. His upward look, his earnest eyes, Seem gazing e'en beyond the skies. Who calls him back to earth again, Will bring a wild revulse of pain. And so thought he who glided now, With step as light as falling snow, Forth from the bowery arch of trees, That whispered in the gloaming breeze. That step he might have used before When stealing on to lady's bower, Forth at the same still twilight hour, For the moon now beaming mild above Showed him a son of war and love. His eye was full of that sinful fire Which oft unhallowed passions light. It spoke of quickly kindled ire, Of love too warm, and wild, and bright. Bright, but yet sullied, love which could never  Bring good in rising, leave peace in decline, Woe to the gifted, crime to the giver,  Wherever reposed all the light of its shine. Beauty had lavished her treasures upon him,  Youth's early sunshine was poured on his brow: Alas! that the magic of sin should have won him;  But he is her slave, and her chained victim now. Now from his curled and shining hair, Circling the brow of marble fair, His dark, keen eyes on Percy gaze With stern, and yet repenting rays. Sometimes they shimmer through the haze  Of sadly gushing tears, And then a sudden flash of flame, Speaking wild feelings none could tame,  The dim suffusion clears. Young savage! how he bends above The object of his wrath and love, How tenderly his fingers press The hand that shrinks from their caress, And from his lips in Percy's ear Flow tones his blood congeals to hear. Those tones were softer than the moan Of echo when the sound is flown, And sweeter than a flute's reply To skylark's song, or wild wind's sigh. Yet Percy heard them as they fell, Like the dull toll of a passing bell. Sternly they summoned him back again To a dark world of woe and pain. The blood from his visage fell away And left it as pallid as coffined clay. Like clouds the charmèd visions broke, From his daylong dream at once he woke; He woke to feel and see at his side  The very man who dared to roll This dark unsounded briny tide  Over the Eden of his soul; Who dared to pluck his last fair flower,  To quench his last star's cheering beam, The last sweet drop of bliss to sour  That mingled with his being's stream. Up rose he, and stretched forth his hand, In mingled menace and command; With voice subdued and steady look, Thus to the man of sin he spoke: 'What brought you hear? I called you not; You've tracked me to a lonely spot. Are you a hawk to follow the prey, When mangled it flutters feebly away? A sleuthhound to track the deer by his blood, When wounded he wins to the darkest wood, There if he can to die alone?' Unsought by the archer whose shaft has flown So right and true to its living mark That it quenches e'en now the vital spark, Zamorna is this nobly done,  To triumph o'er your Consort's sire, Gladly to see his gory sun  Quench in the sea of tears its fire? But haply you have news to tell, Tidings that yet may cheer me well; You've crushed at last my rose's bloom, And scattered its leaves on her mother's tomb.

XLVIII

I've been wandering in the greenwoods,  And 'mid flowery, smiling plains; I've been listening to the dark floods,  To the thrush's thrilling strains. I have gathered the pale primrose,  And the purple violet sweet; I've been where the asphodel grows,  And where lives the red deer fleet. I've been to the distant mountain,  To the silver singing rill, By the crystal murm'ring fountain,  And the shady, verdant hill. I've been where the poplars springing  From the fair enamelled ground, While the nightingale is singing  With a solemn, plaintive sound. December 14, 1839.

XLIX

May flowers are opening,  And leaves unfolding free; There are bees in every blossom,  And birds on every tree. The sun is gladly shining,  The stream sings merrily; And lonely I am pining,  And all is dark to me. O cold, cold is my heart!  It will not, cannot rise; It feels no sympathy  With those refulgent skies. Dead, dead is my joy,  I long to be at rest; I wish the damp earth covered  This desolated breast. If I were quite alone,  It might not be so drear, When all hope was gone;  At least I could not fear. But the glad eyes around me  Must weep as mine have done, And I must see the final gloom  Eclipse their morning sun. If heaven would rain on me  That future storm of care, So their fond hearts were free,  I'd be content to bear. Alas! as lightning withers  The young and aged tree, Both they and I shall fall beneath  The fate we cannot flee. January 25, 1839, E.J. Brontë.

L

That dreary lake, that moonlight sky,  That wan moon struggling through the cloud, That sullen murmur whispering by  As if it dared not speak aloud, Fall on my heart so sadly now,  Whither my joys so lonely flow. Touch them not, they bloom and smile, But their roots are withering all the while.

LI

Heaven's glory shone where he was laid   In life's decline! I turned me from that young saint's bed   To gaze on thine. It was a summer day that saw   His spirit's flight; Thine parted in a time of awe,   A winter's night. Upon her soothing breast  She lulled her little child, A winter sunset in the west  A heavy glory smiled. I gazed within thine earnest eyes  And read the sorrow brooding there; I heard thy young breast torn with sighs,  And envied such despair. Go to the grave in youth's bare woe! That dream was written long ago. December 19, 1839.

LII

THAT WORD 'NEVER'

Not many years but long enough to see No ten can deal such deadly misery  As the dear friend untimely called away; And still the more beloved, the greater still Must be the aching void, the withering chill  Of each dark night and dim, beclouded day. December 23 [1839].

LIII

I know not how it falls on me,  This summer evening hushed and lone; Yet the faint wind comes soothingly  With something of an olden tone. Forgive me if I've shunned so long  Your gentle greeting, earth and air! But sorrow withers e'en the strong,  And who can fight against despair? The busy day has glided by, And hearts greet kindred hearts once more; And swift the evening hour should fly, But what turns every gleaming eye So often to the unopened door? June 3, 1831.

LIV

Month after month, year after year,  My harp has poured a dreary strain; At length a livelier note shall cheer,  And pleasure tune its chords again. What though the stars and fair moonlight  Are quenched in morning dull and grey? They are but tokens of the night,  And this, my soul, is day. June 18, 1839.

LV

She dried her tears and they did smile  To see her cheek's returning glow; Nor did discern how all the while  That full heart throbbed to overflow. With that sweet look and lively tone,  And bright eye shining all the day, They could not guess at midnight lone  How she would weep the time away.

LVI

I'm happiest now when most away I can tear my soul from its mould of clay, On a windy night when the moon is bright, And my eye can wander through worlds of light. When I am not, and none beside,  Nor earth, nor sea, nor cloudless sky, But only spirit wandering wide  Through infinite immensity.

LVII

Weaned from life and flown away In the morning of thy day, Bound in everlasting gloom, Buried in a hapless tomb. Yet upon thy bended knee Thank the power that banished thee; Chain and bar and dungeon wall Saved thee from a deadlier thrall. Thank the power that made thee part Ere that parting broke thy heart. Wildly rushed the mountain spring From its source of fern and ling; How invincible its roar, Had its waters worn the shore. February 1838.

LVIII

All hushed and still within the house;  Without, all wind and driving rain; But something whispers to my mind,  Wrought up in rain and wailing wind: Never again? Why not again? Never again;  Memory has power as well as wind. But the hearts that once adored me  Have long forgot their vow; And the friends that mustered round me,  Have all forsaken now. 'Twas in a dream revealed to me,  But not a dream of sleep; A dream of watchful agony,  Of guilt that would not weep.

LIX

The sunshine of a summer sun On the proud domes of Elrington Glows with a beam divinely bright In one unquenched, unvarying light, And high its archèd windows rise, As if to invite the smiling skies; And proud its mighty columns show Between them ranked in haughty row; And sweet and soft the solemn shade By the o'erarching portals made. The starry halls of Elrington May glisten in that glorious sun, For fêtes and feasts are given to-day To noble Lords and Ladies gay; And that vast city of the sea Which round us lies so endlessly Has hither sent its proudest train To worship mirth and fly from pain. The sunshine of a summer's sun Glows o'er the graves of Elrington, Where city walls spread wide around The flower and foliage laden ground. All round the hot and glaring sky Bespeaks a mighty city nigh; And through each opening in the shade Palace and temple crown the glade. So here an oasis stands 'Mid the wide wastes of Egypt's sands. This glorious vision of a grove, With flowers beneath and fruits above, Lies in that city's human sea Whose streets stretch round so ceaselessly. Oh! who could pass unnoticed by This scene of nature's royalty? Instead of birds to warble there, Ethereal music fills the air, Breathed from these halls thrown open wide To admit the ever-changing tide Of Earth and Afric's hope and pride.

LX

My ancient ship upon my ancient sea  Begins another voyage—nay, they're gone; And whither wending? who is gone with thee?  Since parted from thee I am left alone, Unknowing what my river's fate may be,  Into its native world of tempests thrown. Lost like the spectres once my eye before,  Which wilder visions muster'd to my mind; Lost and unnoticed far away the roar  Of southern waters breaking to the wind, With thunder volleys rolling on before  As the wild gale sweeps wilder on behind, And every vision of old Afric's shore  As much forgot and vanished out of mind As the wild track thou makest so long ago  From those eternal waves that surge below. Gone!—'tis a word which through life's troubled waste  Seems always coming, and the only one Which can be called the present. Hope is past,  And hate and strife, and love and peace are gone Before we think them, for their rapid haste  Scarce gives us time for one short smile or groan Ere that thought dies and new ones come between It, and our senses like to fleeting suns. And yet there is—or seems at least to be—  A general scheme of thought that colours all; So though each one be different, all agree  In the same melancholy shade-like pall; Even as the shadows look the same to me,  Though cast, I know, from many a varying wall In this vast city—hut and temple sharing In the same light, and the same darkness wearing. Not that I deem all life a course of shade,  Nor all the world a waste of streets like these: From youth to age a mighty change is made  As from this city to the southern seas. For years through youthful hope our course is laid,  For years in sloth a sea without a breeze, For years within some silent, shapeless cave,  Changing, and still the same, yet swiftly passing. 'Tis here 'tis there, 'tis nowhere oh! my soul,  Is there no rest from such a fruitless chasing Of the wild dreams that ever round me roll?  Each as it comes the parting thought defacing, Yet all still hurrying to the self-same goal.  Gone! Can I catch them?—but their path alone Stretching afar toward one for ever gone!  What have I now? The star that brightly shone Now seems as nothing in the single cloud That shadows it and long has seemed to hover O'er all the crossing thoughts that overflowed. In this wrecked spirit, oh! my ocean, Well may'st thou plough the deep so free and proud: Thou bear'st the dim tie of ceaseless dreams, The fount, the confluence of a thousand streams.

LXI

I do not see myself again A wanderer o'er the Atlantic main; I do not backward turn my eye T'wards sleepless sea and stormy sky. Oh no; these brighter visions vast To woodlands of the west have past; And there shall Hesperus arise To watch my treasure where it lies. The present lands, the present clime, Forbid the dreams of olden time; The present thoughts, the present hour, Are rife with deeds of sterner power: And who shall be my leading star Amid the howling storm of war? Hark! listen to the distant gun From the battlefield of Edwordston; It breaks upon the awful roar  Which stuns my ears around, And makes the shout of victory  Strike with a hollow sound. My struggles all are crowned with power, And Fortune gives a glorious hour. Men who hate me kneel before me, Men who kneel are forced t'adore me; My name is on a million tongues, The million babble on my wrongs; And twenty years of tyrant pride Which strove this modern God to hide, At last have vanished in the rays Of his unquenched, unclouded blaze, Oh! is not Jesus come again Over his thousand saints to reign? To free the world from tyrant's chain, While sin and hatred vainly spit Their venomed fury, as they sit. Their reign is past, their power is gone, For fallen is mighty Babylon. Through the hoarse howling of the storm  I saw, but did I truly see One glimpse of that unearthly form  Whose very form is Victory? 'Twas but a glance, and all seems past,  For cares like clouds again return, And I'll forget him till the blast  For ever from my soul has flown— That vision of a mighty host Crushed helpless into earth and Dust! Forget him! In the cannon's smoke How dense it thickens, till on high, By the wild storm blasts roughly broke, It parts in volumes through the sky That hurriedly are drifting by, 'Till the dread burst breaks forth once more With whitening clouds which seem to fly Affrightened from that ceaseless roar. And there it lightens! Dashed with gore The thick of battle rends in twain, While their rough ranks of bristling steel Flashing afar, while armed men In mighty masses loud and vast, Like the wild waters of the main Lashed into foam.—When, there again Behold him!

LXII

Yet o'er his face a solemn light  Comes smiling from the sky, And shows to sight the lustre bright  Of his uplifted eye; The aimless, heedless carelessness  Of happy infancy O'er such a solemn fearfulness  Commingling with his glee, The parted lips, the golden hair;  Oh who so blest as thee! Memory! how thy magic fingers,  With a wild and passing thrill, Wake the cord whose spirit lingers,  Sleeping silently and still, Fast asleep and almost dying,  Through my days of changeless pain, Till I dream the strings are lying,  Never to be waked again. Winds have blown, but all unknown;  Nothing could arouse a tone In that heart which like a stone  Senselessly has lain. All seemed over—friend and lover  Strove to waken music there; Flow the strings their fingers over,  Still in silence swept the air. Memory! Memory comes at last,  Memory of feelings past, And with an Æolian blast  Strikes the strings resistlessly.

LXIII

TO A WREATH OF SNOW

O transient voyager of heaven!  O silent sign of winter skies! What adverse wind thy sail has driven  To dungeons where a prisoner lies? Methinks the hands that shut the sun  So sternly from this morning's brow Might still their rebel task have done  And checked a thing so frail as thou. They would have done it had they known  The talisman that dwelt in thee, For all the suns that ever shone  Have never been so kind to me! For many a week and many a day  My heart was weighed with sinking gloom When morning rose in mourning grey  And faintly lit my prison room. But angel like, when I awoke,  Thy silvery form, so soft and fair, Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke  Of cloudy skies and mountains bare; The dearest to a mountaineer  Who all life long has loved the snow That crowned his native summits drear,  Better than greenest plains below. And voiceless, soulless, messenger,  Thy presence waked a thrilling tone That comforts me while thou art here,  And will sustain when thou art gone. December 1837, Emily Jane Brontë.

LXIV

SONG

King Julius left the south country,  His banners all bravely flying; His followers went out with Jubilee,  But they shall return with sighing. Loud arose the triumphal hymn,  The drums were loudly rolling; Yet you might have heard in distant din  How a passing bell was tolling. The sward so bright from battles won,  With unseen rust is fretting; The evening comes before the noon,  The scarce risen sun is setting. While princes hang upon his breath  And nations round are fearing, Close by his side a daggered death  With sheathless point stands sneering, That Death he took a certain aim,  For Death is stony-hearted; And in the zenith of his fame  Both power and life departed. April 20, 1839.

LXV

LINES

I die, but when the grave shall press  The heart so long endeared to thee, When earthly cares no more distress  And earthly joys are nought to me, Weep not, but think that I have passed  Before thee o'er a sea of gloom, Have anchored safe, and rest at last  Where tears and mourning cannot come. 'Tis I should weep to leave thee here  On that dark ocean sailing drear, With storms around and fears before,  And no kind light to point the shore. But long or short though life may be,  'Tis nothing to eternity: We part below to meet on high,  Where blissful ages never die. December 1837.

LXVI

SONG

O between distress and pleasure  Fond affection cannot be! Wretched hearts in vain would treasure  Friendship's joys when others flee. Well I know thine eye would never  Smile when mine grieved willingly; Yet I know thine eye for ever  Could not weep in sympathy. Let us part; the time is over  When I thought and felt like thee; I will be an ocean rover,  I will sail the desert sea. Isles there are beyond its billow,  Lands where woe may wander free; And beloved, thy midnight pillow  Will be soft unwatched by me. Not on each returning morrow,  When thy heart bounds ardently, Needst thou then dissemble sorrow,  Marking my despondency. Day by day some dreary token  Will forsake thy memory, Till at last, all old links broken,  I shall be a dream to thee. October 15, 1839.

LXVII

Shed no tears o'er that tomb,  For there are angels weeping; Mourn not him whose doom  Heaven itself is mourning. Look how in sable gloom  The clouds are earthward yearning; And earth receives them home,  Even darker clouds returning. Is it when good men die  That sorrow wakes above? Grieve Saints when other spirits fly  To swell their choir of love? Ah! no: with louder sound  The golden harp strings quiver When good men gain the happy ground  Where they must dwell for ever. But he who slumbers there  His bark will strive no more Across the waters of despair  To reach that glorious shore. The time of grace is past,  And mercy, scorned and tried, Forsakes to utter wrath at last  The soul so steeled by pride. That wrath will never spare,  Will never pity know; Will mock its victims maddened prayer,  Will triumph in his woe. Shut from his Maker's smile  The accursed man shall be; For mercy reigns a little while,  But hate eternally.

LXVIII

Sleep not, dream not; this bright day Will not, cannot last for aye; Bliss like thine is bought by years Dark with torment and with tears. Sweeter far than placid pleasure Purer higher beyond measure Yet, alas! the sooner turning Into hopeless, endless mourning. I love thee, boy, for all divine, All full of God thy features shine. Darling enthusiast, holy child, Too good for this world's warring wild; Too heavenly now, but doomed to be, Hell-like in heart and misery. And what shall change that angel brow, And quench that spirit's glorious glow? Relentless laws that disallow True virtue and true joy below. I too depart, I too decline, And make thy path no longer mine. 'Tis thus that human minds will turn, All doomed alike to sin and mourn; Yet all with long gaze fixed afar, Adoring virtue's distant star. July 26, 1837.

LXIX

LINES BY CLAUDIA

I did not sleep; 'twas noon of day;  I saw the burning sunshine fall, The long grass bending where I lay,  The blue sky brooding over all. I heard the mellow hum of bees, And singing birds and sighing trees, And far away in woody dell The music of the Sabbath bell. I did not dream remembrance still Clasped round my heart its fetter chill; But I am sure the soul is free  To leave its clay a little while, Or how in exile misery  Could I have seen my country smile? In English fields my limbs were laid, With English turf beneath my head; My spirit wandered o'er that shore Where nought but it may wander more. Yet if the soul can thus return,  I need not, and I will not mourn; And vainly did you drive me far  With leagues of ocean stretched between: My mortal flesh you might debar,  But not the eternal fire within. My monarch died to rule for ever A heart that can forget him never, And dear to me, aye doubly dear,  Thoughts shut within the silent tomb, His name shall be for whoso bear  This long sustained and hopeless doom. And brighter in the hour of woe  Than in the blaze of victory's pride That glory-shedding star shall glow  For which we fought and bled and died. May 28, 1839.

LXX

LINES

Far away is the land of rest—  Thousand miles are stretched between, Many a mountain's stormy crest,  Many a desert void of green. Wasted, worn is the traveller,  Dark his heart and dim his eye; Without hope or comforter,  Faltering, faint, and ready to die. Often he looks to the ruthless sky,  Often he looks o'er his dreary road, Often he wishes down to lie  And render up life's tiresome load. But yet faint not, mournful man;  Leagues on leagues are left behind Since your endless course began;  Then go on, to toil resigned. If you still despair, control,  Hush its whispers in your breast; You shall reach the final goal,  You shall win the land of rest. October 1837.

LXXI

LINES

The soft unclouded blue of air, The earth as golden, green, and fair, And bright as Eden's used to be, That air and earth have rested me, Laid on the grass I lapsed away, Sank back again to childhood's day; All harsh thoughts perished, memory mild Subdued both grief and passion wild. But did the sunshine even now That bathed his stern and swarthy brow, Oh did it wake—I long to know— One whisper, one sweet dream in him, One lingering joy that years ago Had faded—lost in distance dim? That iron man was born like me,  And he was once an ardent boy; He must have felt in infancy  The glory of a summer sky. Though storms untold his mind has tossed, He cannot utterly have lost Remembrance of his early home— So lost that not a gleam may come. No vision of his mother's face  When she so fondly mild set free Her darling child from her embrace  To roam till eve at liberty. Nor of his haunts, nor of the flowers,  His tiny hand would grateful bear, Returning from the darkening bowers,  To weave into her glossy hair. I saw the light breeze kiss his cheek,  His fingers 'mid the roses twined; I watched to mark one transient streak  Of pensive softness shade his mind. The open window showed around  A glowing park and glorious sky, And thick woods swelling with the sound  Of nature's mingled harmony. Silent he sat. That stormy breast At length I said has deigned to rest; At length above that spirit flows The waveless ocean of repose. Let me draw near, 'twill soothe to view His dark eyes dimmed with holy dew; Remorse even now may wake within And half unchain his soul from sin. Perhaps this is the destined hour When Hell shall lose its fatal power, And Heaven itself shall bend above To hail the soul redeemed by love. Unmarked I gazed, my idle thought Passed with the ray whose shine it caught ; One glance revealed how little care He felt for all the beauty there. Oh ! crime can make the heart grow old  Sooner than years of wearing woe, Can turn the warmest bosom cold  As winter wind or polar snow. April 28, 1839.

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