Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (430 page)

WINTER-NIGHT MEDITATIONS.

Rude winter’s come, the sky’s o’ercast,
The night is cold and loud the blast,
The mingling snow comes driving down,
Fast whitening o’er the flinty ground.
Severe their lots whose crazy sheds
Hang tottering o’er their trembling heads:
Whilst blows through walls and chinky door
The drifting snow across the floor,
Where blinking embers scarcely glow,
And rushlight only serves to show
What well may move the deepest sigh,
And force a tear from pity’s eye.
You there may see a meagre pair,
Worn out with labour, grief, and care:
Whose naked babes, in hungry mood,
Complain of cold and cry for food;
Whilst tears bedew the mother’s cheek,
And sighs the father’s grief bespeak;
For fire or raiment, bed or board,
Their dreary shed cannot afford.

   Will no kind hand confer relief,
And wipe away the tear of grief?
A little boon it well might spare
Would kindle joy, dispel their care,
Abate the rigour of the night
And warm each heart — achievement bright.
Yea, brighter far than such as grace
The annals of a princely race,
Where kings bestow a large domain
But to receive as much again,
Or e’en corrupt the purest laws,
Or fan the breath of vain applause.

   Peace to the man who stoops his head
To enter the most wretched shed:
Who, with his condescending smiles,
Poor diffidence and awe beguiles:
Till all encouraged, soon disclose
The different causes of their woes —
The moving tale dissolves his heart:
He liberally bestows a part
Of God’s donation.  From above
Approving Heaven, in smiles of love,
Looks on, and through the shining skies
The great Recording Angel flies
The doors of mercy to unfold,
And write the deed in lines of gold;
There, if a fruit of Faith’s fair tree,
To shine throughout eternity,
In honour of that Sovereign dread,
Who had no place to lay His head,
Yet opened wide sweet Mercy’s door
To all the desolate and poor,
Who, stung with guilt and hard oppressed,
Groaned to be with Him, and at rest.

   Now, pent within the city wall,
They throng to theatre and hall,
Where gesture, look, and words conspire,
To stain the mind, the passions fire;
Whence sin-polluted streams abound,
That whelm the country all around.
Ah!  Modesty, should you be here,
Close up the eye and stop the ear;
Oppose your fan, nor peep beneath,
And blushing shun their tainted breath.

   Here every rake exerts his art
T’ ensnare the unsuspecting heart.
The prostitute, with faithless smiles,
Remorseless plays her tricks and wiles.
Her gesture bold and ogling eye,
Obtrusive speech and pert reply,
And brazen front and stubborn tone,
Show all her native virtue’s flown.
By her the thoughtless youth is ta’en,
Impoverished, disgraced, or slain:
Through her the marriage vows are broke,
And Hymen proves a galling yoke.
Diseases come, destruction’s dealt,
Where’er her poisonous breath is felt;
Whilst she, poor wretch, dies in the flame
That runs through her polluted frame.

   Once she was gentle, fair, and kind,
To no seducing schemes inclined,
Would blush to hear a smutty tale,
Nor ever strolled o’er hill or dale,
But lived a sweet domestic maid,
To lend her aged parents aid —
And oft they gazed and oft they smiled
On this their loved and only child:
They thought they might in her be blest,
And she would see them laid at rest.

   A blithesome youth of courtly mien
Oft called to see this rural queen:
His oily tongue and wily art
Soon gained Maria’s yielding heart.
The aged pair, too, liked the youth,
And thought him naught but love and truth.
The village feast at length is come;
Maria by the youth’s undone:
The youth is gone — so is her fame;
And with it all her sense of shame:
And now she practises the art
Which snared her unsuspecting heart;
And vice, with a progressive sway,
More hardened makes her every day.
Averse to good and prone to ill,
And dexterous in seducing skill;
To look, as if her eyes would melt:
T’ affect a love she never felt;
To half suppress the rising sigh;
Mechanically to weep and cry;
To vow eternal truth, and then
To break her vow, and vow again;
Her ways are darkness, death, and hell:
Remorse and shame and passions fell,
And short-lived joy, with endless pain,
Pursues her in a gloomy train.

   O Britain fair, thou queen of isles!
Nor hostile arms nor hostile wiles
Could ever shake thy solid throne
But for thy sins.  Thy sins alone
Can make thee stoop thy royal head,
And lay thee prostrate with the dead.
In vain colossal England mows,
With ponderous strength, the yielding foes;
   In vain fair Scotia, by her side,
With courage flushed and Highland pride,
Whirls her keen blade with horrid whistle
And lops off heads like tops of thistle;
In vain brave Erin, famed afar,
The flaming thunderbolt of war,
Profuse of life, through blood does wade,
To lend her sister kingdom aid:
Our conquering thunders vainly roar
Terrific round the Gallic shore;
Profoundest statesmen vainly scheme —
’Tis all a vain, delusive dream,
If treacherously within our breast
We foster sin, the deadly pest.

   Where Sin abounds Religion dies,
And Virtue seeks her native skies;
Chaste Conscience hides for very shame,
And Honour’s but an empty name.
Then, like a flood, with fearful din,
A gloomy host comes pouring in.
First Bribery, with her golden shield,
Leads smooth Corruption o’er the field;
Dissension wild, with brandished spear,
And Anarchy bring up the rear:
Whilst Care and Sorrow, Grief and Pain
Run howling o’er the bloody plain.

O Thou, whose power resistless fills
The boundless whole, avert those ills
We richly merit: purge away
The sins which on our vitals prey;
Protect, with Thine almighty shield
Our conquering arms by flood and field,
Wheel round the time when Peace shall smile
O’er Britain’s highly-favoured Isle;
When all shall loud hosannas sing
To Thee, the great Eternal King!

   But hark! the bleak, loud whistling wind!
Its crushing blast recalls to mind
The dangers of the troubled deep;
Where, with a fierce and thundering sweep,
The winds in wild distraction rave,
And push along the mountain wave
With dreadful swell and hideous curl!
Whilst hung aloft in giddy whirl,
Or drop beneath the ocean’s bed,
The leaky bark without a shred
Of rigging sweeps through dangers dread.
The flaring beacon points the way,
And fast the pumps loud clanking play:
It ’vails not — hark! with crashing shock
She’s shivered ’gainst the solid rock,
Or by the fierce, incessant waves
Is beaten to a thousand staves;
Or bilging at her crazy side,
Admits the thundering hostile tide,
And down she sinks! — triumphant rave
The winds, and close her wat’ry grave!

   The merchant’s care and toil are vain,
His hopes He buried in the main —
In vain the mother’s tearful eye
Looks for its sole remaining joy —
In vain fair Susan walks the shore,
And sighs for him she’ll see no more —
For deep they lie in ocean’s womb,
And fester in a wat’ry tomb.

   Now, from the frothy, thundering main,
My meditations seek the plain,
Where, with a swift fantastic flight,
They scour the regions of the night,
Free as the winds that wildly blow
O’er hill and dale the blinding snow,
Or, through the woods, their frolics play,
And whirling, sweep the dusty way,
When summer shines with burning glare,
And sportive breezes skim the air,
And Ocean’s glassy breast is fanned
To softest curl by Zephyr bland.

   But Summer’s gone, and Winter’s here —
With iron sceptre rules the year —
Beneath this dark inclement sky
How many wanderers faint and die!
One, flouncing o’er the treacherous snow,
Sinks in the pit that yawns below!
Another numbed, with panting lift
Inhales the suffocating drift!
And creeping cold, with stiffening force,
Extends a third, a pallid corse!

   Thus death, in varied dreadful form,
Triumphant rides along the storm:
With shocking scenes assails the sight,
And makes more sad the dismal night!
How blest the man, whose lot is free
From such distress and misery;
Who, sitting by his blazing fire,
Is closely wrapt in warm attire;
Whose sparkling glasses blush with wine
Of mirthful might and flavour fine;
Whose house, compact and strong, defies
The rigour of the angry skies!
The ruffling winds may blow their last,
And snows come driving on the blast;
And frosts their icy morsels fling,
But all within is mild as spring!

How blest is he! — blest did I say?
E’en sorrow here oft finds its way.
The senses numbed by frequent use,
Of criminal, absurd abuse
Of heaven’s blessings, listless grow,
And life is but a dream of woe.

Oft fostered on the lap of ease,
Grow racking pain and foul disease,
And nervous whims, a ghastly train,
Inflicting more than corp’ral pain:
Oft gold and shining pedigree
Prove only splendid misery.
The king who sits upon his throne,
And calls the kneeling world his own,
Has oft of cares a greater load
Than he who feels his iron rod.

No state is free from care and pain
Where fiery passions get the rein,
Or soft indulgence, joined with ease,
Begets a thousand ills to tease:
Where fair Religion, heavenly maid,
Has slighted still her offered aid.
Her matchless power the will subdues,
And gives the judgment clearer views:
Denies no source of real pleasure,
And yields us blessings out of measure;
Our prospect brightens, proves our stay,
December turns to smiling May;
Conveys us to that peaceful shore,
By raging billows lashed no more,
Where endless happiness remains,
And one eternal summer reigns.

VERSES SENT TO A LADY ON HER
BIRTHDAY.

The joyous day illumes the sky
That bids each care and sorrow fly
      To shades of endless night:
E’en frozen age, thawed in the fires
Of social mirth, feels young desires,
      And tastes of fresh delight.

In thoughtful mood your parents dear,
Whilst joy smiles through the starting tear,
      Give approbation due.
As each drinks deep in mirthful wine
Your rosy health, and looks benign
      Are sent to heaven for you.

But let me whisper, lovely fair,
This joy may soon give place to care,
      And sorrow cloud this day;
Full soon your eyes of sparkling blue,
And velvet lips of scarlet hue,
      Discoloured, may decay.

As bloody drops on virgin snows,
So vies the lily with the rose
      Full on your dimpled cheek;
But ah! the worm in lazy coil
May soon prey on this putrid spoil,
      Or leap in loathsome freak.

Fond wooers come with flattering tale,
And load with sighs the passing gale,
      And love-distracted rave:
But hark, fair maid! whate’er they say,
You’re but a breathing mass of clay,
      Fast ripening for the grave.

Behold how thievish Time has been!
Full eighteen summers you have seen,
      And yet they seem a day?
Whole years, collected in Time’s glass,
In silent lapse how soon they pass,
      And steal your life away!

The flying hour none can arrest,
Nor yet recall one moment past,
      And what more dread must seem
Is, that to-morrow’s not your own —
Then haste! and ere your life has flown
      The subtle hours redeem.

Attend with care to what I sing:
Know time is ever on the wing;
      None can its flight detain;
Then, like a pilgrim passing by,
Take home this hint, as time does fly,
      “All earthly things are vain.”

Let nothing here elate your breast,
Nor, for one moment, break your rest,
      In heavenly wisdom grow:
Still keep your anchor fixed above,
Where Jesus reigns in boundless love,
      And streams of pleasure flow.

So shall your life glide smoothly by
Without a tear, without a sigh,
      And purest joys will crown
Each birthday, as the year revolves,
Till this clay tenement dissolves,
      And leaves the soul unbound.

Then shall you land on Canaan’s shore,
Where time and chance shall be no more,
      And joy eternal reigns;
There, mixing with the seraphs bright,
And dressed in robes of heavenly light,
      You’ll raise angelic strains.

THE IRISH CABIN.

Should poverty, modest and clean,
   E’er please, when presented to view,
Should cabin on brown heath, or green,
   Disclose aught engaging to you,
Should Erin’s wild harp soothe the ear
   When touched by such fingers as mine,
Then kindly attentive draw near,
   And candidly ponder each line.

One day, when December’s keen breath
   Arrested the sweet running rill,
And Nature seemed frozen in death,
   I thoughtfully strolled o’er the hill:
The mustering clouds wore a frown,
   The mountains were covered with snow,
And Winter his mantle of brown
   Had spread o’er the landscape below.

Thick rattling the footsteps were heard
   Of peasants far down in the vale;
From lakes, bogs, and marshes debarred,
   The wild-fowl, aloft on the gale,
Loud gabbling and screaming were borne,
   Whilst thundering guns hailed the day,
And hares sought the thicket forlorn,
   Or, wounded, ran over the way.

No music was heard in the grove,
   The blackbird and linnet and thrush,
And goldfinch and sweet cooing dove,
   Sat pensively mute in the bush:
The leaves that once wove a green shade
   Lay withered in heaps on the ground:
Chill Winter through grove, wood, and glade
   Spread sad desolation around.

But now the keen north wind ’gan whistle,
   And gusty, swept over the sky;
Each hair, frozen, stood like a bristle,
   And night thickened fast on the eye.
In swift-wheeling eddies the snow
   Fell, mingling and drifting amain,
And soon all distinction laid low,
   As whitening it covered the plain.

A light its pale ray faintly shot
   (The snow-flakes its splendour had shorn),
It came from a neighbouring cot,
   Some called it the Cabin of Mourne:
A neat Irish Cabin, snow-proof,
   Well thatched, had a good earthen floor,
One chimney in midst of the roof,
   One window, and one latched door.

Escaped from the pitiless storm,
   I entered the humble retreat;
Compact was the building, and warm,
   Its furniture simple and neat.
And now, gentle reader, approve
   The ardour that glowed in each breast,
As kindly our cottagers strove
   To cherish and welcome their guest.

The dame nimbly rose from her wheel,
   And brushed off the powdery snow:
Her daughter, forsaking the reel,
   Ran briskly the cinders to blow:
The children, who sat on the hearth,
   Leaped up without murmur or frown,
An oaken stool quickly brought forth,
   And smilingly bade me sit down.

Whilst grateful sensations of joy
   O’er all my fond bosom were poured,
Resumed was each former employ,
   And gay thrifty order restored:
The blaze flickered up to the crook,
   The reel clicked again by the door,
The dame turned her wheel in the nook,
   And frisked the sweet babes round the floor.

Released from the toils of the barn,
   His thrifty, blithe wife hailed the sire,
And hanging his flail by her yarn,
   He drew up his stool to the fire;
Then smoothing his brow with his hand,
   As if he would sweep away sorrow,
He says, “Let us keep God’s command,
   And never take thought for the morrow.”

Brisk turning him round with a smile,
   And freedom unblended by art,
And affable manners and style,
   Though simple, that reached to my heart,
He said (whilst with ardour he glowed),
   “Kind sir, we are poor, yet we’re blest:
We’re all in the steep, narrow road
   That leads to the city of rest.

“’Tis true, I must toil all the day,
   And oft suffer cold through the night,
Though silvered all over with grey,
   And dimly declining my sight:
And sometimes our raiment and food
   Are scanty — ah! scanty indeed:
But all work together for good,
   So in my blest Bible I read.

“I also have seen in that Book
   (Perhaps you can tell me the place?)
How God on poor sinners does look
   In pity, and gives them His grace —
Yea, gives them His grace in vast store,
   Sufficient to help them quite through,
Though troubles should whelm them all o’er;
   And sure this sweet promise is true!

“Yes, true as the snow blows without,
   And winds whistle keen through the air,
His grace can remove every doubt,
   And chase the black gloom of despair:
It often supports my weak mind,
   And wipes the salt tear from my eye,
It tells me that Jesus is kind,
   And died for such sinners as I.

“I once rolled in wealth, without grace,
   But happiness ne’er was my lot,
Till Christ freely pitied my case,
   And now I am blest in a cot:
Well knowing things earthly are vain,
   Their troubles ne’er puzzle my head;
Convinced that to die will be gain,
   I look on the grave as my bed.

“I look on the grave as my bed,
   Where I’ll sleep the swift hours away,
Till waked from their slumbers, the dead
   Shall rise, never more to decay:
Then I, with my children and wife,
   Shall get a bright palace above,
And endlessly clothed with life,
   Shall dwell in the Eden of love.

“Then know, gentle stranger, though poor,
   We’re cheerful, contented, and blest;
Though princes should pass by our door
   King Jesus is ever our guest;
We feel, and we taste, and we see
   The pleasures which flow from our Lord,
And fearless, and wealthy, and free,
   We live on the joys of His word.”

He ceased: and a big tear of joy
   Rolled glittering down to the ground;
Whilst all, having dropped their employ,
   Were buried in silence profound;
A sweet, solemn pause long ensued —
   Each bosom o’erflowed with delight;
Then heavenly converse renewed,
   Beguiled the dull season of night.

We talked of the rough narrow way
   That leads to the kingdom of rest;
On Pisgah we stood to survey
   The King in His holiness dressed —
Even Jesus, the crucified King,
   Whose blood in rich crimson does flow,
Clean washing the crimson of sin,
   And rinsing it whiter that snow.

But later and later it’s wearing,
   And supper they cheerfully bring,
The mealy potato and herring,
   And water just fresh from the spring.
They press, and they smile: we sit down;
   First praying the Father of Love
Our table with blessings to crown,
   And feed us with bread from above.

The wealthy and bloated may sneer,
   And sicken o’er luxury’s dishes,
And loathe the poor cottager’s cheer,
   And melt in the heat of their wishes:
But luxury’s sons are unblest,
   A prey to each giddy desire,
And hence, where they never know rest,
   They sink in unquenchable fire.

Not so, the poor cottager’s lot,
   Who travels the Zion-ward road,
He’s blest in his neat little cot,
   He’s rich in the favour of God;
By faith he surmounts every wave
   That rolls on this sea of distress:
Triumphant, he dives in the grave,
   To rise on the ocean of bliss.

Now supper is o’er and we raise
   Our prayers to the Father of light
And joyfully hymning His praise,
   We lovingly bid a good-night. —
The ground’s white, the sky’s cloudless blue,
   The breeze flutters keen through the air,
The stars twinkle bright on my view,
   As I to my mansion repair.

All peace, my dear cottage, be thine!
   Nor think that I’ll treat you with scorn;
Whoever reads verses of mine
   Shall hear of the Cabin of Mourne;
And had I but musical strains,
   Though humble and mean in your station
You should smile whilst the world remains,
   The pride of the fair Irish Nation.

In friendship, fair Erin, you glow;
   Offended, you quickly forgive;
Your courage is known to each foe,
   Yet foes on your bounty might live.
Some faults you, however, must own;
   Dissensions, impetuous zeal,
And wild prodigality, grown
   Too big for your income and weal.

Ah!  Erin, if you would be great,
   And happy, and wealthy, and wise,
And trample your sorrows, elate,
   Contend for our cottager’s prize;
So error and vice shall decay,
   And concord add bliss to renown,
And you shall gleam brighter than day,
   The gem of the fair British Crown.