Chapter 7

I have flown to waken thee-- For, if thou wilt not arise, Then my soul can drink no peace From these holy moonlight skies.

And this waste of virgin snow To my sight will not be fair, Unless thou wilt smiling come, Love, to wander with me there.

Then, awake! Maria, wake! For, if thou couldst only know How the quiet moonlight sleeps On this wilderness of snow,

And the groves of ancient trees, In their snowy garb arrayed, Till they stretch into the gloom Of the distant valley's shade;

I know thou wouldst rejoice To inhale this bracing air; Thou wouldst break thy sweetest sleep To behold a scene so fair.

O'er these wintry wilds, ALONE, Thou wouldst joy to wander free; And it will not please thee less, Though that bliss be shared with me.

THE CAPTIVE DOVE.

Poor restless dove, I pity thee; And when I hear thy plaintive moan, I mourn for thy captivity, And in thy woes forget mine own.

To see thee stand prepared to fly, And flap those useless wings of thine, And gaze into the distant sky, Would melt a harder heart than mine.

In vain--in vain! Thou canst not rise: Thy prison roof confines thee there; Its slender wires delude thine eyes, And quench thy longings with despair.

Oh, thou wert made to wander free In sunny mead and shady grove, And far beyond the rolling sea, In distant climes, at will to rove!

Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate Thy little drooping heart to cheer, And share with thee thy captive state, Thou couldst be happy even there.

Yes, even there, if, listening by, One faithful dear companion stood, While gazing on her full bright eye, Thou mightst forget thy native wood

But thou, poor solitary dove, Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan; The heart that Nature formed to love Must pine, neglected, and alone.

SELF-CONGRATULATION.

Ellen, you were thoughtless once Of beauty or of grace, Simple and homely in attire, Careless of form and face; Then whence this change? and wherefore now So often smoothe your hair? And wherefore deck your youthful form With such unwearied care?

Tell us, and cease to tire our ears With that familiar strain; Why will you play those simple tunes So often o'er again? "Indeed, dear friends, I can but say That childhood's thoughts are gone; Each year its own new feelings brings, And years move swiftly on:

"And for these little simple airs-- I love to play them o'er So much--I dare not promise, now, To play them never more." I answered--and it was enough; They turned them to depart; They could not read my secret thoughts, Nor see my throbbing heart.

I've noticed many a youthful form, Upon whose changeful face The inmost workings of the soul The gazer well might trace; The speaking eye, the changing lip, The ready blushing cheek, The smiling, or beclouded brow, Their different feelings speak.

But, thank God! you might gaze on mine For hours, and never know The secret changes of my soul From joy to keenest woe. Last night, as we sat round the fire Conversing merrily, We heard, without, approaching steps Of one well known to me!

There was no trembling in my voice, No blush upon my cheek, No lustrous sparkle in my eyes, Of hope, or joy, to speak; But, oh! my spirit burned within, My heart beat full and fast! He came not nigh--he went away-- And then my joy was past.

And yet my comrades marked it not: My voice was still the same; They saw me smile, and o'er my face No signs of sadness came. They little knew my hidden thoughts; And they will NEVER know The aching anguish of my heart, The bitter burning woe!

FLUCTUATIONS,

What though the Sun had left my sky; To save me from despair The blessed Moon arose on high, And shone serenely there.

I watched her, with a tearful gaze, Rise slowly o'er the hill, While through the dim horizon's haze Her light gleamed faint and chill.

I thought such wan and lifeless beams Could ne'er my heart repay For the bright sun's most transient gleams That cheered me through the day:

But, as above that mist's control She rose, and brighter shone, I felt her light upon my soul; But now--that light is gone!

Thick vapours snatched her from my sight, And I was darkling left, All in the cold and gloomy night, Of light and hope bereft:

Until, methought, a little star Shone forth with trembling ray, To cheer me with its light afar-- But that, too, passed away.

Anon, an earthly meteor blazed The gloomy darkness through; I smiled, yet trembled while I gazed-- But that soon vanished too!

And darker, drearier fell the night Upon my spirit then;-- But what is that faint struggling light? Is it the Moon again?

Kind Heaven! increase that silvery gleam And bid these clouds depart, And let her soft celestial beam Restore my fainting heart!

SELECTIONS FROM THE LITERARY REMAINS OF ELLIS AND ACTON BELL.

By Currer Bell

SELECTIONS FROM POEMS BY ELLIS BELL.

It would not have been difficult to compile a volume out of the papers left by my sisters, had I, in making the selection, dismissed from my consideration the scruples and the wishes of those whose written thoughts these papers held. But this was impossible: an influence, stronger than could be exercised by any motive of expediency, necessarily regulated the selection. I have, then, culled from the mass only a little poem here and there. The whole makes but a tiny nosegay, and the colour and perfume of the flowers are not such as fit them for festal uses.

It has been already said that my sisters wrote much in childhood and girlhood. Usually, it seems a sort of injustice to expose in print the crude thoughts of the unripe mind, the rude efforts of the unpractised hand; yet I venture to give three little poems of my sister Emily's, written in her sixteenth year, because they illustrate a point in her character.

At that period she was sent to school. Her previous life, with the exception of a single half-year, had been passed in the absolute retirement of a village parsonage, amongst the hills bordering Yorkshire and Lancashire. The scenery of these hills is not grand--it is not romantic it is scarcely striking. Long low moors, dark with heath, shut in little valleys, where a stream waters, here and there, a fringe of stunted copse. Mills and scattered cottages chase romance from these valleys; it is only higher up, deep in amongst the ridges of the moors, that Imagination can find rest for the sole of her foot: and even if she finds it there, she must be a solitude-loving raven--no gentle dove. If she demand beauty to inspire her, she must bring it inborn: these moors are too stern to yield any product so delicate. The eye of the gazer must ITSELF brim with a "purple light," intense enough to perpetuate the brief flower-flush of August on the heather, or the rare sunset-smile of June; out of his heart must well the freshness, that in latter spring and early summer brightens the bracken, nurtures the moss, and cherishes the starry flowers that spangle for a few weeks the pasture of the moor-sheep. Unless that light and freshness are innate and self-sustained, the drear prospect of a Yorkshire moor will be found as barren of poetic as of agricultural interest: where the love of wild nature is strong, the locality will perhaps be clung to with the more passionate constancy, because from the hill-lover's self comes half its charm.

My sister Emily loved the moors. Flowers brighter than the rose bloomed in the blackest of the heath for her; out of a sullen hollow in a livid hill-side her mind could make an Eden. She found in the bleak solitude many and dear delights; and not the least and best loved was--liberty.

Liberty was the breath of Emily's nostrils; without it, she perished. The change from her own home to a school, and from her own very noiseless, very secluded, but unrestricted and inartificial mode of life, to one of disciplined routine (though under the kindliest auspices), was what she failed in enduring. Her nature proved here too strong for her fortitude. Every morning when she woke, the vision of home and the moors rushed on her, and darkened and saddened the day that lay before her. Nobody knew what ailed her but me--I knew only too well. In this struggle her health was quickly broken: her white face, attenuated form, and failing strength, threatened rapid decline. I felt in my heart she would die, if she did not go home, and with this conviction obtained her recall. She had only been three months at school; and it was some years before the experiment of sending her from home was again ventured on. After the age of twenty, having meantime studied alone with diligence and perseverance, she went with me to an establishment on the Continent: the same suffering and conflict ensued, heightened by the strong recoil of her upright, heretic and English spirit from the gentle Jesuitry of the foreign and Romish system. Once more she seemed sinking, but this time she rallied through the mere force of resolution: with inward remorse and shame she looked back on her former failure, and resolved to conquer in this second ordeal. She did conquer: but the victory cost her dear. She was never happy till she carried her hard-won knowledge back to the remote English village, the old parsonage-house, and desolate Yorkshire hills. A very few years more, and she looked her last on those hills, and breathed her last in that house, and under the aisle of that obscure village church found her last lowly resting-place. Merciful was the decree that spared her when she was a stranger in a strange land, and guarded her dying bed with kindred love and congenial constancy.

The following pieces were composed at twilight, in the school-room, when the leisure of the evening play-hour brought back in full tide the thoughts of home.

I.

A LITTLE while, a little while, The weary task is put away, And I can sing and I can smile, Alike, while I have holiday.

Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart-- What thought, what scene invites thee now What spot, or near or far apart, Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, 'mid barren hills, Where winter howls, and driving rain; But, if the dreary tempest chills, There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare, Moonless above bends twilight's dome; But what on earth is half so dear-- So longed for--as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone, The dank moss dripping from the wall, The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, I love them--how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room, The alien firelight died away; And from the midst of cheerless gloom, I passed to bright, unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane That opened on a common wide; A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain Of mountains circling every side.

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air; And, deepening still the dream-like charm, Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

THAT was the scene, I knew it well; I knew the turfy pathway's sweep, That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour, It well had paid a week of toil; But Truth has banished Fancy's power: Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye, Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear, My hour of rest had fleeted by, And back came labour, bondage, care.

II. THE BLUEBELL.

The Bluebell is the sweetest flower That waves in summer air: Its blossoms have the mightiest power To soothe my spirit's care.

There is a spell in purple heath Too wildly, sadly dear; The violet has a fragrant breath, But fragrance will not cheer,

The trees are bare, the sun is cold, And seldom, seldom seen; The heavens have lost their zone of gold, And earth her robe of green.

And ice upon the glancing stream Has cast its sombre shade; And distant hills and valleys seem In frozen mist arrayed.

The Bluebell cannot charm me now, The heath has lost its bloom; The violets in the glen below, They yield no sweet perfume.

But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell, 'Tis better far away; I know how fast my tears would swell To see it smile to-day.

For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fall Adown that dreary sky, And gild yon dank and darkened wall With transient brilliancy;

How do I weep, how do I pine For the time of flowers to come, And turn me from that fading shine, To mourn the fields of home!

III.

Loud without the wind was roaring Through th'autumnal sky; Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring, Spoke of winter nigh. All too like that dreary eve, Did my exiled spirit grieve. Grieved at first, but grieved not long, Sweet--how softly sweet!--it came; Wild words of an ancient song, Undefined, without a name.

"It was spring, and the skylark was singing:" Those words they awakened a spell; They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing, Nor absence, nor distance can quell.

In the gloom of a cloudy November They uttered the music of May; They kindled the perishing ember Into fervour that could not decay.

Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland, West-wind, in thy glory and pride! Oh! call me from valley and lowland, To walk by the hill-torrent's side!

It is swelled with the first snowy weather; The rocks they are icy and hoar, And sullenly waves the long heather, And the fern leaves are sunny no more.

There are no yellow stars on the mountain The bluebells have long died away From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain-- From the side of the wintry brae.

But lovelier than corn-fields all waving In emerald, and vermeil, and gold, Are the heights where the north-wind is raving, And the crags where I wandered of old.

It was morning: the bright sun was beaming; How sweetly it brought back to me The time when nor labour nor dreaming Broke the sleep of the happy and free!

But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven Was melting to amber and blue, And swift were the wings to our feet given, As we traversed the meadows of dew.

For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass Like velvet beneath us should lie! For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass Rose sunny against the clear sky!

For the moors, where the linnet was trilling Its song on the old granite stone; Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling Every breast with delight like its own!

What language can utter the feeling Which rose, when in exile afar, On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling, I saw the brown heath growing there?

It was scattered and stunted, and told me That soon even that would be gone: It whispered, "The grim walls enfold me, I have bloomed in my last summer's sun."

But not the loved music, whose waking Makes the soul of the Swiss die away, Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.

The spirit which bent 'neath its power, How it longed--how it burned to be free! If I could have wept in that hour, Those tears had been heaven to me.

Well--well; the sad minutes are moving, Though loaded with trouble and pain; And some time the loved and the loving Shall meet on the mountains again!

The following little piece has no title; but in it the Genius of a solitary region seems to address his wandering and wayward votary, and to recall within his influence the proud mind which rebelled at times even against what it most loved.

Shall earth no more inspire thee, Thou lonely dreamer now? Since passion may not fire thee, Shall nature cease to bow?

Thy mind is ever moving, In regions dark to thee; Recall its useless roving, Come back, and dwell with me.

I know my mountain breezes Enchant and soothe thee still, I know my sunshine pleases, Despite thy wayward will.

When day with evening blending, Sinks from the summer sky, I've seen thy spirit bending In fond idolatry.

I've watched thee every hour; I know my mighty sway: I know my magic power To drive thy griefs away.

Few hearts to mortals given, On earth so wildly pine; Yet few would ask a heaven More like this earth than thine.

Then let my winds caress thee Thy comrade let me be: Since nought beside can bless thee, Return--and dwell with me.

Here again is the same mind in converse with a like abstraction. "The Night-Wind," breathing through an open window, has visited an ear which discerned language in its whispers.

THE NIGHT-WIND.

In summer's mellow midnight, A cloudless moon shone through Our open parlour window, And rose-trees wet with dew.

I sat in silent musing; The soft wind waved my hair; It told me heaven was glorious, And sleeping earth was fair.

I needed not its breathing To bring such thoughts to me; But still it whispered lowly, How dark the woods will be!

"The thick leaves in my murmur Are rustling like a dream, And all their myriad voices Instinct with spirit seem."

I said, "Go, gentle singer, Thy wooing voice is kind: But do not think its music Has power to reach my mind.

"Play with the scented flower, The young tree's supple bough, And leave my human feelings In their own course to flow."

The wanderer would not heed me; Its kiss grew warmer still. "O come!" it sighed so sweetly; "I'll win thee 'gainst thy will.

"Were we not friends from childhood? Have I not loved thee long? As long as thou, the solemn night, Whose silence wakes my song.

"And when thy heart is resting Beneath the church-aisle stone, I shall have time for mourning, And THOU for being alone."

In these stanzas a louder gale has roused the sleeper on her pillow: the wakened soul struggles to blend with the storm by which it is swayed:--

Ay--there it is! it wakes to-night Deep feelings I thought dead; Strong in the blast--quick gathering light-- The heart's flame kindles red.

"Now I can tell by thine altered cheek, And by thine eyes' full gaze, And by the words thou scarce dost speak, How wildly fancy plays.

"Yes--I could swear that glorious wind Has swept the world aside, Has dashed its memory from thy mind Like foam-bells from the tide:

"And thou art now a spirit pouring Thy presence into all: The thunder of the tempest's roaring, The whisper of its fall:

"An universal influence, From thine own influence free; A principle of life--intense-- Lost to mortality.

"Thus truly, when that breast is cold, Thy prisoned soul shall rise; The dungeon mingle with the mould-- The captive with the skies. Nature's deep being, thine shall hold, Her spirit all thy spirit fold, Her breath absorb thy sighs. Mortal! though soon life's tale is told; Who once lives, never dies!"

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring, Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with the holly's sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green.

THE ELDER'S REBUKE.

"Listen! When your hair, like mine, Takes a tint of silver gray; When your eyes, with dimmer shine, Watch life's bubbles float away:

When you, young man, have borne like me The weary weight of sixty-three, Then shall penance sore be paid For those hours so wildly squandered; And the words that now fall dead On your ear, be deeply pondered-- Pondered and approved at last: But their virtue will be past!

"Glorious is the prize of Duty, Though she be 'a serious power'; Treacherous all the lures of Beauty, Thorny bud and poisonous flower!

"Mirth is but a mad beguiling Of the golden-gifted time; Love--a demon-meteor, wiling Heedless feet to gulfs of crime.

"Those who follow earthly pleasure, Heavenly knowledge will not lead; Wisdom hides from them her treasure, Virtue bids them evil-speed!

"Vainly may their hearts repenting. Seek for aid in future years; Wisdom, scorned, knows no relenting; Virtue is not won by fears."

Thus spake the ice-blooded elder gray; The young man scoffed as he turned away, Turned to the call of a sweet lute's measure, Waked by the lightsome touch of pleasure: Had he ne'er met a gentler teacher, Woe had been wrought by that pitiless preacher.

THE WANDERER FROM THE FOLD.

How few, of all the hearts that loved, Are grieving for thee now; And why should mine to-night be moved With such a sense of woe?

Too often thus, when left alone, Where none my thoughts can see, Comes back a word, a passing tone From thy strange history.

Sometimes I seem to see thee rise, A glorious child again; All virtues beaming from thine eyes That ever honoured men:

Courage and truth, a generous breast Where sinless sunshine lay: A being whose very presence blest Like gladsome summer-day.

O, fairly spread thy early sail, And fresh, and pure, and free, Was the first impulse of the gale Which urged life's wave for thee!

Why did the pilot, too confiding, Dream o'er that ocean's foam, And trust in Pleasure's careless guiding To bring his vessel home?

For well he knew what dangers frowned, What mists would gather, dim; What rocks and shelves, and sands lay round Between his port and him.

The very brightness of the sun The splendour of the main, The wind which bore him wildly on Should not have warned in vain.

An anxious gazer from the shore-- I marked the whitening wave, And wept above thy fate the more Because--I could not save.

It recks not now, when all is over: But yet my heart will be A mourner still, though friend and lover Have both forgotten thee!

WARNING AND REPLY.

In the earth--the earth--thou shalt be laid, A grey stone standing over thee; Black mould beneath thee spread, And black mould to cover thee.

"Well--there is rest there, So fast come thy prophecy; The time when my sunny hair Shall with grass roots entwined be."

But cold--cold is that resting-place, Shut out from joy and liberty, And all who loved thy living face Will shrink from it shudderingly,

"Not so. HERE the world is chill, And sworn friends fall from me: But THERE--they will own me still, And prize my memory."

Farewell, then, all that love, All that deep sympathy: Sleep on: Heaven laughs above, Earth never misses thee.