Part 9

In dark remorse I rose. I rose in darker shame, Self-condemned I withdrew to an exile from my kind; A solitude I sought where mortal never came, Hoping in its wilds forgetfulness to find.

Now, Heaven, heal the wound which I still deeply feel; Thy glorious hosts look not in scorn on our poor race; Thy King eternal doth no iron judgement deal On suffering worms who seek forgiveness, comfort, grace

He gave our hearts to love, he will not love despise, E’en if the gift be lost, as mine was long ago. He will forgive the fault, will bid the offender rise, Wash out with dews of bliss the fiery brand of woe;

And give a sheltered place beneath the unsullied throne, Whence the soul redeemed may mark Time’s fleeting course around earth; And know its trial overpast, its sufferings gone, And feel the peril past of Death’s immortal birth.

_117. 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.

_118. Speak of the North!_

Speak of the North! A lonely moor Silent and dark and trackless swells, The waves of some wild streamlet pour Hurriedly through its ferny dells.

Profoundly still the twilight air, Lifeless the landscape; so we deem, Till like a phantom gliding near A stag bends down to drink the stream.

And far away a mountain zone, A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies, And one star, large and soft and lone, Silently lights the unclouded skies.

EMILY BRONTË

1818-1848

_119. Remembrance_

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world’s tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second moon has ever shone for me; All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And ev’n Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion— Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

_120. The Visionary_

Silent is the house: all are laid asleep: One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep, Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door; The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far: I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding star.

Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame; Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame! But neither sire nor dame, nor prying serfs shall know What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.

What I love shall come like visitant of air, Safe in secret power from lurking human snare, What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray, Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.

Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear— Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy!

_121. Fall, Leaves, Fall_

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me, Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night’s decay Ushers in a drearier day.

_122. The Prisoner_

Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom’d to wear Year after year in gloom and desolate despair; A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, And offers for short life, eternal liberty.

He comes with Western winds, with evening’s wandering airs, With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars: Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire, And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.

Desire for nothing known in my maturer years, When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears: When, if my spirit’s sky was full of flashes warm, I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.

But first, a hush of peace—a soundless calm descends; The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends. Mute music soothes my breast—unutter’d harmony That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.

Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals; My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels; Its wings are almost free—its home, its harbour found, Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.

O dreadful is the check—intense the agony— When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; When the pulse begins to throb—the brain to think again— The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less; The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless; And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine, If it but herald Death, the vision is divine.

_123. Stanzas to [Branwell Brontë?]_

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

_124. Often Rebuked_

Often rebuked, yet always back returning To those first feelings that were born with me, And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning For idle dreams of things which cannot be:

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region; Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear; And visions rising, legion after legion, Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces, And not in paths of high morality, And not among the half-distinguished faces, The clouded forms of long-past history.

I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading: It vexes me to choose another guide: Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding; Where the wild wind blows on the mountain-side.

What have those lonely mountains worth revealing? More glory and more grief than I can tell: The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

_125. Last Lines_

No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven’s glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life—that in me has rest, As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain, Worthless as withered weeds, Or idle froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by Thine infinity; So surely anchored on The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love Thy spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes ceased to be, And Thou were left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is no room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou—Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

JULIA WARD HOWE

1819-1911

_126. Battle-Hymn of the Republic_

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: ‘As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on.’

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgement-seat: O, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant my feet! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

_127. Our Orders_

Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms, To deck our girls for gay delight! The crimson flower of battle blooms, And solemn marches fill the night.

Weave but the flag whose bars to-day Drooped heavy o’er our early dead, And homely garments, coarse and grey, For orphans that must earn their bread!

Keep back your tunes, ye viols sweet, That poured delight from other lands! Rouse there the dancer’s restless feet: The trumpet leads our warrior bands.

And ye that wage the war of words With mystic fame and subtle power, Go, chatter to the idle birds Or teach the lesson of the hour.

Ye Sibyl Arts, in one stern knot Be all your offices combined! Stand close, while Courage draws the lot, The destiny of human kind.

And if that destiny could fail, The sun should darken in the sky, The eternal bloom of Nature pale, And God, and Truth, and Freedom die!

ANNE BRONTË

1820-1849

_128. If This Be All_

O God! if this indeed be all That Life can show to me; If on my aching brow may fall No freshening dew from Thee;

If with no brighter light than this The lamp of hope may glow, And I may only dream of bliss, And wake to weary woe;

If friendship’s solace must decay, When other joys are gone, And love must keep so far away, While I go wandering on,—

Wandering and toiling without gain, The slave of others’ will, With constant care and frequent pain, Despised, forgotten still;

Grieving to look on vice and sin, Yet powerless to quell The silent current from within, The outward torrent’s swell;

While all the good I would impart, The feelings I would share, Are driven backward to my heart, And turned to wormwood there;

If clouds must ever keep from sight The glories of the Sun, And I must suffer Winter’s blight, Ere Summer is begun:

If Life must be so full of care— Then call me soon to Thee; Or give me strength enough to bear My load of misery!

_129. In Memory of a Happy Day in February_

I was alone, for those I loved Were far away from me; The sun shone on the withered grass, The wind blew fresh and free.

Was it the smile of early spring That made my bosom glow? ’Twas sweet; but neither sun nor wind Could cheer my spirit so.

Was it some feeling of delight, All vague and undefined? No; ’twas a rapture sweet and strong, Expanding in the mind.

Was it a sanguine view of life, And all its transient bliss, A hope of bright prosperity? Oh, no! it was not this.

It was a glimpse of truth divine Unto my spirit given, Illumined by a ray of light That shone direct from heaven.

PHOEBE CARY

1824-1871

_130. One Sweetly Solemn Thought_

One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o’er and o’er; I am nearer home to-day Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father’s house, Where the many mansions be; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea;

Nearer the bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown!

But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the silent, unknown stream, That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps Come to the dread abysm: Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism.

Oh, if my mortal feet Have almost gained the brink; If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think;

Father, perfect my trust; Let my spirit feel in death, That her feet are firmly set On the rock of a living faith.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

1830-1894

_131. Song_

When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.

_132. Sonnet_

The irresponsive silence of the land, The irresponsive sounding of the sea, Speak both one message of one sense to me:— ‘Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof; so stand Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band Of inner solitude; we bind not thee; But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free? What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?’ And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek, And sometimes I remember days of old When fellowship seemed not so far to seek And all the world and I seemed much less cold, And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold, And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.

_133. Echo_

Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years.

Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death: Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago!

_134. A Soul_

She stands as pale as Parian statues stand; Like Cleopatra when she turned at bay, And felt her strength above the Roman sway, And felt the aspic writhing in her hand. Her face is steadfast toward the shadowy land, For dim beyond it looms the land of day: Her feet are steadfast, all the arduous way That foot-track doth not waver on the sand. She stands there like a beacon through the night, A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is— She stands alone, a wonder deathly-white. She stands there patient nerved with inner might, Indomitable in her feebleness, Her face and will athirst against the light.

_135. Good Friday_

Am I a stone and not a sheep That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross, To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss, And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee; Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly; Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon Which hid their faces in a starless sky, A horror of great darkness at broad noon— I, only I.

Yet give not o’er, But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock; Greater than Moses, turn and look once more And smite a rock.

_136. Twice_

I took my heart in my hand (O my love, O my love), I said: Let me fall or stand, Let me live or die, But this once hear me speak— (O my love, O my love)— Yet a woman’s words are weak; You should speak, not I.

You took my heart in your hand With a friendly smile, With a critical eye you scanned, Then set it down, And said: It is still unripe, Better wait awhile; Wait while the skylarks pipe, Till the corn grows brown.

As you set it down it broke— Broke, but I did not wince; I smiled at the speech you spoke, At your judgement that I heard: But I have not often smiled Since then, nor questioned since, Nor cared for corn-flowers wild, Nor sung with the singing bird.

I take my heart in my hand, O my God, O my God, My broken heart in my hand: Thou hast seen, judge Thou. My hope was written on sand, O my God, O my God; Now let Thy judgement stand— Yea, judge me now.

This contemned of a man, This marred one heedless day, This heart take Thou to scan Both within and without: Refine with fire its gold, Purge Thou its dross away— Yea, hold it in Thy hold, Whence none can pluck it out.

I take my heart in my hand— I shall not die, but live— Before Thy face I stand; I, for Thou callest such: All that I have I bring, All that I am I give, Smile Thou and I shall sing, But shall not question much.

_137. Rest_

O earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hushed in and curtained with a blessèd dearth Of all that irked her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise. Darkness more clear than noon-day holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long.

_138. Up-hill_

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.

_139. Remember_

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

_140. Bride-Song (From ‘The Prince’s Progress’)_

Too late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late! You loitered on the road too long, You trifled at the gate: The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate; The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate; Her heart was starving all this while You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow; Then you had known her living face Which now you cannot know: The frozen fountain would have leaped, The buds gone on to blow, The warm south wind would have awaked To melt the snow.

Is she fair now as she lies? Once she was fair; Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair. Now these are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear; Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seemed never soft to her, Though tossed of down; She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs showed in her locks That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste: Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much As it was meet: Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street. There was no hurry in her hands, No hurry in her feet; There was no bliss drew nigh to her, That she might run to greet.