Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

SELF-INTEROGATION,

     "The evening passes 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 pass 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!"

DEATH

     Death! that struck when I was most confiding.     In my certain faith of joy to be —     Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing     From the fresh root of Eternity!     Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,     Full of sap, and full of silver dew;     Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;     Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.     Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;     Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride     But, within its parent's kindly bosom,     Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide.     Little mourned I for the parted gladness,     For the vacant nest and silent song —     Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness;     Whispering, "Winter will not linger long!"     And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing,     Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray;     Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing,     Lavished glory on that second May!     High it rose – no winged grief could sweep it;     Sin was scared to distance with its shine;     Love, and its own life, had power to keep it     From all wrong – from every blight but thine!     Cruel Death!  The young leaves droop and languish;     Evening's gentle air may still restore —     No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish-     Time, for me, must never blossom more!     Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish     Where that perished sapling used to be;     Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish     That from which it sprung – Eternity.

STANZAS TO —

     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!"

HONOUR'S MARTYR

     The moon is full this winter night;     The stars are clear, though few;     And every window glistens bright     With leaves of frozen dew.     The sweet moon through your lattice gleams,     And lights your room like day;     And there you pass, in happy dreams,     The peaceful hours away!     While I, with effort hardly quelling     The anguish in my breast,     Wander about the silent dwelling,     And cannot think of rest.     The old clock in the gloomy hall     Ticks on, from hour to hour;     And every time its measured call     Seems lingering slow and slower:     And, oh, how slow that keen-eyed star     Has tracked the chilly gray!     What, watching yet! how very far     The morning lies away!     Without your chamber door I stand;     Love, are you slumbering still?     My cold heart, underneath my hand,     Has almost ceased to thrill.     Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs,     And drowns the turret bell,     Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies     Unheard, like my farewell!     To-morrow, Scorn will blight my name,     And Hate will trample me,     Will load me with a coward's shame —     A traitor's perjury.     False friends will launch their covert sneers;     True friends will wish me dead;     And I shall cause the bitterest tears     That you have ever shed.     The dark deeds of my outlawed race     Will then like virtues shine;     And men will pardon their disgrace,     Beside the guilt of mine.     For, who forgives the accursed crime     Of dastard treachery?     Rebellion, in its chosen time,     May Freedom's champion be;     Revenge may stain a righteous sword,     It may be just to slay;     But, traitor, traitor, – from THAT word     All true breasts shrink away!     Oh, I would give my heart to death,     To keep my honour fair;     Yet, I'll not give my inward faith     My honour's NAME to spare!     Not even to keep your priceless love,     Dare I, Beloved, deceive;     This treason should the future prove,     Then, only then, believe!     I know the path I ought to go     I follow fearlessly,     Inquiring not what deeper woe     Stern duty stores for me.     So foes pursue, and cold allies     Mistrust me, every one:     Let me be false in others' eyes,     If faithful in my own.

STANZAS

     I'll not weep that thou art going to leave me,     There's nothing lovely here;     And doubly will the dark world grieve me,     While thy heart suffers there.     I'll not weep, because the summer's glory     Must always end in gloom;     And, follow out the happiest story —     It closes with a tomb!     And I am weary of the anguish     Increasing winters bear;     Weary to watch the spirit languish     Through years of dead despair.     So, if a tear, when thou art dying,     Should haply fall from me,     It is but that my soul is sighing,     To go and rest with thee.

MY COMFORTER

     Well hast thou spoken, and yet not taught     A feeling strange or new;     Thou hast but roused a latent thought,     A cloud-closed beam of sunshine brought     To gleam in open view.     Deep down, concealed within my soul,     That light lies hid from men;     Yet glows unquenched – though shadows roll,     Its gentle ray cannot control —     About the sullen den.     Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways     To walk alone so long?     Around me, wretches uttering praise,     Or howling o'er their hopeless days,     And each with Frenzy's tongue; —     A brotherhood of misery,     Their smiles as sad as sighs;     Whose madness daily maddened me,     Distorting into agony     The bliss before my eyes!     So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun,     And in the glare of Hell;     My spirit drank a mingled tone,     Of seraph's song, and demon's moan;     What my soul bore, my soul alone     Within itself may tell!     Like a soft, air above a sea,     Tossed by the tempest's stir;     A thaw-wind, melting quietly     The snow-drift on some wintry lea;     No:  what sweet thing resembles thee,     My thoughtful Comforter?     And yet a little longer speak,     Calm this resentful mood;     And while the savage heart grows meek,     For other token do not seek,     But let the tear upon my cheek     Evince my gratitude!

THE OLD STOIC

     Riches I hold in light esteem,     And Love I laugh to scorn;     And lust of fame was but a dream,     That vanished with the morn:     And if I pray, the only prayer     That moves my lips for me     Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,     And give me liberty!"     Yes, as my swift days near their goal:     'Tis all that I implore;     In life and death a chainless soul,     With courage to endure.

POEMS BY ACTON BELL,

A REMINISCENCE

     Yes, thou art gone! and never more     Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;     But I may pass the old church door,     And pace the floor that covers thee,     May stand upon the cold, damp stone,     And think that, frozen, lies below     The lightest heart that I have known,     The kindest I shall ever know.     Yet, though I cannot see thee more,     'Tis still a comfort to have seen;     And though thy transient life is o'er,     'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;     To think a soul so near divine,     Within a form so angel fair,     United to a heart like thine,     Has gladdened once our humble sphere.

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 thick 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 lone 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?

HOME

     How brightly glistening in the sun     The woodland ivy plays!     While yonder beeches from their barks     Reflect his silver rays.     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 foot to roam,     And though its halls are fair within —     Oh, give me back my HOME!

VANITAS VANITATUM, OMNIA VANITAS

     In all we do, and hear, and see,     Is restless Toil and Vanity.     While yet the rolling earth abides,     Men come and go like ocean tides;     And ere one generation dies,     Another in its place shall rise;     THAT, sinking soon into the grave,     Others succeed, like wave on wave;     And as they rise, they pass away.     The sun arises every day,     And hastening onward to the West,     He nightly sinks, but not to rest:     Returning to the eastern skies,     Again to light us, he must rise.     And still the restless wind comes forth,     Now blowing keenly from the North;     Now from the South, the East, the West,     For ever changing, ne'er at rest.     The fountains, gushing from the hills,     Supply the ever-running rills;     The thirsty rivers drink their store,     And bear it rolling to the shore,     But still the ocean craves for more.     'Tis endless labour everywhere!     Sound cannot satisfy the ear,     Light cannot fill the craving eye,     Nor riches half our wants supply,     Pleasure but doubles future pain,     And joy brings sorrow in her train;     Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth —     What does she in this weary earth?     Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ,     Death comes, our labour to destroy;     To snatch the untasted cup away,     For which we toiled so many a day.     What, then, remains for wretched man?     To use life's comforts while he can,     Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows,     Assist his friends, forgive his foes;     Trust God, and keep His statutes still,     Upright and firm, through good and ill;     Thankful for all that God has given,     Fixing his firmest hopes on Heaven;     Knowing that earthly joys decay,     But hoping through the darkest day.

THE PENITENT

     I mourn with thee, and yet rejoice     That thou shouldst sorrow so;     With angel choirs I join my voice     To bless the sinner's woe.     Though friends and kindred turn away,     And laugh thy grief to scorn;     I hear the great Redeemer say,     "Blessed are ye that mourn."     Hold on thy course, nor deem it strange     That earthly cords are riven:     Man may lament the wondrous change,     But "there is joy in heaven!"

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.

STANZAS

     Oh, weep not, love! each tear that springs     In those dear eyes of thine,     To me a keener suffering brings     Than if they flowed from mine.     And do not droop! however drear     The fate awaiting thee;     For MY sake combat pain and care,     And cherish life for me!     I do not fear thy love will fail;     Thy faith is true, I know;     But, oh, my love! thy strength is frail     For such a life of woe.     Were 't not for this, I well could trace     (Though banished long from thee)     Life's rugged path, and boldly face     The storms that threaten me.     Fear not for me – I've steeled my mind     Sorrow and strife to greet;     Joy with my love I leave behind,     Care with my friends I meet.     A mother's sad reproachful eye,     A father's scowling brow —     But he may frown and she may sigh:     I will not break my vow!     I love my mother, I revere     My sire, but fear not me —     Believe that Death alone can tear     This faithful heart from thee.

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.

MEMORY

     Brightly the sun of summer shone     Green fields and waving woods upon,     And soft winds wandered by;     Above, a sky of purest blue,     Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,     Allured the gazer's eye.     But what were all these charms to me,     When one sweet breath of memory     Came gently wafting by?     I closed my eyes against the day,     And called my willing soul away,     From earth, and air, and sky;     That I might simply fancy there     One little flower – a primrose fair,     Just opening into sight;     As in the days of infancy,     An opening primrose seemed to me     A source of strange delight.     Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;     Nature's chief beauties spring from thee;     Oh, still thy tribute bring     Still make the golden crocus shine     Among the flowers the most divine,     The glory of the spring.     Still in the wallflower's fragrance dwell;     And hover round the slight bluebell,     My childhood's darling flower.     Smile on the little daisy still,     The buttercup's bright goblet fill     With all thy former power.     For ever hang thy dreamy spell     Round mountain star and heather bell,     And do not pass away     From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,     And whisper when the wild winds blow,     Or rippling waters play.     Is childhood, then, so all divine?     Or Memory, is the glory thine,     That haloes thus the past?     Not ALL divine; its pangs of grief     (Although, perchance, their stay be brief)     Are bitter while they last.     Nor is the glory all thine own,     For on our earliest joys alone     That holy light is cast.     With such a ray, no spell of thine     Can make our later pleasures shine,     Though long ago they passed.

TO COWPER

     Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard;     And oft, in childhood's years,     I've read them o'er and o'er again,     With floods of silent tears.     The language of my inmost heart     I traced in every line;     MY sins, MY sorrows, hopes, and fears,     Were there-and only mine.     All for myself the sigh would swell,     The tear of anguish start;     I little knew what wilder woe     Had filled the Poet's heart.     I did not know the nights of gloom,     The days of misery;     The long, long years of dark despair,     That crushed and tortured thee.     But they are gone; from earth at length     Thy gentle soul is pass'd,     And in the bosom of its God     Has found its home at last.     It must be so, if God is love,     And answers fervent prayer;     Then surely thou shalt dwell on high,     And I may meet thee there.     Is He the source of every good,     The spring of purity?     Then in thine hours of deepest woe,     Thy God was still with thee.     How else, when every hope was fled,     Couldst thou so fondly cling     To holy things and help men?     And how so sweetly sing,     Of things that God alone could teach?     And whence that purity,     That hatred of all sinful ways —     That gentle charity?     Are THESE the symptoms of a heart     Of heavenly grace bereft —     For ever banished from its God,     To Satan's fury left?     Yet, should thy darkest fears be true,     If Heaven be so severe,     That such a soul as thine is lost, —     Oh! how shall I appear?

THE DOUBTER'S PRAYER

     Eternal Power, of earth and air!     Unseen, yet seen in all around,     Remote, but dwelling everywhere,     Though silent, heard in every sound;     If e'er thine ear in mercy bent,     When wretched mortals cried to Thee,     And if, indeed, Thy Son was sent,     To save lost sinners such as me:     Then hear me now, while kneeling here,     I lift to thee my heart and eye,     And all my soul ascends in prayer,     OH, GIVE ME – GIVE ME FAITH! I cry.     Without some glimmering in my heart,     I could not raise this fervent prayer;     But, oh! a stronger light impart,     And in Thy mercy fix it there.     While Faith is with me, I am blest;     It turns my darkest night to day;     But while I clasp it to my breast,     I often feel it slide away.     Then, cold and dark, my spirit sinks,     To see my light of life depart;     And every fiend of Hell, methinks,     Enjoys the anguish of my heart.     What shall I do, if all my love,     My hopes, my toil, are cast away,     And if there be no God above,     To hear and bless me when I pray?     If this be vain delusion all,     If death be an eternal sleep,     And none can hear my secret call,     Or see the silent tears I weep!     Oh, help me, God! For thou alone     Canst my distracted soul relieve;     Forsake it not:  it is thine own,     Though weak, yet longing to believe.     Oh, drive these cruel doubts away;     And make me know, that Thou art God!     A faith, that shines by night and day,     Will lighten every earthly load.     If I believe that Jesus died,     And waking, rose to reign above;     Then surely Sorrow, Sin, and Pride,     Must yield to Peace, and Hope, and Love.     And all the blessed words He said     Will strength and holy joy impart:     A shield of safety o'er my head,     A spring of comfort in my heart.

A WORD TO THE "ELECT."

     You may rejoice to think YOURSELVES secure;     You may be grateful for the gift divine —     That grace unsought, which made your black hearts pure,     And fits your earth-born souls in Heaven to shine.     But, is it sweet to look around, and view     Thousands excluded from that happiness     Which they deserved, at least, as much as you. —     Their faults not greater, nor their virtues less?     And wherefore should you love your God the more,     Because to you alone his smiles are given;     Because He chose to pass the MANY o'er,     And only bring the favoured FEW to Heaven?     And, wherefore should your hearts more grateful prove,     Because for ALL the Saviour did not die?     Is yours the God of justice and of love?     And are your bosoms warm with charity?     Say, does your heart expand to all mankind?     And, would you ever to your neighbour do —     The weak, the strong, the enlightened, and the blind —     As you would have your neighbour do to you?     And when you, looking on your fellow-men,     Behold them doomed to endless misery,     How can you talk of joy and rapture then? —     May God withhold such cruel joy from me!     That none deserve eternal bliss I know;     Unmerited the grace in mercy given:     But, none shall sink to everlasting woe,     That have not well deserved the wrath of Heaven.     And, oh! there lives within my heart     A hope, long nursed by me;     (And should its cheering ray depart,     How dark my soul would be!)     That as in Adam all have died,     In Christ shall all men live;     And ever round his throne abide,     Eternal praise to give.     That even the wicked shall at last     Be fitted for the skies;     And when their dreadful doom is past,     To life and light arise.     I ask not, how remote the day,     Nor what the sinners' woe,     Before their dross is purged away;     Enough for me to know —     That when the cup of wrath is drained,     The metal purified,     They'll cling to what they once disdained,     And live by Him that died.