Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

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.

THE CONSOLATION

     Though bleak these woods, and damp the ground     With fallen leaves so thickly strown,     And cold the wind that wanders round     With wild and melancholy moan;     There IS a friendly roof, I know,     Might shield me from the wintry blast;     There is a fire, whose ruddy glow     Will cheer me for my wanderings past.     And so, though still, where'er I go,     Cold stranger-glances meet my eye;     Though, when my spirit sinks in woe,     Unheeded swells the unbidden sigh;     Though solitude, endured too long,     Bids youthful joys too soon decay,     Makes mirth a stranger to my tongue,     And overclouds my noon of day;     When kindly thoughts that would have way,     Flow back discouraged to my breast;     I know there is, though far away,     A home where heart and soul may rest.     Warm hands are there, that, clasped in mine,     The warmer heart will not belie;     While mirth, and truth, and friendship shine     In smiling lip and earnest eye.     The ice that gathers round my heart     May there be thawed; and sweetly, then,     The joys of youth, that now depart,     Will come to cheer my soul again.     Though far I roam, that thought shall be     My hope, my comfort, everywhere;     While such a home remains to me,     My heart shall never know despair!

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 to-day!

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!

APPEAL

     Oh, I am very weary,     Though tears no longer flow;     My eyes are tired of weeping,     My heart is sick of woe;     My life is very lonely     My days pass heavily,     I'm weary of repining;     Wilt thou not come to me?     Oh, didst thou know my longings     For thee, from day to day,     My hopes, so often blighted,     Thou wouldst not thus delay!

THE STUDENT'S SERENADE

     I have slept upon my couch,     But my spirit did not rest,     For the labours of the day     Yet my weary soul opprest;     And before my dreaming eyes     Still the learned volumes lay,     And I could not close their leaves,     And I could not turn away.     But I oped my eyes at last,     And I heard a muffled sound;     'Twas the night-breeze, come to say     That the snow was on the ground.     Then I knew that there was rest     On the mountain's bosom free;     So I left my fevered couch,     And I flew to waken thee!     I have flown to waken thee —     For, if thou wilt not arise,     Then my soul can drink no peace     From these holy moonlight skies.     And this waste of virgin snow     To my sight will not be fair,     Unless thou wilt smiling come,     Love, to wander with me there.     Then, awake!  Maria, wake!     For, if thou couldst only know     How the quiet moonlight sleeps     On this wilderness of snow,     And the groves of ancient trees,     In their snowy garb arrayed,     Till they stretch into the gloom     Of the distant valley's shade;     I know thou wouldst rejoice     To inhale this bracing air;     Thou wouldst break thy sweetest sleep     To behold a scene so fair.     O'er these wintry wilds, ALONE,     Thou wouldst joy to wander free;     And it will not please thee less,     Though that bliss be shared with me.

THE CAPTIVE DOVE

     Poor restless dove, I pity thee;     And when I hear thy plaintive moan,     I mourn for thy captivity,     And in thy woes forget mine own.     To see thee stand prepared to fly,     And flap those useless wings of thine,     And gaze into the distant sky,     Would melt a harder heart than mine.     In vain – in vain! Thou canst not rise:     Thy prison roof confines thee there;     Its slender wires delude thine eyes,     And quench thy longings with despair.     Oh, thou wert made to wander free     In sunny mead and shady grove,     And far beyond the rolling sea,     In distant climes, at will to rove!     Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate     Thy little drooping heart to cheer,     And share with thee thy captive state,     Thou couldst be happy even there.     Yes, even there, if, listening by,     One faithful dear companion stood,     While gazing on her full bright eye,     Thou mightst forget thy native wood     But thou, poor solitary dove,     Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan;     The heart that Nature formed to love     Must pine, neglected, and alone.

SELF-CONGRATULATION

     Ellen, you were thoughtless once     Of beauty or of grace,     Simple and homely in attire,     Careless of form and face;     Then whence this change? and wherefore now     So often smoothe your hair?     And wherefore deck your youthful form     With such unwearied care?     Tell us, and cease to tire our ears     With that familiar strain;     Why will you play those simple tunes     So often o'er again?     "Indeed, dear 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 well 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 keenest 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, oh! my spirit burned within,     My heart beat full 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 aching anguish of my heart,     The bitter burning woe!

FLUCTUATIONS,

     What though the Sun had left my sky;     To save me from despair     The blessed Moon arose on high,     And shone serenely there.     I watched her, with a tearful gaze,     Rise slowly o'er the hill,     While through the dim horizon's haze     Her light gleamed faint and chill.     I thought such wan and lifeless beams     Could ne'er my heart repay     For the bright sun's most transient gleams     That cheered me through the day:     But, as above that mist's control     She rose, and brighter shone,     I felt her light upon my soul;     But now – that light is gone!     Thick vapours snatched her from my sight,     And I was darkling left,     All in the cold and gloomy night,     Of light and hope bereft:     Until, methought, a little star     Shone forth with trembling ray,     To cheer me with its light afar —     But that, too, passed away.     Anon, an earthly meteor blazed     The gloomy darkness through;     I smiled, yet trembled while I gazed —     But that soon vanished too!     And darker, drearier fell the night     Upon my spirit then; —     But what is that faint struggling light?     Is it the Moon again?     Kind Heaven! increase that silvery gleam     And bid these clouds depart,     And let her soft celestial beam     Restore my fainting heart!

SELECTIONS FROM THE LITERARY REMAINS OF ELLIS AND ACTON BELL

By Currer Bell

SELECTIONS FROM POEMS BY ELLIS BELL

It would not have been difficult to compile a volume out of the papers left by my sisters, had I, in making the selection, dismissed from my consideration the scruples and the wishes of those whose written thoughts these papers held. But this was impossible: an influence, stronger than could be exercised by any motive of expediency, necessarily regulated the selection. I have, then, culled from the mass only a little poem here and there. The whole makes but a tiny nosegay, and the colour and perfume of the flowers are not such as fit them for festal uses.

It has been already said that my sisters wrote much in childhood and girlhood. Usually, it seems a sort of injustice to expose in print the crude thoughts of the unripe mind, the rude efforts of the unpractised hand; yet I venture to give three little poems of my sister Emily's, written in her sixteenth year, because they illustrate a point in her character.

At that period she was sent to school. Her previous life, with the exception of a single half-year, had been passed in the absolute retirement of a village parsonage, amongst the hills bordering Yorkshire and Lancashire. The scenery of these hills is not grand – it is not romantic it is scarcely striking. Long low moors, dark with heath, shut in little valleys, where a stream waters, here and there, a fringe of stunted copse. Mills and scattered cottages chase romance from these valleys; it is only higher up, deep in amongst the ridges of the moors, that Imagination can find rest for the sole of her foot: and even if she finds it there, she must be a solitude-loving raven – no gentle dove. If she demand beauty to inspire her, she must bring it inborn: these moors are too stern to yield any product so delicate. The eye of the gazer must ITSELF brim with a "purple light," intense enough to perpetuate the brief flower-flush of August on the heather, or the rare sunset-smile of June; out of his heart must well the freshness, that in latter spring and early summer brightens the bracken, nurtures the moss, and cherishes the starry flowers that spangle for a few weeks the pasture of the moor-sheep. Unless that light and freshness are innate and self-sustained, the drear prospect of a Yorkshire moor will be found as barren of poetic as of agricultural interest: where the love of wild nature is strong, the locality will perhaps be clung to with the more passionate constancy, because from the hill-lover's self comes half its charm.

My sister Emily loved the moors. Flowers brighter than the rose bloomed in the blackest of the heath for her; out of a sullen hollow in a livid hill-side her mind could make an Eden. She found in the bleak solitude many and dear delights; and not the least and best loved was – liberty.

Liberty was the breath of Emily's nostrils; without it, she perished. The change from her own home to a school, and from her own very noiseless, very secluded, but unrestricted and inartificial mode of life, to one of disciplined routine (though under the kindliest auspices), was what she failed in enduring. Her nature proved here too strong for her fortitude. Every morning when she woke, the vision of home and the moors rushed on her, and darkened and saddened the day that lay before her. Nobody knew what ailed her but me – I knew only too well. In this struggle her health was quickly broken: her white face, attenuated form, and failing strength, threatened rapid decline. I felt in my heart she would die, if she did not go home, and with this conviction obtained her recall. She had only been three months at school; and it was some years before the experiment of sending her from home was again ventured on. After the age of twenty, having meantime studied alone with diligence and perseverance, she went with me to an establishment on the Continent: the same suffering and conflict ensued, heightened by the strong recoil of her upright, heretic and English spirit from the gentle Jesuitry of the foreign and Romish system. Once more she seemed sinking, but this time she rallied through the mere force of resolution: with inward remorse and shame she looked back on her former failure, and resolved to conquer in this second ordeal. She did conquer: but the victory cost her dear. She was never happy till she carried her hard-won knowledge back to the remote English village, the old parsonage-house, and desolate Yorkshire hills. A very few years more, and she looked her last on those hills, and breathed her last in that house, and under the aisle of that obscure village church found her last lowly resting-place. Merciful was the decree that spared her when she was a stranger in a strange land, and guarded her dying bed with kindred love and congenial constancy.

The following pieces were composed at twilight, in the school-room, when the leisure of the evening play-hour brought back in full tide the thoughts of home.

I

     A LITTLE while, a little while,     The weary task is put away,     And I can sing and I can smile,     Alike, while I have holiday.     Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart —     What thought, what scene invites thee now     What spot, or near or far apart,     Has rest for thee, my weary brow?     There is a spot, 'mid barren hills,     Where winter howls, and driving rain;     But, if the dreary tempest chills,     There is a light that warms again.     The house is old, the trees are bare,     Moonless above bends twilight's dome;     But what on earth is half so dear —     So longed for – as the hearth of home?     The mute bird sitting on the stone,     The dank moss dripping from the wall,     The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,     I love them – how I love them all!     Still, as I mused, the naked room,     The alien firelight died away;     And from the midst of cheerless gloom,     I passed to bright, unclouded day.     A little and a lone green lane     That opened on a common wide;     A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain     Of mountains circling every side.     A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,     So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;     And, deepening still the dream-like charm,     Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.     THAT was the scene, I knew it well;     I knew the turfy pathway's sweep,     That, winding o'er each billowy swell,     Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.     Could I have lingered but an hour,     It well had paid a week of toil;     But Truth has banished Fancy's power:     Restraint and heavy task recoil.     Even as I stood with raptured eye,     Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,     My hour of rest had fleeted by,     And back came labour, bondage, care.

II. THE BLUEBELL

     The Bluebell is the sweetest flower     That waves in summer air:     Its blossoms have the mightiest power     To soothe my spirit's care.     There is a spell in purple heath     Too wildly, sadly dear;     The violet has a fragrant breath,     But fragrance will not cheer,     The trees are bare, the sun is cold,     And seldom, seldom seen;     The heavens have lost their zone of gold,     And earth her robe of green.     And ice upon the glancing stream     Has cast its sombre shade;     And distant hills and valleys seem     In frozen mist arrayed.     The Bluebell cannot charm me now,     The heath has lost its bloom;     The violets in the glen below,     They yield no sweet perfume.     But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell,     'Tis better far away;     I know how fast my tears would swell     To see it smile to-day.     For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fall     Adown that dreary sky,     And gild yon dank and darkened wall     With transient brilliancy;     How do I weep, how do I pine     For the time of flowers to come,     And turn me from that fading shine,     To mourn the fields of home!

III

     Loud without the wind was roaring     Through th'autumnal sky;     Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,     Spoke of winter nigh.     All too like that dreary eve,     Did my exiled spirit grieve.     Grieved at first, but grieved not long,     Sweet – how softly sweet! – it came;     Wild words of an ancient song,     Undefined, without a name.     "It was spring, and the skylark was singing:"     Those words they awakened a spell;     They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing,     Nor absence, nor distance can quell.     In the gloom of a cloudy November     They uttered the music of May;     They kindled the perishing ember     Into fervour that could not decay.     Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland,     West-wind, in thy glory and pride!     Oh! call me from valley and lowland,     To walk by the hill-torrent's side!     It is swelled with the first snowy weather;     The rocks they are icy and hoar,     And sullenly waves the long heather,     And the fern leaves are sunny no more.     There are no yellow stars on the mountain     The bluebells have long died away     From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain —     From the side of the wintry brae.     But lovelier than corn-fields all waving     In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,     Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,     And the crags where I wandered of old.     It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;     How sweetly it brought back to me     The time when nor labour nor dreaming     Broke the sleep of the happy and free!     But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven     Was melting to amber and blue,     And swift were the wings to our feet given,     As we traversed the meadows of dew.     For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass     Like velvet beneath us should lie!     For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass     Rose sunny against the clear sky!     For the moors, where the linnet was trilling     Its song on the old granite stone;     Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling     Every breast with delight like its own!     What language can utter the feeling     Which rose, when in exile afar,     On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,     I saw the brown heath growing there?     It was scattered and stunted, and told me     That soon even that would be gone:     It whispered, "The grim walls enfold me,     I have bloomed in my last summer's sun."     But not the loved music, whose waking     Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,     Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking     Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.     The spirit which bent 'neath its power,     How it longed – how it burned to be free!     If I could have wept in that hour,     Those tears had been heaven to me.     Well – well; the sad minutes are moving,     Though loaded with trouble and pain;     And some time the loved and the loving     Shall meet on the mountains again!

The following little piece has no title; but in it the Genius of a solitary region seems to address his wandering and wayward votary, and to recall within his influence the proud mind which rebelled at times even against what it most loved.