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

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      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 thickly 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 long 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?

      Acton.

      ​

HOME.

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      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 grey 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!

      Acton.

      ​

THE WIFE'S WILL.

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      Sit still—a word—a breath may break

       (As light airs stir a sleeping lake,)

       The glassy calm that soothes my woes,

       The sweet, the deep, the full repose.

       ​O leave me not! for ever be

       Thus, more than life itself to me!

       Yes, close beside thee, let me kneel—­

       Give me thy hand that I may feel

       The friend so true—­so tried—­so dear,

       My heart's own chosen—­indeed is near;

       And check me not—­this hour divine

       Belongs to me—­is fully mine.

       'Tis thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside,

       After long absence—­wandering wide;

       'Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes,

       A promise clear of stormless skies,

       For faith and true love light the rays,

       Which shine responsive to her gaze.

       Aye,—­well that single tear may fall;

       Ten thousand might mine eyes recall,

       Which from their lids, ran blinding fast,

       In hours of grief, yet scarcely past,

       Well may'st thou speak of love to me;

       For, oh! most truly—­I love thee!

       Yet smile­—for we are happy now.

       Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow?

       What say'st thou? "We must once again,

       Ere long, be severed by the main?"

       I knew not this—­I deemed no more,

       Thy step would err from Britain's shore.

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