Anne Brontë – A Fragment

'Maiden, thou wert thoughtless once

Of beauty or of grace,

Simple and homely in attire

Careless of form and face.

Then whence this change, and why so oft

Dost smooth thy hazel hair?

And wherefore deck thy youthful form

With such unwearied care?

'Tell us ­- and cease to tire our ears

With yonder hackneyed strain ­-

Why wilt thou play those simple tunes

So often o'er again?'

'Nay, gentle friends, I can but say

That childhood's thoughts are gone.

Each year its own new feelings brings

And years move swiftly on,

And for these little simple airs,

I love to play them o'er ­-

So much I dare not promise now

To play them never more.'

I answered and it was enough;

They turned them to depart;

They could not read my secret thoughts

Nor see my throbbing heart.

I've noticed many a youthful form

Upon whose changeful face

The inmost workings of the soul

The gazer's eye might trace.

The speaking eye, the changing lip,

The ready blushing cheek,

The smiling or beclouded brow

Their different feelings speak.

But, thank God! you might gaze on mine

For hours and never know

The secret changes of my soul

From joy to bitter woe.

Last night, as we sat round the fire

Conversing merrily,

We heard without approaching steps

Of one well known to me.

There was no trembling in my voice,

No blush upon my cheek,

No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,

Of hope or joy to speak;

But O my spirit burned within,

My heart beat thick and fast.

He came not nigh ­- he went away

And then my joy was past.

And yet my comrades marked it not,

My voice was still the same;

They saw me smile, and o'er my face ­-

No signs of sadness came;

They little knew my hidden thoughts

And they will never know

The anguish of my drooping heart,

The bitter aching woe!

Anne Brontë – Views Of Life

When sinks my heart in hopeless gloom,

And life can show no joy for me;

And I behold a yawning tomb,

Where bowers and palaces should be;

In vain you talk of morbid dreams;

In vain you gaily smiling say,

That what to me so dreary seems,

The healthy mind deems bright and gay.

I too have smiled, and thought like you,

But madly smiled, and falsely deemed:

TRUTH led me to the present view,--

I'm waking now--'twas THEN I dreamed.

I lately saw a sunset sky,

And stood enraptured to behold

Its varied hues of glorious dye:

First, fleecy clouds of shining gold;

These blushing took a rosy hue;

Beneath them shone a flood of green;

Nor less divine, the glorious blue

That smiled above them and between.

I cannot name each lovely shade;

I cannot say how bright they shone;

But one by one, I saw them fade;

And what remained when they were gone?

Dull clouds remained, of sombre hue,

And when their borrowed charm was o'er,

The azure sky had faded too,

That smiled so softly bright before.

So, gilded by the glow of youth,

Our varied life looks fair and gay;

And so remains the naked truth,

When that false light is past away.

Why blame ye, then, my keener sight,

That clearly sees a world of woes

Through all the haze of golden light

That flattering Falsehood round it throws?

When the young mother smiles above

The first-born darling of her heart,

Her bosom glows with earnest love,

While tears of silent transport start.

Fond dreamer! little does she know

The anxious toil, the suffering,

The blasted hopes, the burning woe,

The object of her joy will bring.

Her blinded eyes behold not now

What, soon or late, must be his doom;

The anguish that will cloud his brow,

The bed of death, the dreary tomb.

As little know the youthful pair,

In mutual love supremely blest,

What weariness, and cold despair,

Ere long, will seize the aching breast.

And even should Love and Faith remain,

(The greatest blessings life can show,)

Amid adversity and pain,

To shine throughout with cheering glow;

They do not see how cruel Death

Comes on, their loving hearts to part:

One feels not now the gasping breath,

The rending of the earth-bound heart,--

The soul's and body's agony,

Ere she may sink to her repose.

The sad survivor cannot see

The grave above his darling close;

Nor how, despairing and alone,

He then must wear his life away;

And linger, feebly toiling on,

And fainting, sink into decay.

Oh, Youth may listen patiently,

While sad Experience tells her tale,

But Doubt sits smiling in his eye,

For ardent Hope will still prevail!

He hears how feeble Pleasure dies,

By guilt destroyed, and pain and woe;

He turns to Hope--and she replies,

"Believe it not-it is not so!"

"Oh, heed her not!" Experience says;

"For thus she whispered once to me;

She told me, in my youthful days,

How glorious manhood's prime would be.

"When, in the time of early Spring,

Too chill the winds that o'er me pass'd,

She said, each coming day would bring

a fairer heaven, a gentler blast.

"And when the sun too seldom beamed,

The sky, o'ercast, too darkly frowned,

The soaking rain too constant streamed,

And mists too dreary gathered round;

"She told me, Summer's glorious ray

Would chase those vapours all away,

And scatter glories round;

With sweetest music fill the trees,

Load with rich scent the gentle breeze,

And strew with flowers the ground

"But when, beneath that scorching ray,

I languished, weary through the day,

While birds refused to sing,

Verdure decayed from field and tree,

And panting Nature mourned with me

The freshness of the Spring.

"'Wait but a little while,' she said,

'Till Summer's burning days are fled;

And Autumn shall restore,

With golden riches of her own,

And Summer's glories mellowed down,

The freshness you deplore.'

And long I waited, but in vain:

That freshness never came again,

Though Summer passed away,

Though Autumn's mists hung cold and chill.

And drooping nature languished still,

And sank into decay.

"Till wintry blasts foreboding blew

Through leafless trees--and then I knew

That Hope was all a dream.

But thus, fond youth, she cheated me;

And she will prove as false to thee,

Though sweet her words may seem.

Stern prophet! Cease thy bodings dire--

Thou canst not quench the ardent fire

That warms the breast of youth.

Oh, let it cheer him while it may,

And gently, gently die away--

Chilled by the damps of truth!

Tell him, that earth is not our rest;

Its joys are empty--frail at best;

And point beyond the sky.

But gleams of light may reach us here;

And hope the ROUGHEST path can cheer:

Then do not bid it fly!

Though hope may promise joys, that still

Unkindly time will ne'er fulfil;

Or, if they come at all,

We never find them unalloyed,--

Hurtful perchance, or soon destroyed,

They vanish or they pall;

Yet hope ITSELF a brightness throws

O'er all our labours and our woes;

While dark foreboding Care

A thousand ills will oft portend,

That Providence may ne'er intend

The trembling heart to bear.

Or if they come, it oft appears,

Our woes are lighter than our fears,

And far more bravely borne.

Then let us not enhance our doom

But e'en in midnight's blackest gloom

Expect the rising morn.

Because the road is rough and long,

Shall we despise the skylark's song,

That cheers the wanderer's way?

Or trample down, with reckless feet,

The smiling flowerets, bright and sweet,

Because they soon decay?

Pass pleasant scenes unnoticed by,

Because the next is bleak and drear;

Or not enjoy a smiling sky,

Because a tempest may be near?

No! while we journey on our way,

We'll smile on every lovely thing;

And ever, as they pass away,

To memory and hope we'll cling.

And though that awful river flows

Before us, when the journey's past,

Perchance of all the pilgrim's woes

Most dreadful--shrink not--'tis the last!

Though icy cold, and dark, and deep;

Beyond it smiles that blessed shore,

Where none shall suffer, none shall weep,

And bliss shall reign for evermore!

Anne Brontë – The Three Guides

Spirit of Earth! thy hand is chill:

I've felt its icy clasp;

And, shuddering, I remember still

That stony-hearted grasp.

Thine eye bids love and joy depart:

Oh, turn its gaze from me!

It presses down my shrinking heart;

I will not walk with thee!

"Wisdom is mine," I've heard thee say:

"Beneath my searching eye

All mist and darkness melt away,

Phantoms and fables fly.

Before me truth can stand alone,

The naked, solid truth;

And man matured by worth will own,

If I am shunned by youth.

"Firm is my tread, and sure though slow;

My footsteps never slide;

And he that follows me shall know

I am the surest guide."

Thy boast is vain; but were it true

That thou couldst safely steer

Life's rough and devious pathway through,

Such guidance I should fear.

How could I bear to walk for aye,

With eyes to earthward prone,

O'er trampled weeds and miry clay,

And sand and flinty stone;

Never the glorious view to greet

Of hill and dale, and sky;

To see that Nature's charms are sweet,

Or feel that Heaven is nigh?

If in my heart arose a spring,

A gush of thought divine,

At once stagnation thou wouldst bring

With that cold touch of thine.

If, glancing up, I sought to snatch

But one glimpse of the sky,

My baffled gaze would only catch

Thy heartless, cold grey eye.

If to the breezes wandering near,

I listened eagerly,

And deemed an angel's tongue to hear

That whispered hope to me,

That heavenly music would be drowned

In thy harsh, droning voice;

Nor inward thought, nor sight, nor sound,

Might my sad soul rejoice.

Dull is thine ear, unheard by thee

The still, small voice of Heaven;

Thine eyes are dim and cannot see

The helps that God has given.

There is a bridge o'er every flood

Which thou canst not perceive;

A path through every tangled wood,

But thou wilt not believe.

Striving to make thy way by force,

Toil-spent and bramble-torn,

Thou'lt fell the tree that checks thy course,

And burst through brier and thorn:

And, pausing by the river's side,

Poor reasoner! thou wilt deem,

By casting pebbles in its tide,

To cross the swelling stream.

Right through the flinty rock thou'lt try

Thy toilsome way to bore,

Regardless of the pathway nigh

That would conduct thee o'er

Not only art thou, then, unkind,

And freezing cold to me,

But unbelieving, deaf, and blind:

I will not walk with thee!

Spirit of Pride! thy wings are strong,

Thine eyes like lightning shine;

Ecstatic joys to thee belong,

And powers almost divine.

But 'tis a false, destructive blaze

Within those eyes I see;

Turn hence their fascinating gaze;

I will not follow thee.

"Coward and fool!" thou mayst reply,

Walk on the common sod;

Go, trace with timid foot and eye

The steps by others trod.

'Tis best the beaten path to keep,

The ancient faith to hold;

To pasture with thy fellow-sheep,

And lie within the fold.

"Cling to the earth, poor grovelling worm;

'Tis not for thee to soar

Against the fury of the storm,

Amid the thunder's roar!

There's glory in that daring strife

Unknown, undreamt by thee;

There's speechless rapture in the life

Of those who follow me.

Yes, I have seen thy votaries oft,

Upheld by thee their guide,

In strength and courage mount aloft

The steepy mountain-side;

I've seen them stand against the sky,

And gazing from below,

Beheld thy lightning in their eye

Thy triumph on their brow.

Oh, I have felt what glory then,

What transport must be theirs!

So far above their fellow-men,

Above their toils and cares;

Inhaling Nature's purest breath,

Her riches round them spread,

The wide expanse of earth beneath,

Heaven's glories overhead!

But I have seen them helpless, dash'd

Down to a bloody grave,

And still thy ruthless eye has flash'd,

Thy strong hand did not save;

I've seen some o'er the mountain's brow

Sustain'd awhile by thee,

O'er rocks of ice and hills of snow

Bound fearless, wild, and free.

Bold and exultant was their mien,

While thou didst cheer them on;

But evening fell,--and then, I ween,

Their faithless guide was gone.

Alas! how fared thy favourites then,--

Lone, helpless, weary, cold?

Did ever wanderer find again

The path he left of old?

Where is their glory, where the pride

That swelled their hearts before?

Where now the courage that defied

The mightiest tempest's roar?

What shall they do when night grows black,

When angry storms arise?

Who now will lead them to the track

Thou taught'st them to despise?

Spirit of Pride, it needs not this

To make me shun thy wiles,

Renounce thy triumph and thy bliss,

Thy honours and thy smiles!

Bright as thou art, and bold, and strong,

That fierce glance wins not me,

And I abhor thy scoffing tongue--

I will not follow thee!

Spirit of Faith! be thou my guide,

O clasp my hand in thine,

And let me never quit thy side;

Thy comforts are divine!

Earth calls thee blind, misguided one,--

But who can shew like thee

Forgotten things that have been done,

And things that are to be?

Secrets conceal'd from Nature's ken,

Who like thee can declare?

Or who like thee to erring men

God's holy will can bear?

Pride scorns thee for thy lowly mien,--

But who like thee can rise

Above this toilsome, sordid scene,

Beyond the holy skies?

Meek is thine eye and soft thy voice,

But wondrous is thy might,

To make the wretched soul rejoice,

To give the simple light!

And still to all that seek thy way

This magic power is given,--

E'en while their footsteps press the clay,

Their souls ascend to heaven.

Danger surrounds them,--pain and woe

Their portion here must be,

But only they that trust thee know

What comfort dwells with thee;

Strength to sustain their drooping pow'rs,

And vigour to defend,--

Thou pole-star of my darkest hours

Affliction's firmest friend!

Day does not always mark our way,

Night's shadows oft appal,

But lead me, and I cannot stray,--

Hold me, I shall not fall;

Sustain me, I shall never faint,

How rough soe'er may be

My upward road,--nor moan, nor plaint

Shall mar my trust in thee.

Narrow the path by which we go,

And oft it turns aside

From pleasant meads where roses blow,

And peaceful waters glide;

Where flowery turf lies green and soft,

And gentle gales are sweet,

To where dark mountains frown aloft,

Hard rocks distress the feet,--

Deserts beyond lie bleak and bare,

And keen winds round us blow;

But if thy hand conducts me there,

The way is right, I know.

I have no wish to turn away;

My spirit does not quail,--

How can it while I hear thee say,

"Press forward and prevail!"

Even above the tempest's swell

I hear thy voice of love,--

Of hope and peace, I hear thee tell,

And that blest home above;

Through pain and death I can rejoice.

If but thy strength be mine,--

Earth hath no music like thy voice,

Life owns no joy like thine!

Spirit of Faith, I'll go with thee!

Thou, if I hold thee fast,

Wilt guide, defend, and strengthen me,

And bear me home at last;

By thy help all things I can do,

In thy strength all things bear,--

Teach me, for thou art just and true,

Smile on me, thou art fair!

Anne Brontë – The Narrow Way

Believe not those who say

The upward path is smooth,

Lest thou shouldst stumble in the way,

And faint before the truth.

It is the only road

Unto the realms of joy;

But he who seeks that blest abode

Must all his powers employ.

Bright hopes and pure delight

Upon his course may beam,

And there, amid the sternest heights,

The sweetest flowerets gleam.

On all her breezes borne,

Earth yields no scents like those;

But he that dares not gasp the thorn

Should never crave the rose.

Arm--arm thee for the fight!

Cast useless loads away;

Watch through the darkest hours of night;

Toil through the hottest day.

Crush pride into the dust,

Or thou must needs be slack;

And trample down rebellious lust,

Or it will hold thee back.

Seek not thy honour here;

Waive pleasure and renown;

The world's dread scoff undaunted bear,

And face its deadliest frown.

To labour and to love,

To pardon and endure,

To lift thy heart to God above,

And keep thy conscience pure;

Be this thy constant aim,

Thy hope, thy chief delight;

What matter who should whisper blame

Or who should scorn or slight?

What matter, if thy God approve,

And if, within thy breast,

Thou feel the comfort of His love,

The earnest of His rest?

Anne Brontë – I hoped

I hoped, that with the brave and strong,

My portioned task might lie;

To toil amid the busy throng,

With purpose pure and high.

But God has fixed another part,

And He has fixed it well;

I said so with my bleeding heart,

When first the anguish fell.

Thou, God, hast taken our delight,

Our treasured hope away:

Thou bid'st us now weep through the night

And sorrow through the day.

These weary hours will not be lost,

These days of misery,

These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,

Can I but turn to Thee.

With secret labour to sustain

In humble patience every blow;

To gather fortitude from pain,

And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,

Whate'er may be my written fate:

Whether thus early to depart,

Or yet a while to wait.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,

More humbled I should be;

More wise--more strengthened for the strife--

More apt to lean on Thee.

Should death be standing at the gate,

Thus should I keep my vow:

But, Lord! whatever be my fate,

Oh, let me serve Thee now!

Anne Brontë – 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 thickly 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 long 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?

Anne Brontë – Past Days

'Tis strange to think there WAS a time

When mirth was not an empty name,

When laughter really cheered the heart,

And frequent smiles unbidden came,

And tears of grief would only flow

In sympathy for others' woe;

When speech expressed the inward thought,

And heart to kindred heart was bare,

And summer days were far too short

For all the pleasures crowded there;

And silence, solitude, and rest,

Now welcome to the weary breast--

Were all unprized, uncourted then--

And all the joy one spirit showed,

The other deeply felt again;

And friendship like a river flowed,

Constant and strong its silent course,

For nought withstood its gentle force:

When night, the holy time of peace,

Was dreaded as the parting hour;

When speech and mirth at once must cease,

And silence must resume her power;

Though ever free from pains and woes,

She only brought us calm repose.

And when the blessed dawn again

Brought daylight to the blushing skies,

We woke, and not RELUCTANT then,

To joyless LABOUR did we rise;

But full of hope, and glad and gay,

We welcomed the returning day.

Anne Brontë – Music On Christmas Morning

Music I love--but never strain

Could kindle raptures so divine,

So grief assuage, so conquer pain,

And rouse this pensive heart of mine--

As that we hear on Christmas morn,

Upon the wintry breezes borne.

Though Darkness still her empire keep,

And hours must pass, ere morning break;

From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,

That music KINDLY bids us wake:

It calls us, with an angel's voice,

To wake, and worship, and rejoice;

To greet with joy the glorious morn,

Which angels welcomed long ago,

When our redeeming Lord was born,

To bring the light of Heaven below;

The Powers of Darkness to dispel,

And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.

While listening to that sacred strain,

My raptured spirit soars on high;

I seem to hear those songs again

Resounding through the open sky,

That kindled such divine delight,

In those who watched their flocks by night.

With them I celebrate His birth--

Glory to God, in highest Heaven,

Good-will to men, and peace on earth,

To us a Saviour-king is given;

Our God is come to claim His own,

And Satan's power is overthrown!

A sinless God, for sinful men,

Descends to suffer and to bleed;

Hell MUST renounce its empire then;

The price is paid, the world is freed,

And Satan's self must now confess

That Christ has earned a RIGHT to bless:

Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,

And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:

The captive's galling bonds are riven,

For our Redeemer is our king;

And He that gave his blood for men

Will lead us home to God again.

Anne Brontë – Home

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 foor to roam,

And though the halls are fair within--

Oh, give me back my home!

Anne Brontë – Lines composed in a Wood on a Windy Day

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring

And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;

For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,

Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,

The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;

The dead leaves, beneath them, are merrily dancing,

The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing

The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;

I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,

And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!

Anne Brontë – Call Me Away

Call me away; there's nothing here,

That wins my soul to stay;

Then let me leave this prospect drear,

And hasten far away.

To our beloved land I'll flee,

Our land of thought and soul,

Where I have roved so oft with thee,

Beyond the world's control.

I'll sit and watch those ancient trees,

Those Scotch firs dark and high;

I'll listen to the eerie breeze,

Among their branches sigh.

The glorious moon shines far above;

How soft her radiance falls,

On snowy heights, and rock, and grove;

And yonder palace walls!

Who stands beneath yon fir trees high?

A youth both slight and fair,

Whose bright and restless azure eye

Proclaims him known to care,

Though fair that brow, it is not smooth;

Though small those features, yet in sooth

Stern passion has been there.

Now on the peaceful moon are fixed

Those eyes so glistening bright,

But trembling teardrops hang betwixt,

And dim the blessed light.

Though late the hour, and keen the blast,

That whistles round him now,

Those raven locks are backward cast,

To cool his burning brow.

His hands above his heaving breast

Are clasped in agony --

'O Father! Father! let me rest!

And call my soul to thee!

I know 'tis weakness thus to pray;

But all this cankering care --

This doubt tormenting night and day

Is more than I can bear!

With none to comfort, none to guide

And none to strengthen me.

Since thou my only friend hast died --

I've pined to follow thee!

Since thou hast died! And did he live

What comfort could his counsel give --

To one forlorn like me?

Would he my Idol's form adore --

Her soul, her glance, her tone?

And say, "Forget for ever more

Her kindred and thine own;

Let dreams of her thy peace destroy,

Leave every other hope and joy

And live for her alone"?'

He starts, he smiles, and dries the tears,

Still glistening on his cheek,

The lady of his soul appears,

And hark! I hear her speak --

'Aye, dry thy tears; thou wilt not weep --

While I am by thy side --

Our foes all day their watch may keep

But cannot thus divide

Such hearts as ours; and we tonight

Together in the clear moon's light

Their malice will deride.

No fear our present bliss shall blast

And sorrow we'll defy.

Do thou forget the dreary past,

The dreadful future I.'

Forget it? Yes, while thou art by

I think of nought but thee,

'Tis only when thou art not nigh

Remembrance tortures me.

But such a lofty soul to find,

And such a heart as thine,

In such a glorious form enshrined

And still to call thee mine --

Would be for earth too great a bliss,

Without a taint of woe like this,

Then why should I repine?

Anne Brontë – Alexander And Zenobia

Fair was the evening and brightly the sun

Was shining on desert and grove,

Sweet were the breezes and balmy the flowers

And cloudless the heavens above.

It was Arabia's distant land

And peaceful was the hour;

Two youthful figures lay reclined

Deep in a shady bower.

One was a boy of just fourteen

Bold beautiful and bright;

Soft raven curls hung clustering round

A brow of marble white.

The fair brow and ruddy cheek

Spoke of less burning skies;

Words cannot paint the look that beamed

In his dark lustrous eyes.

The other was a slender girl,

Blooming and young and fair.

The snowy neck was shaded with

The long bright sunny hair.

And those deep eyes of watery blue,

So sweetly sad they seemed.

And every feature in her face

With pensive sorrow teemed.

The youth beheld her saddened air

And smiling cheerfully

He said, 'How pleasant is the land

Of sunny Araby!

'Zenobia, I never saw

A lovelier eve than this;

I never felt my spirit raised

With more unbroken bliss!

'So deep the shades, so calm the hour,

So soft the breezes sigh,

So sweetly Philomel begins

Her heavenly melody.

'So pleasant are the scents that rise

From flowers of loveliest hue,

And more than all -- Zenobia,

I am alone with you!

Are we not happy here alone

In such a healthy spot?'

He looked to her with joyful smile

But she returned it not.

'Why are you sorrowful?' he asked

And heaved a bitter sigh,

'O tell me why those drops of woe

Are gathering in your eye.'

'Gladly would I rejoice,' she said,

'But grief weighs down my heart.

'Can I be happy when I know

Tomorrow we must part?

'Yes, Alexander, I must see

This happy land no more.

At break of day I must return

To distant Gondal's shore.

'At morning we must bid farewell,

And at the close of day

You will be wandering alone

And I shall be away.

'I shall be sorrowing for you

On the wide weltering sea,

And you will perhaps have wandered here

To sit and think of me.'

'And shall we part so soon?' he cried,

'Must we be torn away?

Shall I be left to mourn alone?

Will you no longer stay?

'And shall we never meet again,

Hearts that have grown together?

Must they at once be rent away

And kept apart for ever?'

'Yes, Alexander, we must part,

But we may meet again,

For when I left my native land

I wept in anguish then.

'Never shall I forget the day

I left its rocky shore.

We thought that we had bid adieu

To meet on earth no more.

'When we had parted how I wept

To see the mountains blue

Grow dimmer and more distant -- till

They faded from my view.

'And you too wept -- we little thought

After so long a time,

To meet again so suddenly

In such a distant clime.

'We met on Grecia's classic plain,

We part in Araby.

And let us hope to meet again

Beneath our Gondal's sky.'

'Zenobia, do you remember

A little lonely spring

Among Exina's woody hills

Where blackbirds used to sing,

'And when they ceased as daylight faded

From the dusky sky

The pensive nightingale began

Her matchless melody?

'Sweet bluebells used to flourish there

And tall trees waved on high,

And through their ever sounding leaves

The soft wind used to sigh.

'At morning we have often played

Beside that lonely well;

At evening we have lingered there

Till dewy twilight fell.

'And when your fifteenth birthday comes,

Remember me, my love,

And think of what I said to you

In this sweet spicy grove.

'At evening wander to that spring

And sit and wait for me;

And 'ere the sun has ceased to shine

I will return to thee.

'Two years is a weary time

But it will soon be fled.

And if you do not meet me -- know

I am not false but dead.'

* * *

Sweetly the summer day declines

On forest, plain, and hill

And in that spacious palace hall

So lonely, wide and still.

Beside a window's open arch,

In the calm evening air

All lonely sits a stately girl,

Graceful and young and fair.

The snowy lid and lashes long

Conceal her downcast eye,

She's reading and till now I have

Passed unnoticed by.

But see she cannot fix her thoughts,

They are wandering away;

She looks towards a distant dell

Where sunny waters play.

And yet her spirit is not with

The scene she looks upon;

She muses with a mournful smile

On pleasures that are gone.

She looks upon the book again

That chained her thoughts before,

And for a moment strives in vain

To fix her mind once more.

Then gently drops it on her knee

And looks into the sky,

While trembling drops are shining in

Her dark celestial eye.

And thus alone and still she sits

Musing on years gone by.

Till with a sad and sudden smile

She rises up to go;

And from the open window springs

On to the grass below.

Why does she fly so swiftly now

Adown the meadow green,

And o'er the gently swelling hills

And the vale that lies between?

She passes under giant trees

That lift their arms on high

And slowly wave their mighty boughs

In the clear evening sky,

And now she threads a path that winds

Through deeply shaded groves

Where nought is heard but sighing gales

And murmuring turtle doves.

She hastens on through sunless gloom

To a vista opening wide;

A marble fountain sparkles there

With sweet flowers by its side.

At intervals in the velvet grass

A few old elm trees rise,

While a warm flood of yellow light

Streams from the western skies.

Is this her resting place? Ah, no,

She hastens onward still,

The startled deer before her fly

As she ascends the hill.

She does not rest till she has gained

A lonely purling spring,

Where zephyrs wave the verdant trees

And birds in concert sing.

And there she stands and gazes round

With bright and searching eye,

Then sadly sighing turns away

And looks upon the sky.

She sits down on the flowery turf

Her head drooped on her hand;

Her soft luxuriant golden curls

Are by the breezes fanned.

A sweet sad smile plays on her lips;

Her heart is far away,

And thus she sits till twilight comes

To take the place of day.

But when she looks towards the west

And sees the sun is gone

And hears that every bird but one

To its nightly rest is flown,

And sees that over nature's face

A sombre veil is cast

With mournful voice and tearful eye

She says, 'The time is past!

'He will not come! I might have known

It was a foolish hope;

But it was so sweet to cherish

I could not yield it up.

'It may be foolish thus to weep

But I cannot check my tears

To see in one short hour destroyed

The darling hope of years.

'He is not false, but he was young

And time rolls fast away.

Has he forgotten the vow he made

To meet me here today?

'No. If he lives he loves me still

And still remembers me.

If he is dead -- my joys are sunk

In utter misery.

'We parted in the spicy groves

Beneath Arabia's sky.

How could I hope to meet him now

Where Gondal's breezes sigh?

'He was a shining meteor light

That faded from the skies,

But I mistook him for a star

That only set to rise.

'And with a firm yet trembling hand

I've clung to this false hope;

I dared not surely trust in it

Yet would not yield it up.

'And day and night I've thought of him

And loved him constantly,

And prayed that Heaven would prosper him

Wherever he might be.

'He will not come; he's wandering now

On some far distant shore,

Or else he sleeps the sleep of death

And cannot see me more!

'O, Alexander, is it thus?

Did we but meet to part?

Long as I live thy name will be

Engraven on my heart.

'I shall not cease to think of thee

While life and thought remain,

For well I know that I can never

See thy like again!'

She ceases now and dries her tears

But still she lingers there

In silent thought till night is come

And silver stars appear.

But lo! a tall and stately youth

Ascends the grassy slope;

His bright dark eyes are glancing round,

His heart beats high with hope.

He has journyed on unweariedly

From dawn of day till now,

The warm blood kindles in his cheek,

The sweat is on his brow.

But he has gained the green hill top

Where lies that lonely spring,

And lo! he pauses when he hears

Its gentle murmuring.

He dares not enter through the trees

That veil it from his eye;

He listens for some other sound

In deep anxiety.

But vainly -- all is calm and still;

Are his bright day dreams o'er?

Has he thus hoped and longed in vain,

And must they meet no more?

One moment more of sad suspense

And those dark trees are past;

The lonely well bursts on his sight

And they are met at last!

Anne Brontë – A Voice From The Dungeon

I'm buried now; I've done with life;

I've done with hate, revenge and strife;

I've done with joy, and hope and love

And all the bustling world above.

Long have I dwelt forgotten here

In pining woe and dull despair;

This place of solitude and gloom

Must be my dungeon and my tomb.

No hope, no pleasure can I find:

I am grown weary of my mind;

Often in balmy sleep I try

To gain a rest from misery,

And in one hour of calm repose

To find a respite from my woes,

But dreamless sleep is not for me

And I am still in misery.

I dream of liberty, 'tis true,

But then I dream of sorrow too,

Of blood and guilt and horrid woes,

Of tortured friends and happy foes;

I dream about the world, but then

I dream of fiends instead of men;

Each smiling hope so quickly fades

And such a lurid gloom pervades

That world -- that when I wake and see

Those dreary phantoms fade and flee,

Even in my dungeon I can smile,

And taste of joy a little while.

And yet it is not always so;

I dreamt a little while ago

That all was as it used to be:

A fresh free wind passed over me;

It was a pleasant summer's day,

The sun shone forth with cheering ray,

Methought a little lovely child

Looked up into my face and smiled.

My heart was full, I wept for joy,

It was my own, my darling boy;

I clasped him to my breast and he

Kissed me and laughed in childish glee.

Just them I heard in whisper sweet

A well known voice my name repeat.

His father stood before my eyes;

I gazed at him in mute surprise,

I thought he smiled and spoke to me,

But still in silent ecstasy

I gazed at him; I could not speak;

I uttered one long piercing shriek.

Alas! Alas! That cursed scream

Aroused me from my heavenly dream;

I looked around in wild despair,

I called them, but they were not there;

The father and the child are gone,

And I must live and die alone.

Anne Brontë – A Prayer

My God (oh, 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,

Thy suppliant is a castaway.

I cannot say my faith is strong,

I dare not hope my love is great;

But strength and love to Thee belong;

Oh, do not leave me desolate!

I know I owe my all to Thee;

Oh, TAKE the heart I cannot give!

Do Thou my strength--my Saviour be,

And MAKE me to Thy glory live.

Anne Brontë – I hoped…

I hoped, that with the brave and strong,

My portioned task might lie;

To toil amid the busy throng,

With purpose pure and high.

But God has fixed another part,

And He has fixed it well;

I said so with my bleeding heart,

When first the anguish fell.

Thou, God, hast taken our delight,

Our treasured hope away:

Thou bid'st us now weep through the night

And sorrow through the day.

These weary hours will not be lost,

These days of misery,

These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,

Can I but turn to Thee.

With secret labour to sustain

In humble patience every blow;

To gather fortitude from pain,

And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,

Whate'er may be my written fate:

Whether thus early to depart,

Or yet a while to wait.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,

More humbled I should be;

More wise--more strengthened for the strife--

More apt to lean on Thee.

Should death be standing at the gate,

Thus should I keep my vow:

But, Lord! whatever be my fate,

Oh, let me serve Thee now!