Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

LIFE

 
     Life, believe, is not a dream
     So dark as sages say;
     Oft a little morning rain
     Foretells a pleasant day.
     Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
     But these are transient all;
     If the shower will make the roses bloom,
     O why lament its fall?
     Rapidly, merrily,
     Life's sunny hours flit by,
     Gratefully, cheerily
     Enjoy them as they fly!
     What though Death at times steps in,
     And calls our Best away?
     What though sorrow seems to win,
     O'er hope, a heavy sway?
     Yet Hope again elastic springs,
     Unconquered, though she fell;
     Still buoyant are her golden wings,
     Still strong to bear us well.
     Manfully, fearlessly,
     The day of trial bear,
     For gloriously, victoriously,
     Can courage quell despair!
 

THE LETTER

 
     What is she writing? Watch her now,
     How fast her fingers move!
     How eagerly her youthful brow
     Is bent in thought above!
     Her long curls, drooping, shade the light,
     She puts them quick aside,
     Nor knows that band of crystals bright,
     Her hasty touch untied.
     It slips adown her silken dress,
     Falls glittering at her feet;
     Unmarked it falls, for she no less
     Pursues her labour sweet.
 
 
     The very loveliest hour that shines,
     Is in that deep blue sky;
     The golden sun of June declines,
     It has not caught her eye.
     The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate,
     The white road, far away,
     In vain for her light footsteps wait,
     She comes not forth to-day.
     There is an open door of glass
     Close by that lady's chair,
     From thence, to slopes of messy grass,
     Descends a marble stair.
 
 
     Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom
     Around the threshold grow;
     Their leaves and blossoms shade the room
     From that sun's deepening glow.
     Why does she not a moment glance
     Between the clustering flowers,
     And mark in heaven the radiant dance
     Of evening's rosy hours?
     O look again!  Still fixed her eye,
     Unsmiling, earnest, still,
     And fast her pen and fingers fly,
     Urged by her eager will.
 
 
     Her soul is in th'absorbing task;
     To whom, then, doth she write?
     Nay, watch her still more closely, ask
     Her own eyes' serious light;
     Where do they turn, as now her pen
     Hangs o'er th'unfinished line?
     Whence fell the tearful gleam that then
     Did in their dark spheres shine?
     The summer-parlour looks so dark,
     When from that sky you turn,
     And from th'expanse of that green park,
     You scarce may aught discern.
 
 
     Yet, o'er the piles of porcelain rare,
     O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase,
     Sloped, as if leaning on the air,
     One picture meets the gaze.
     'Tis there she turns; you may not see
     Distinct, what form defines
     The clouded mass of mystery
     Yon broad gold frame confines.
     But look again; inured to shade
     Your eyes now faintly trace
     A stalwart form, a massive head,
     A firm, determined face.
 
 
     Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek
     A brow high, broad, and white,
     Where every furrow seems to speak
     Of mind and moral might.
     Is that her god? I cannot tell;
     Her eye a moment met
     Th'impending picture, then it fell
     Darkened and dimmed and wet.
     A moment more, her task is done,
     And sealed the letter lies;
     And now, towards the setting sun
     She turns her tearful eyes.
 
 
     Those tears flow over, wonder not,
     For by the inscription see
     In what a strange and distant spot
     Her heart of hearts must be!
     Three seas and many a league of land
     That letter must pass o'er,
     Ere read by him to whose loved hand
     'Tis sent from England's shore.
     Remote colonial wilds detain
     Her husband, loved though stern;
     She, 'mid that smiling English scene,
     Weeps for his wished return.
 

REGRET

 
     Long ago I wished to leave
     "The house where I was born;"
     Long ago I used to grieve,
     My home seemed so forlorn.
     In other years, its silent rooms
     Were filled with haunting fears;
     Now, their very memory comes
     O'ercharged with tender tears.
 
 
     Life and marriage I have known.
     Things once deemed so bright;
     Now, how utterly is flown
     Every ray of light!
     'Mid the unknown sea, of life
     I no blest isle have found;
     At last, through all its wild wave's strife,
     My bark is homeward bound.
 
 
     Farewell, dark and rolling deep!
     Farewell, foreign shore!
     Open, in unclouded sweep,
     Thou glorious realm before!
     Yet, though I had safely pass'd
     That weary, vexed main,
     One loved voice, through surge and blast
     Could call me back again.
 
 
     Though the soul's bright morning rose
     O'er Paradise for me,
     William! even from Heaven's repose
     I'd turn, invoked by thee!
     Storm nor surge should e'er arrest
     My soul, exalting then:
     All my heaven was once thy breast,
     Would it were mine again!
 

PRESENTIMENT

 
     "Sister, you've sat there all the day,
     Come to the hearth awhile;
     The wind so wildly sweeps away,
     The clouds so darkly pile.
     That open book has lain, unread,
     For hours upon your knee;
     You've never smiled nor turned your head;
     What can you, sister, see?"
 
 
     "Come hither, Jane, look down the field;
     How dense a mist creeps on!
     The path, the hedge, are both concealed,
     Ev'n the white gate is gone
     No landscape through the fog I trace,
     No hill with pastures green;
     All featureless is Nature's face.
     All masked in clouds her mien.
 
 
     "Scarce is the rustle of a leaf
     Heard in our garden now;
     The year grows old, its days wax brief,
     The tresses leave its brow.
     The rain drives fast before the wind,
     The sky is blank and grey;
     O Jane, what sadness fills the mind
     On such a dreary day!"
 
 
     "You think too much, my sister dear;
     You sit too long alone;
     What though November days be drear?
     Full soon will they be gone.
     I've swept the hearth, and placed your chair.
     Come, Emma, sit by me;
     Our own fireside is never drear,
     Though late and wintry wane the year,
     Though rough the night may be."
 
 
     "The peaceful glow of our fireside
     Imparts no peace to me:
     My thoughts would rather wander wide
     Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.
     I'm on a distant journey bound,
     And if, about my heart,
     Too closely kindred ties were bound,
     'Twould break when forced to part.
 
 
     "'Soon will November days be o'er:'
     Well have you spoken, Jane:
     My own forebodings tell me more —
     For me, I know by presage sure,
     They'll ne'er return again.
     Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me
     Will bring or joy or gloom;
     They reach not that Eternity
     Which soon will be my home."
 
 
     Eight months are gone, the summer sun
     Sets in a glorious sky;
     A quiet field, all green and lone,
     Receives its rosy dye.
     Jane sits upon a shaded stile,
     Alone she sits there now;
     Her head rests on her hand the while,
     And thought o'ercasts her brow.
 
 
     She's thinking of one winter's day,
     A few short months ago,
     Then Emma's bier was borne away
     O'er wastes of frozen snow.
     She's thinking how that drifted snow
     Dissolved in spring's first gleam,
     And how her sister's memory now
     Fades, even as fades a dream.
 
 
     The snow will whiten earth again,
     But Emma comes no more;
     She left, 'mid winter's sleet and rain,
     This world for Heaven's far shore.
     On Beulah's hills she wanders now,
     On Eden's tranquil plain;
     To her shall Jane hereafter go,
     She ne'er shall come to Jane!
 

THE TEACHER'S MONOLOGUE

 
     The room is quiet, thoughts alone
     People its mute tranquillity;
     The yoke put off, the long task done, —
     I am, as it is bliss to be,
     Still and untroubled. Now, I see,
     For the first time, how soft the day
     O'er waveless water, stirless tree,
     Silent and sunny, wings its way.
     Now, as I watch that distant hill,
     So faint, so blue, so far removed,
     Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill,
     That home where I am known and loved:
     It lies beyond; yon azure brow
     Parts me from all Earth holds for me;
     And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow
     Thitherward tending, changelessly.
     My happiest hours, aye! all the time,
     I love to keep in memory,
     Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime
     Decayed to dark anxiety.
 
 
     Sometimes, I think a narrow heart
     Makes me thus mourn those far away,
     And keeps my love so far apart
     From friends and friendships of to-day;
     Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream
     I treasure up so jealously,
     All the sweet thoughts I live on seem
     To vanish into vacancy:
     And then, this strange, coarse world around
     Seems all that's palpable and true;
     And every sight, and every sound,
     Combines my spirit to subdue
     To aching grief, so void and lone
     Is Life and Earth – so worse than vain,
     The hopes that, in my own heart sown,
     And cherished by such sun and rain
     As Joy and transient Sorrow shed,
     Have ripened to a harvest there:
     Alas! methinks I hear it said,
     "Thy golden sheaves are empty air."
 
 
     All fades away; my very home
     I think will soon be desolate;
     I hear, at times, a warning come
     Of bitter partings at its gate;
     And, if I should return and see
     The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;
     And hear it whispered mournfully,
     That farewells have been spoken there,
     What shall I do, and whither turn?
     Where look for peace?  When cease to mourn?
     'Tis not the air I wished to play,
     The strain I wished to sing;
     My wilful spirit slipped away
     And struck another string.
     I neither wanted smile nor tear,
     Bright joy nor bitter woe,
     But just a song that sweet and clear,
     Though haply sad, might flow.
 
 
     A quiet song, to solace me
     When sleep refused to come;
     A strain to chase despondency,
     When sorrowful for home.
     In vain I try; I cannot sing;
     All feels so cold and dead;
     No wild distress, no gushing spring
     Of tears in anguish shed;
 
 
     But all the impatient gloom of one
     Who waits a distant day,
     When, some great task of suffering done,
     Repose shall toil repay.
     For youth departs, and pleasure flies,
     And life consumes away,
     And youth's rejoicing ardour dies
     Beneath this drear delay;
 
 
     And Patience, weary with her yoke,
     Is yielding to despair,
     And Health's elastic spring is broke
     Beneath the strain of care.
     Life will be gone ere I have lived;
     Where now is Life's first prime?
     I've worked and studied, longed and grieved,
     Through all that rosy time.
 
 
     To toil, to think, to long, to grieve, —
     Is such my future fate?
     The morn was dreary, must the eve
     Be also desolate?
     Well, such a life at least makes Death
     A welcome, wished-for friend;
     Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,
     To suffer to the end!
 

PASSION

 
     Some have won a wild delight,
     By daring wilder sorrow;
     Could I gain thy love to-night,
     I'd hazard death to-morrow.
 
 
     Could the battle-struggle earn
     One kind glance from thine eye,
     How this withering heart would burn,
     The heady fight to try!
 
 
     Welcome nights of broken sleep,
     And days of carnage cold,
     Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
     To hear my perils told.
 
 
     Tell me, if with wandering bands
     I roam full far away,
     Wilt thou to those distant lands
     In spirit ever stray?
 
 
     Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar;
     Bid me – bid me go
     Where Seik and Briton meet in war,
     On Indian Sutlej's flow.
 
 
     Blood has dyed the Sutlej's waves
     With scarlet stain, I know;
     Indus' borders yawn with graves,
     Yet, command me go!
 
 
     Though rank and high the holocaust
     Of nations steams to heaven,
     Glad I'd join the death-doomed host,
     Were but the mandate given.
 
 
     Passion's strength should nerve my arm,
     Its ardour stir my life,
     Till human force to that dread charm
     Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
     Like trees to tempest-strife.
 
 
     If, hot from war, I seek thy love,
     Darest thou turn aside?
     Darest thou then my fire reprove,
     By scorn, and maddening pride?
 
 
     No – my will shall yet control
     Thy will, so high and free,
     And love shall tame that haughty soul —
     Yes – tenderest love for me.
 
 
     I'll read my triumph in thine eyes,
     Behold, and prove the change;
     Then leave, perchance, my noble prize,
     Once more in arms to range.
 
 
     I'd die when all the foam is up,
     The bright wine sparkling high;
     Nor wait till in the exhausted cup
     Life's dull dregs only lie.
 
 
     Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward,
     Hope blest with fulness large,
     I'd mount the saddle, draw the sword,
     And perish in the charge!
 

PREFERENCE

 
     Not in scorn do I reprove thee,
     Not in pride thy vows I waive,
     But, believe, I could not love thee,
     Wert thou prince, and I a slave.
     These, then, are thine oaths of passion?
     This, thy tenderness for me?
     Judged, even, by thine own confession,
     Thou art steeped in perfidy.
     Having vanquished, thou wouldst leave me!
     Thus I read thee long ago;
     Therefore, dared I not deceive thee,
     Even with friendship's gentle show.
     Therefore, with impassive coldness
     Have I ever met thy gaze;
     Though, full oft, with daring boldness,
     Thou thine eyes to mine didst raise.
     Why that smile? Thou now art deeming
     This my coldness all untrue, —
     But a mask of frozen seeming,
     Hiding secret fires from view.
     Touch my hand, thou self-deceiver;
     Nay-be calm, for I am so:
     Does it burn? Does my lip quiver?
     Has mine eye a troubled glow?
     Canst thou call a moment's colour
     To my forehead – to my cheek?
     Canst thou tinge their tranquil pallor
     With one flattering, feverish streak?
     Am I marble?  What! no woman
     Could so calm before thee stand?
     Nothing living, sentient, human,
     Could so coldly take thy hand?
     Yes – a sister might, a mother:
     My good-will is sisterly:
     Dream not, then, I strive to smother
     Fires that inly burn for thee.
     Rave not, rage not, wrath is fruitless,
     Fury cannot change my mind;
     I but deem the feeling rootless
     Which so whirls in passion's wind.
     Can I love?  Oh, deeply – truly —
     Warmly – fondly – but not thee;
     And my love is answered duly,
     With an equal energy.
     Wouldst thou see thy rival?  Hasten,
     Draw that curtain soft aside,
     Look where yon thick branches chasten
     Noon, with shades of eventide.
     In that glade, where foliage blending
     Forms a green arch overhead,
     Sits thy rival, thoughtful bending
     O'er a stand with papers spread —
     Motionless, his fingers plying
     That untired, unresting pen;
     Time and tide unnoticed flying,
     There he sits – the first of men!
     Man of conscience – man of reason;
     Stern, perchance, but ever just;
     Foe to falsehood, wrong, and treason,
     Honour's shield, and virtue's trust!
     Worker, thinker, firm defender
     Of Heaven's truth – man's liberty;
     Soul of iron – proof to slander,
     Rock where founders tyranny.
     Fame he seeks not – but full surely
     She will seek him, in his home;
     This I know, and wait securely
     For the atoning hour to come.
     To that man my faith is given,
     Therefore, soldier, cease to sue;
     While God reigns in earth and heaven,
     I to him will still be true!
 

EVENING SOLACE

 
     The human heart has hidden treasures,
     In secret kept, in silence sealed; —
     The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
     Whose charms were broken if revealed.
     And days may pass in gay confusion,
     And nights in rosy riot fly,
     While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
     The memory of the Past may die.
 
 
     But there are hours of lonely musing,
     Such as in evening silence come,
     When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
     The heart's best feelings gather home.
     Then in our souls there seems to languish
     A tender grief that is not woe;
     And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish
     Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
 
 
     And feelings, once as strong as passions,
     Float softly back – a faded dream;
     Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
     The tale of others' sufferings seem.
     Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
     How longs it for that time to be,
     When, through the mist of years receding,
     Its woes but live in reverie!
 
 
     And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
     On evening shade and loneliness;
     And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
     Feel no untold and strange distress —
     Only a deeper impulse given
     By lonely hour and darkened room,
     To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven
     Seeking a life and world to come.
 

STANZAS

 
     If thou be in a lonely place,
     If one hour's calm be thine,
     As Evening bends her placid face
     O'er this sweet day's decline;
     If all the earth and all the heaven
     Now look serene to thee,
     As o'er them shuts the summer even,
     One moment – think of me!
 
 
     Pause, in the lane, returning home;
     'Tis dusk, it will be still:
     Pause near the elm, a sacred gloom
     Its breezeless boughs will fill.
     Look at that soft and golden light,
     High in the unclouded sky;
     Watch the last bird's belated flight,
     As it flits silent by.
 
 
     Hark! for a sound upon the wind,
     A step, a voice, a sigh;
     If all be still, then yield thy mind,
     Unchecked, to memory.
     If thy love were like mine, how blest
     That twilight hour would seem,
     When, back from the regretted Past,
     Returned our early dream!
 
 
     If thy love were like mine, how wild
     Thy longings, even to pain,
     For sunset soft, and moonlight mild,
     To bring that hour again!
     But oft, when in thine arms I lay,
     I've seen thy dark eyes shine,
     And deeply felt their changeful ray
     Spoke other love than mine.
 
 
     My love is almost anguish now,
     It beats so strong and true;
     'Twere rapture, could I deem that thou
     Such anguish ever knew.
     I have been but thy transient flower,
     Thou wert my god divine;
     Till checked by death's congealing power,
     This heart must throb for thine.
 
 
     And well my dying hour were blest,
     If life's expiring breath
     Should pass, as thy lips gently prest
     My forehead cold in death;
     And sound my sleep would be, and sweet,
     Beneath the churchyard tree,
     If sometimes in thy heart should beat
     One pulse, still true to me.
 

PARTING

 
     There's no use in weeping,
     Though we are condemned to part:
     There's such a thing as keeping
     A remembrance in one's heart:
 
 
     There's such a thing as dwelling
     On the thought ourselves have nursed,
     And with scorn and courage telling
     The world to do its worst.
 
 
     We'll not let its follies grieve us,
     We'll just take them as they come;
     And then every day will leave us
     A merry laugh for home.
 
 
     When we've left each friend and brother,
     When we're parted wide and far,
     We will think of one another,
     As even better than we are.
 
 
     Every glorious sight above us,
     Every pleasant sight beneath,
     We'll connect with those that love us,
     Whom we truly love till death!
 
 
     In the evening, when we're sitting
     By the fire, perchance alone,
     Then shall heart with warm heart meeting,
     Give responsive tone for tone.
 
 
     We can burst the bonds which chain us,
     Which cold human hands have wrought,
     And where none shall dare restrain us
     We can meet again, in thought.
 
 
     So there's no use in weeping,
     Bear a cheerful spirit still;
     Never doubt that Fate is keeping
     Future good for present ill!
 

APOSTASY

 
     This last denial of my faith,
     Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;
     And, though upon my bed of death,
     I call not back a word.
     Point not to thy Madonna, Priest, —
     Thy sightless saint of stone;
     She cannot, from this burning breast,
     Wring one repentant moan.
 
 
     Thou say'st, that when a sinless child,
     I duly bent the knee,
     And prayed to what in marble smiled
     Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.
     I did. But listen! Children spring
     Full soon to riper youth;
     And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring,
     I sold my early truth.
 
 
     'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine,
     Bent o'er me, when I said,
     "That land and God and Faith are mine,
     For which thy fathers bled."
     I see thee not, my eyes are dim;
     But well I hear thee say,
     "O daughter cease to think of him
     Who led thy soul astray.
 
 
     "Between you lies both space and time;
     Let leagues and years prevail
     To turn thee from the path of crime,
     Back to the Church's pale."
     And, did I need that, thou shouldst tell
     What mighty barriers rise
     To part me from that dungeon-cell,
     Where my loved Walter lies?
 
 
     And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt
     My dying hour at last,
     By bidding this worn spirit pant
     No more for what is past?
     Priest – MUST I cease to think of him?
     How hollow rings that word!
     Can time, can tears, can distance dim
     The memory of my lord?
 
 
     I said before, I saw not thee,
     Because, an hour agone,
     Over my eyeballs, heavily,
     The lids fell down like stone.
     But still my spirit's inward sight
     Beholds his image beam
     As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,
     As some red planet's gleam.
 
 
     Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,
     Tell not thy beads for me;
     Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,
     As dews upon the sea.
     Speak not one word of Heaven above,
     Rave not of Hell's alarms;
     Give me but back my Walter's love,
     Restore me to his arms!
 
 
     Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;
     Then will Hell shrink away,
     As I have seen night's terrors shun
     The conquering steps of day.
     'Tis my religion thus to love,
     My creed thus fixed to be;
     Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break
     My rock-like constancy!
 
 
     Now go; for at the door there waits
     Another stranger guest;
     He calls – I come – my pulse scarce beats,
     My heart fails in my breast.
     Again that voice – how far away,
     How dreary sounds that tone!
     And I, methinks, am gone astray
     In trackless wastes and lone.
 
 
     I fain would rest a little while:
     Where can I find a stay,
     Till dawn upon the hills shall smile,
     And show some trodden way?
     "I come! I come!" in haste she said,
     "'Twas Walter's voice I heard!"
     Then up she sprang – but fell back, dead,
     His name her latest word.