Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. Anne Bronte

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СКАЧАТЬ Not what will be, but what, long since, has been.

       I suffer'd many things—I heard foretold

       A dreadful doom for Pilate—lingering woes,

       In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold

       Built up a solitude of trackless snows,

       There he and grisly wolves prowl'd side by side,

       There he lived famish'd—there, methought, he died;

       But not of hunger, nor by malady;

       I saw the snow around him, stain'd with gore;

       I said I had no tears for such as he,

       And, lo! my cheek is wet—mine eyes run o'er;

       I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt,

       I weep the impious deed, the blood self-spilt.

       More I recall not, yet the vision spread

       Into a world remote, an age to come—

       And still the illumined name of Jesus shed

       A light, a clearness, through the unfolding gloom—

       And still I saw that sign, which now I see,

       That cross on yonder brow of Calvary.

       What is this Hebrew Christ?-to me unknown

       His lineage—doctrine—mission; yet how clear

       Is God-like goodness in his actions shown,

       How straight and stainless is his life's career!

       The ray of Deity that rests on him,

       In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim.

       The world advances; Greek or Roman rite

       Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay;

       The searching soul demands a purer light

       To guide it on its upward, onward way;

       Ashamed of sculptured gods, Religion turns

       To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns.

       Our faith is rotten, all our rites defiled,

       Our temples sullied, and, methinks, this man,

       With his new ordinance, so wise and mild,

       Is come, even as He says, the chaff to fan

       And sever from the wheat; but will his faith

       Survive the terrors of to-morrow's death?

       * * * * * * *

       I feel a firmer trust—a higher hope

       Rise in my soul—it dawns with dawning day;

       Lo! on the Temple's roof—on Moriah's slope

       Appears at length that clear and crimson ray

       Which I so wished for when shut in by night;

       Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless pour light!

       Part, clouds and shadows! Glorious Sun appear!

       Part, mental gloom! Come insight from on high!

       Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear

       The longing soul doth still uncertain sigh.

       Oh! to behold the truth—that sun divine,

       How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine!

       This day, Time travails with a mighty birth;

       This day, Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth;

       Ere night descends I shall more surely know

       What guide to follow, in what path to go;

       I wait in hope—I wait in solemn fear,

       The oracle of God—the sole—true God—to hear.

MEMENTOS.

       Table of Contents

      Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves

       Of cabinets, shut up for years,

       What a strange task we've set ourselves!

       How still the lonely room appears!

       How strange this mass of ancient treasures,

       Mementos of past pains and pleasures;

       These volumes, clasped with costly stone,

       With print all faded, gilding gone;

       These fans of leaves from Indian trees—

       These crimson shells, from Indian seas—

       These tiny portraits, set in rings—

       Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things;

       Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith,

       And worn till the receiver's death,

       Now stored with cameos, china, shells,

       In this old closet's dusty cells.

       I scarcely think, for ten long years,

       A hand has touched these relics old;

       And, coating each, slow-formed, appears

       The growth of green and antique mould.

       All in this house is mossing over;

       All is unused, and dim, and damp;

       Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover—

       Bereft for years of fire and lamp.

       The sun, sometimes in summer, enters

       The casements, with reviving ray;

       But the long rains of many winters

       Moulder the very walls away.

       And outside all is ivy, clinging

       To chimney, lattice, gable grey;

       Scarcely one little red rose springing

       Through the green moss can force its way.

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