Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell · Part 11

And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing, Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray; Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing, Lavished glory on that second May!

High it rose--no winged grief could sweep it; Sin was scared to distance with its shine; Love, and its own life, had power to keep it From all wrong--from every blight but thine!

Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish; Evening's gentle air may still restore-- No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish- Time, for me, must never blossom more!

Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish Where that perished sapling used to be; Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish That from which it sprung--Eternity.

STANZAS TO ----

Well, some may hate, and some may scorn, And some may quite forget thy name; But my sad heart must ever mourn Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame! 'Twas thus I thought, an hour ago, Even weeping o'er that wretch's woe; One word turned back my gushing tears, And lit my altered eye with sneers. Then "Bless the friendly dust," I said, "That hides thy unlamented head! Vain as thou wert, and weak as vain, The slave of Falsehood, Pride, and Pain-- My heart has nought akin to thine; Thy soul is powerless over mine." But these were thoughts that vanished too; Unwise, unholy, and untrue: Do I despise the timid deer, Because his limbs are fleet with fear? Or, would I mock the wolf's death-howl, Because his form is gaunt and foul? Or, hear with joy the leveret's cry, Because it cannot bravely die? No! Then above his memory Let Pity's heart as tender be; Say, "Earth, lie lightly on that breast, And, kind Heaven, grant that spirit rest!"

HONOUR'S MARTYR.

The moon is full this winter night; The stars are clear, though few; And every window glistens bright With leaves of frozen dew.

The sweet moon through your lattice gleams, And lights your room like day; And there you pass, in happy dreams, The peaceful hours away!

While I, with effort hardly quelling The anguish in my breast, Wander about the silent dwelling, And cannot think of rest.

The old clock in the gloomy hall Ticks on, from hour to hour; And every time its measured call Seems lingering slow and slower:

And, oh, how slow that keen-eyed star Has tracked the chilly gray! What, watching yet! how very far The morning lies away!

Without your chamber door I stand; Love, are you slumbering still? My cold heart, underneath my hand, Has almost ceased to thrill.

Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs, And drowns the turret bell, Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies Unheard, like my farewell!

To-morrow, Scorn will blight my name, And Hate will trample me, Will load me with a coward's shame-- A traitor's perjury.

False friends will launch their covert sneers; True friends will wish me dead; And I shall cause the bitterest tears That you have ever shed.

The dark deeds of my outlawed race Will then like virtues shine; And men will pardon their disgrace, Beside the guilt of mine.

For, who forgives the accursed crime Of dastard treachery? Rebellion, in its chosen time, May Freedom's champion be;

Revenge may stain a righteous sword, It may be just to slay; But, traitor, traitor,--from THAT word All true breasts shrink away!

Oh, I would give my heart to death, To keep my honour fair; Yet, I'll not give my inward faith My honour's NAME to spare!

Not even to keep your priceless love, Dare I, Beloved, deceive; This treason should the future prove, Then, only then, believe!

I know the path I ought to go I follow fearlessly, Inquiring not what deeper woe Stern duty stores for me.

So foes pursue, and cold allies Mistrust me, every one: Let me be false in others' eyes, If faithful in my own.

STANZAS.

I'll not weep that thou art going to leave me, There's nothing lovely here; And doubly will the dark world grieve me, While thy heart suffers there.

I'll not weep, because the summer's glory Must always end in gloom; And, follow out the happiest story-- It closes with a tomb!

And I am weary of the anguish Increasing winters bear; Weary to watch the spirit languish Through years of dead despair.

So, if a tear, when thou art dying, Should haply fall from me, It is but that my soul is sighing, To go and rest with thee.

MY COMFORTER.

Well hast thou spoken, and yet not taught A feeling strange or new; Thou hast but roused a latent thought, A cloud-closed beam of sunshine brought To gleam in open view.

Deep down, concealed within my soul, That light lies hid from men; Yet glows unquenched--though shadows roll, Its gentle ray cannot control-- About the sullen den.

Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways To walk alone so long? Around me, wretches uttering praise, Or howling o'er their hopeless days, And each with Frenzy's tongue;--

A brotherhood of misery, Their smiles as sad as sighs; Whose madness daily maddened me, Distorting into agony The bliss before my eyes!

So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, And in the glare of Hell; My spirit drank a mingled tone, Of seraph's song, and demon's moan; What my soul bore, my soul alone Within itself may tell!

Like a soft, air above a sea, Tossed by the tempest's stir; A thaw-wind, melting quietly The snow-drift on some wintry lea; No: what sweet thing resembles thee, My thoughtful Comforter?

And yet a little longer speak, Calm this resentful mood; And while the savage heart grows meek, For other token do not seek, But let the tear upon my cheek Evince my gratitude!

THE OLD STOIC.

Riches I hold in light esteem, And Love I laugh to scorn; And lust of fame was but a dream, That vanished with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear, And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal: 'Tis all that I implore; In life and death a chainless soul, With courage to endure.

POEMS BY ACTON BELL,

A REMINISCENCE.

Yes, thou art gone! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me; But I may pass the old church door, And pace the floor that covers thee,

May stand upon the cold, damp stone, And think that, frozen, lies below The lightest heart that I have known, The kindest I shall ever know.

Yet, though I cannot see thee more, 'Tis still a comfort to have seen; And though thy transient life is o'er, 'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;

To think a soul so near divine, Within a form so angel fair, United to a heart like thine, Has gladdened once our humble sphere.

THE ARBOUR.

I'll rest me in this sheltered bower, And look upon the clear blue sky That smiles upon me through the trees, Which stand so thick clustering by;

And view their green and glossy leaves, All glistening in the sunshine fair; And list the rustling of their boughs, So softly whispering through the air.

And while my ear drinks in the sound, My winged soul shall fly away; Reviewing lone departed years As one mild, beaming, autumn day;

And soaring on to future scenes, Like hills and woods, and valleys green, All basking in the summer's sun, But distant still, and dimly seen.

Oh, list! 'tis summer's very breath That gently shakes the rustling trees-- But look! the snow is on the ground-- How can I think of scenes like these?

'Tis but the FROST that clears the air, And gives the sky that lovely blue; They're smiling in a WINTER'S sun, Those evergreens of sombre hue.

And winter's chill is on my heart-- How can I dream of future bliss? How can my spirit soar away, Confined by such a chain as this?

HOME.

How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays! While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays.

That sun surveys a lovely scene From softly smiling skies; And wildly through unnumbered trees The wind of winter sighs:

Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, And now in distance dies. But give me back my barren hills Where colder breezes rise;

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees Can yield an answering swell, But where a wilderness of heath Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide, With groves of evergreen, Long winding walks, and borders trim, And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot, With gray walls compassed round, Where knotted grass neglected lies, And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high Invites the foot to roam, And though its halls are fair within-- Oh, give me back my HOME!

VANITAS VANITATUM, OMNIA VANITAS.

In all we do, and hear, and see, Is restless Toil and Vanity. While yet the rolling earth abides, Men come and go like ocean tides;

And ere one generation dies, Another in its place shall rise; THAT, sinking soon into the grave, Others succeed, like wave on wave;

And as they rise, they pass away. The sun arises every day, And hastening onward to the West, He nightly sinks, but not to rest:

Returning to the eastern skies, Again to light us, he must rise. And still the restless wind comes forth, Now blowing keenly from the North;

Now from the South, the East, the West, For ever changing, ne'er at rest. The fountains, gushing from the hills, Supply the ever-running rills;

The thirsty rivers drink their store, And bear it rolling to the shore, But still the ocean craves for more. 'Tis endless labour everywhere! Sound cannot satisfy the ear,

Light cannot fill the craving eye, Nor riches half our wants supply, Pleasure but doubles future pain, And joy brings sorrow in her train;

Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth-- What does she in this weary earth? Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ, Death comes, our labour to destroy;

To snatch the untasted cup away, For which we toiled so many a day. What, then, remains for wretched man? To use life's comforts while he can,

Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows, Assist his friends, forgive his foes; Trust God, and keep His statutes still, Upright and firm, through good and ill;