Poems by Charlotte Bronte

[lizzi]

APOSTASY

by: Charlotte Bronte (1816-1855)l

• • 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.

[lizzi]

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 charg e !

[lizzi]

• • ARRANGING long-locked drawers and ****ves
    Of cabinets, shut up for years,
    What a strange task we've set ourselves!
    How still the lonely room appears!
    How strange this mass of ancient treasures,
    Mementos of past pains and pleasures;
    These volumes, clasped with costly stone,
    With print all faded, gilding gone;
    
    These fans of leaves from Indian trees--
    These crimson ****ls, from Indian seas--
    These tiny portraits, set in rings--
    Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things;
    Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith,
    And worn till the receiver's death,
    Now stored with cameos, china, ****ls,
    In this old closet's dusty cells.
    
    I scarcely think, for ten long years,
    A hand has touched these relics old;
    And, coating each, slow-formed, appears
    The growth of green and antique mould.
    
    All in this house is mossing over;
    All is unused, and dim, and damp;
    Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover--
    Bereft for years of fire and lamp.
    
    The sun, sometimes in summer, enters
    The casements, with reviving ray;
    But the long rains of many winters
    Moulder the very walls away.
    
    And outside all is ivy, clinging
    To chimney, lattice, gable grey;
    Scarcely one little red rose springing
    Through the green moss can force its way.
    
    Unscared, the daw and starling nestle,
    Where the tall turret rises high,
    And winds alone come near to rustle
    The thick leaves where their cradles lie,
    
    I sometimes think, when late at even
    I climb the stair reluctantly,
    Some shape that should be well in heaven,
    Or ill elsewhere, will pass by me.
    
    I fear to see the very faces,
    Familiar thirty years ago,
    Even in the old accustomed places
    Which look so cold and gloomy now,
    
    I've come, to close the window, hither,
    At twilight, when the sun was down,
    And Fear my very soul would wither,
    Lest something should be dimly shown,
    
    Too much the buried form resembling,
    Of her who once was mistress here;
    Lest doubtful shade, or moonbeam trembling,
    Might take her aspect, once so dear.
    
    Hers was this chamber; in her time
    It seemed to me a pleasant room,
    For then no cloud of grief or crime
    Had cursed it with a settled gloom;
    
    I had not seen death's image laid
    In shroud and sheet, on yonder bed.
    Before she married, she was blest--
    Blest in her youth, blest in her worth;
    Her mind was calm, its sunny rest
    Shone in her eyes more clear than mirth.
    
    And when attired in rich array,
    Light, lustrous hair about her brow,
    She yonder sat, a kind of day
    Lit up what seems so gloomy now.
    These grim oak walls even then were grim;
    That old carved chair was then antique;
    But what around looked dusk and dim
    Served as a foil to her fresh cheek;
    Her neck and arms, of hue so fair,
    Eyes of unclouded, smiling light;
    Her soft, and curled, and floating hair,
    Gems and attire, as rainbow bright.
    
    Reclined in yonder deep recess,
    Ofttimes she would, at evening, lie
    Watching the sun; she seemed to bless
    With happy glance the glorious sky.
    She loved such scenes, and as she gazed,
    Her face evinced her spirit's mood;
    Beauty or grandeur ever raised
    In her, a deep-felt gratitude.
    But of all lovely things, she loved
    A cloudless moon, on summer night,
    Full oft have I impatience proved
    To see how long her still delight
    Would find a theme in reverie, Out on the lawn, or where the trees
    Let in the lustre fitfully,
    As their boughs parted momently,
    To the soft, languid, summer breeze.
    Alas! that she should e'er have flung
    Those pure, though lonely joys away--
    Deceived by false and guileful tongue,
    She gave her hand, then suffered wrong;
    Oppressed, ill-used, she faded young,
    And died of grief by slow decay.
    
    Open that casket-look how bright
    Those jewels flash upon the sight;
    The brilliants have not lost a ray
    Of lustre, since her wedding day.
    But see--upon that pearly chain--
    How dim lies Time's discolouring stain!
    I've seen that by her daughter worn:
    For, ere she died, a child was born;--
    A child that ne'er its mother knew,
    That lone, and almost friendless grew;
    For, ever, when its step drew nigh,
    Averted was the father's eye;
    And then, a life impure and wild
    Made him a stranger to his child:
    Absorbed in vice, he little cared
    On what she did, or how she fared.
    The love withheld she never sought,
    She grew uncherished--learnt untaught;
    To her the inward life of thought
    Full soon was open laid.
    I know not if her friendlessness
    Did sometimes on her spirit press,
    But plaint she never made.
    The book-****ves were her darling treasure,
    She rarely seemed the time to measure
    While she could read alone.
    And she too loved the twilight wood
    And often, in her mother's mood,
    Away to yonder hill would hie,
    Like her, to watch the setting sun,
    Or see the stars born, one by one,
    Out of the darkening sky.
    Nor would she leave that hill till night
    Trembled from pole to pole with light;
    Even then, upon her homeward way,
    Long--long her wandering steps delayed
    To quit the sombre forest shade,
    Through which her eerie pathway lay.
    You ask if she had beauty's grace?
    I know not--but a nobler face
    My eyes have seldom seen;
    A keen and fine intelligence,
    And, better still, the truest sense
    Were in her speaking mien.
    But bloom or lustre was there none,
    Only at moments, fitful shone
    An ardour in her eye,
    That kindled on her cheek a flush,
    Warm as a red sky's passing blush
    And quick with energy.
    Her speech, too, was not common speech,
    No wish to shine, or aim to teach,
    Was in her words displayed:
    She still began with quiet sense,
    But oft the force of eloquence
    Came to her lips in aid;
    ******** and voice unconscious changed,
    And thoughts, in other words arranged,
    Her fervid soul transfused
    Into the hearts of those who heard,
    And transient strength and ardour stirred,
    In minds to strength unused,
    Yet in gay crowd or festal glare,
    Grave and retiring was her air;
    'Twas seldom, save with me alone,
    That fire of feeling freely shone;
    She loved not awe's nor wonder's gaze,
    Nor even exaggerated praise,
    Nor even notice, if too keen
    The curious gazer searched her mien.
    Nature's own green expanse revealed
    The world, the pleasures, she could prize;
    On free hill-side, in sunny field,
    In quiet spots by woods concealed,
    Grew wild and fresh her chosen joys,
    Yet Nature's feelings deeply lay
    In that endowed and youthful frame;
    Shrined in her heart and hid from day,
    They burned unseen with silent flame.
    In youth's first search for mental light,
    She lived but to reflect and learn,
    But soon her mind's maturer might
    For stronger task did pant and yearn;
    And stronger task did fate assign,
    Task that a giant's strength might strain;
    To suffer long and ne'er repine,
    Be calm in frenzy, smile at pain.
    
    Pale with the secret war of feeling,
    Sustained with courage, mute, yet high;
    The wounds at which she bled, revealing
    Only by altered cheek and eye;
    
    She bore in silence--but when passion
    Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam,
    The storm at last brought desolation,
    And drove her exiled from her home.
    
    And silent still, she straight assembled
    The wrecks of strength her soul retained;
    For though the wasted body trembled,
    The unconquered mind, to quail, disdained.
    
    She crossed the sea--now lone she wanders
    By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow;
    Fain would I know if distance renders
    Relief or comfort to her woe.
    
    Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever,
    These eyes shall read in hers again,
    That light of love which faded never,
    Though dimmed so long with secret pain.
    
    She will return, but cold and altered,
    Like all whose hopes too soon depart;
    Like all on whom have beat, un****tered,
    The bitter blasts that blight the heart.
    
    No more shall I behold her lying
    Calm on a pillow, smoothed by me;
    No more that spirit, worn with sighing,
    Will know the rest of infancy.
    
    If still the paths of lore she follow,
    'Twill be with tired and goaded will;
    She'll only toil, the aching hollow,
    The joyless blank of life to fill.
    
    And oh! full oft, quite spent and weary,
    Her hand will pause, her head decline;
    That labour seems so hard and dreary,
    On which no ray of hope may shine.
    
    Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow
    Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair;
    Then comes the day that knows no morrow,
    And death succeeds to long despair.
    
    So speaks experience, sage and hoary;
    I see it plainly, know it well,
    Like one who, having read a story,
    Each incident therein can tell.
    
    Touch not that ring; 'twas his, the sire
    Of that forsaken child;
    And nought his relics can inspire
    Save memories, sin-defiled.
    
    I, who sat by his wife's death-bed,
    I, who his daughter loved,
    Could almost curse the guilty dead,
    For woes the guiltless proved.
    
    And heaven did curse--they found him laid,
    When crime for wrath was rife,
    Cold--with the suicidal blade
    Clutched in his desperate gripe.
    
    'Twas near that long deserted hut,
    Which in the wood decays,
    Death's axe, self-wielded, struck his root,
    And lopped his desperate days.
    
    You know the spot, where three black trees,
    Lift up their branches fell,
    And moaning, ceaseless as the seas,
    Still seem, in every passing breeze,
    The deed of blood to tell.
    
    They named him mad, and laid his bones
    Where holier ashes lie;
    Yet doubt not that his spirit groans
    In hell's eternity.
    
    But, lo! night, closing o'er the earth,
    Infects our thoughts with gloom;
    Come, let us strive to rally mirth
    Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth
    In some more cheerful room .

[lizzi]

• • 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.

[lizzi]

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!

[lizzi]

• • S"ISTER, 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!

[lizzi]

• • SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams,
    But, rising, quits her restless bed,
    And walks where some beclouded beams
    Of moonlight through the hall are shed.
    
    Obedient to the goad of grief,
    Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow,
    In varying motion seek relief
    From the Eumenides of woe.
    
    Wringing her hands, at intervals--
    But long as mute as phantom dim--
    She glides along the dusky walls,
    Under the black oak rafters grim.
    
    The close air of the grated tower
    Stifles a heart that scarce can beat,
    And, though so late and lone the hour,
    Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet;
    
    And on the pavement spread before
    The long front of the mansion grey,
    Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar,
    Which pale on grass and granite lay.
    
    Not long she stayed where misty moon
    And shimmering stars could on her look,
    But through the garden archway soon
    Her strange and gloomy path she took.
    
    Some firs, coeval with the tower,
    Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head;
    Unseen, beneath this sable bower,
    Rustled her dress and rapid tread.
    
    There was an alcove in that shade,
    Screening a rustic seat and stand;
    Weary she sat her down, and laid
    Her hot brow on her burning hand.
    
    To solitude and to the night,
    Some words she now, in murmurs, said;
    And trickling through her fingers white,
    Some tears of misery she shed.
    
    "God help me in my grievous need,
    God help me in my inward pain;
    Which cannot ask for pity's meed,
    Which has no licence to complain,
    
    "Which must be borne; yet who can bear,
    Hours long, days long, a constant weight--
    The yoke of absolute despair,
    A suffering wholly desolate?
    
    "Who can for ever crush the heart,
    Restrain its throbbing, curb its life?
    Dissemble truth with ceaseless art,
    With outward calm mask inward strife?"
    
    She waited--as for some reply;
    The still and cloudy night gave none;
    Ere long, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh,
    Her heavy plaint again begun.
    
    "Unloved--I love; unwept--I weep;
    Grief I restrain--hope I repress:
    Vain is this anguish--fixed and deep;
    Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss.
    
    "My love awakes no love again,
    My tears collect, and fall unfelt;
    My sorrow touches none with pain,
    My humble hopes to nothing melt.
    
    "For me the universe is dumb,
    Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind;
    Life I must bound, existence sum
    In the strait limits of one mind;
    
    "That mind my own. Oh! narrow cell;
    Dark--imageless--a living tomb!
    There must I sleep, there wake and dwell
    *******, with palsy, pain, and gloom."
    
    Again she paused; a moan of pain,
    A stifled sob, alone was heard;
    Long silence followed--then again
    Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred.
    
    "Must it be so? Is this my fate?
    Can I nor struggle, nor contend?
    And am I doomed for years to wait,
    Watching death's lingering axe descend?
    
    "And when it falls, and when I die,
    What follows? Vacant nothingness?
    The blank of lost identity?
    Erasure both of pain and bliss?
    
    "I've heard of heaven--I would believe;
    For if this earth indeed be all,
    Who longest lives may deepest grieve;
    Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call.
    
    "Oh! leaving disappointment here,
    Will man find hope on yonder coast?
    Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear,
    And oft in clouds is wholly lost.
    
    "Will he hope's source of light behold, Fruition's spring, where doubts expire,
    And drink, in waves of living gold,
    *******ment, full, for long desire?
    
    "Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed?
    Rest, which was weariness on earth?
    Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed,
    Served but to prove it void of worth?
    
    "Will he find love without lust's leaven,
    Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure,
    To all with equal bounty given;
    In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure?
    
    "Will he, from penal sufferings free,
    Released from shroud and wormy clod,
    All calm and glorious, rise and see
    Creation's Sire--Existence' God?
    
    "Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes,
    Will he behold them, fading, fly;
    Swept from Eternity's repose,
    Like sullying cloud from pure blue sky?
    
    "If so, endure, my weary frame;
    And when thy anguish strikes too deep,
    And when all troubled burns life's flame,
    Think of the quiet, final sleep;
    
    "Think of the glorious waking-hour,
    Which will not dawn on grief and tears,
    But on a ransomed spirit's power,
    Certain, and free from mortal fears.
    
    "Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn,
    Then from thy chamber, calm, descend,
    With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn,
    But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end.
    
    "And when thy opening eyes shall see
    Mementos, on the chamber wall,
    Of one who has forgotten thee,
    Shed not the tear of acrid gall.
    
    "The tear which, welling from the heart,
    Burns where its drop corrosive falls,
    And makes each nerve, in torture, start,
    At feelings it too well recalls:
    
    "When the sweet hope of being loved
    Threw Eden sunshine on life's way:
    When every sense and feeling proved
    Expectancy of brightest day.
    
    "When the hand trembled to receive
    A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near,
    And the heart ventured to believe
    Another heart esteemed it dear.
    
    "When words, half love, all tenderness,
    Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken,
    When the long, sunny days of bliss
    Only by moonlight nights were broken.
    
    "Till, drop by drop, the cup of joy
    Filled full, with purple light was glowing,
    And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high
    Still never dreamt the overflowing.
    
    "It fell not with a sudden crashing,
    It poured not out like open sluice;
    No, sparkling still, and redly flashing,
    Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice.
    
    "I saw it sink, and strove to taste it,
    My eager lips approached the brim;
    The movement only seemed to waste it;
    It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim.
    
    "These I have drunk, and they for ever
    Have poisoned life and love for me;
    A draught from Sodom's lake could never
    More fiery, salt, and bitter, be.
    
    "Oh! Love was all a thin illusion
    Joy, but the desert's flying stream;
    And glancing back on long delusion,
    My memory grasps a hollow dream.
    
    "Yet whence that wondrous change of feeling,
    I never knew, and cannot learn;
    Nor why my lover's eye, congealing,
    Grew cold and clouded, proud and stern.
    
    "Nor wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting,
    He careless left, and cool withdrew;
    Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting,
    Nor ev'n one glance of comfort threw.
    
    "And neither word nor token sending,
    Of kindness, since the parting day,
    His course, for distant regions bending,
    Went, self-contained and calm, away.
    
    "Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation,
    Which will not weaken, cannot die,
    Hasten thy work of desolation,
    And let my tortured spirit fly!
    
    "Vain as the passing gale, my crying;
    Though lightning-struck, I must live on;
    I know, at heart, there is no dying
    Of love, and ruined hope, alone.
    
    "Still strong and young, and warm with vigour,
    Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow;
    And many a storm of wildest rigour
    Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough.
    
    "Rebellious now to blank inertion,
    My unused strength demands a task;
    Travel, and toil, and full exertion,
    Are the last, only boon I ask.
    
    "Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming
    Of death, and dubious life to come?
    I see a nearer beacon gleaming
    Over dejection's sea of gloom.
    
    "The very wildness of my sorrow
    Tells me I yet have innate force;
    My track of life has been too narrow,
    Effort shall trace a broader course.
    
    "The world is not in yonder tower,
    Earth is not prisoned in that room,
    'Mid whose dark panels, hour by hour,
    I've sat, the slave and prey of gloom.
    
    "One feeling--turned to utter anguish,
    Is not my being's only aim;
    When, lorn and loveless, life will languish,
    But courage can revive the flame.
    
    "He, when he left me, went a roving
    To sunny climes, beyond the sea;
    And I, the weight of woe removing,
    Am free and fetterless as he.
    
    "New scenes, new ********, skies less clouded,
    May once more wake the wish to live;
    Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded,
    New pictures to the mind may give.
    
    "New forms and faces, passing ever,
    May hide the one I still retain,
    Defined, and fixed, and fading never,
    Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain.
    
    "And we might meet--time may have changed him;
    Chance may reveal the mystery,
    The secret influence which estranged him;
    Love may restore him yet to me.
    
    "False thought--false hope--in scorn be banished!
    I am not loved--nor loved have been;
    Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished;
    Traitors! mislead me not again!
    
    "To words like yours I bid defiance,
    'Tis such my mental wreck have made;
    Of God alone, and self-reliance,
    I ask for solace--hope for aid.
    
    "Morn comes--and ere meridian glory
    O'er these, my natal woods, shall smile,
    Both lonely wood and mansion hoary
    I'll leave behind, full many a mile ."

[lizzi]

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.

[lizzi]

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!

[ينابيع الصفاء]

thanks a bundle
never let up
carry on

[lizzi]

thank you my friend you are so kind