Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell Part 12

When weary with the long day's care, And earthly change from pain to pain, And lost, and ready to despair, Thy kind voice calls me back again: Oh, my true friend! I am not lone, While then canst speak with such a tone!

So hopeless is the world without; The world within I doubly prize; Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt, And cold suspicion never rise; Where thou, and I, and Liberty, Have undisputed sovereignty.

What matters it, that all around Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie, If but within our bosom's bound We hold a bright, untroubled sky, Warm with ten thousand mingled rays Of suns that know no winter days?

Reason, indeed, may oft complain For Nature's sad reality, And tell the suffering heart how vain Its cherished dreams must always be; And Truth may rudely trample down The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:

But thou art ever there, to bring The hovering vision back, and breathe New glories o'er the blighted spring, And call a lovelier Life from Death.

And whisper, with a voice divine, Of real worlds, as bright as thine.

I trust not to thy phantom bliss, Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour, With never-failing thankfulness, I welcome thee, Benignant Power; Sure solacer of human cares, And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!

HOW CLEAR SHE s.h.i.+NES.

How clear she s.h.i.+nes! How quietly I lie beneath her guardian light; While heaven and earth are whispering me, "To morrow, wake, but dream to-night."

Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love!

These throbbing temples softly kiss; And bend my lonely couch above, And bring me rest, and bring me bliss.

The world is going; dark world, adieu!

Grim world, conceal thee till the day; The heart thou canst not all subdue Must still resist, if thou delay!

Thy love I will not, will not share; Thy hatred only wakes a smile; Thy griefs may wound--thy wrongs may tear, But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile!

While gazing on the stars that glow Above me, in that stormless sea, I long to hope that all the woe Creation knows, is held in thee!

And this shall be my dream to-night; I'll think the heaven of glorious spheres Is rolling on its course of light In endless bliss, through endless years; I'll think, there's not one world above, Far as these straining eyes can see, Where Wisdom ever laughed at Love, Or Virtue crouched to Infamy;

Where, writhing 'neath the strokes of Fate, The mangled wretch was forced to smile; To match his patience 'gainst her hate, His heart rebellious all the while.

Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong, And helpless Reason warn in vain; And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong; And Joy the surest path to Pain; And Peace, the lethargy of Grief; And Hope, a phantom of the soul; And life, a labour, void and brief; And Death, the despot of the whole!

SYMPATHY.

There should be no despair for you While nightly stars are burning; While evening pours its silent dew, And suns.h.i.+ne gilds the morning.

There should be no despair--though tears May flow down like a river: Are not the best beloved of years Around your heart for ever?

They weep, you weep, it must be so; Winds sigh as you are sighing, And winter sheds its grief in snow Where Autumn's leaves are lying: Yet, these revive, and from their fate Your fate cannot be parted: Then, journey on, if not elate, Still, NEVER broken-hearted!

PLEAD FOR ME.

Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now, When Reason, with a scornful brow, Is mocking at my overthrow!

Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me And tell why I have chosen thee!

Stern Reason is to judgment come, Arrayed in all her forms of gloom: Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?

No, radiant angel, speak and say, Why I did cast the world away.

Why I have persevered to shun The common paths that others run; And on a strange road journeyed on, Heedless, alike of wealth and power-- Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower.

These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine; And they, perchance, heard vows of mine, And saw my offerings on their shrine; But careless gifts are seldom prized, And MINE were worthily despised.

So, with a ready heart, I swore To seek their altar-stone no more; And gave my spirit to adore Thee, ever-present, phantom thing-- My slave, my comrade, and my king.

A slave, because I rule thee still; Incline thee to my changeful will, And make thy influence good or ill: A comrade, for by day and night Thou art my intimate delight,--

My darling pain that wounds and sears, And wrings a blessing out from tears By deadening me to earthly cares; And yet, a king, though Prudence well Have taught thy subject to rebel

And am I wrong to wors.h.i.+p where Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair, Since my own soul can grant my prayer?

Speak, G.o.d of visions, plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee!

SELF-INTEROGATION,

"The evening pa.s.ses fast away.

'Tis almost time to rest; What thoughts has left the vanished day, What feelings in thy breast?

"The vanished day? It leaves a sense Of labour hardly done; Of little gained with vast expense-- A sense of grief alone?

"Time stands before the door of Death, Upbraiding bitterly And Conscience, with exhaustless breath, Pours black reproach on me:

"And though I've said that Conscience lies And Time should Fate condemn; Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes, And makes me yield to them!

"Then art thou glad to seek repose?

Art glad to leave the sea, And anchor all thy weary woes In calm Eternity?

"Nothing regrets to see thee go-- Not one voice sobs' farewell;'

And where thy heart has suffered so, Canst thou desire to dwell?"

"Alas! the countless links are strong That bind us to our clay; The loving spirit lingers long, And would not pa.s.s away!

"And rest is sweet, when laurelled fame Will crown the soldier's crest; But a brave heart, with a tarnished name, Would rather fight than rest.

"Well, thou hast fought for many a year, Hast fought thy whole life through, Hast humbled Falsehood, trampled Fear; What is there left to do?

"'Tis true, this arm has hotly striven, Has dared what few would dare; Much have I done, and freely given, But little learnt to bear!

"Look on the grave where thou must sleep Thy last, and strongest foe; It is endurance not to weep, If that repose seem woe.

"The long war closing in defeat-- Defeat serenely borne,-- Thy midnight rest may still be sweet, And break in glorious morn!"