Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

     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.

     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!"

     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.

     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.

     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!

     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.

     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.

     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?

     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!

     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.

     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 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.

     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.

     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.

     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.

     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?

     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.

     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.

     '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.

     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!

     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!

     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!

     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!