Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (417 page)

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Authors: CHARLOTTE BRONTE,EMILY BRONTE,ANNE BRONTE,PATRICK BRONTE,ELIZABETH GASKELL

BOOK: Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated)
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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,

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