Anne Bronte

'Maiden, thou wert thoughtless once Of beauty or of grace, Simple and homely in attire

Eternal power of earth and air, Unseen, yet seen in all around, Remote, but dwelling everywhere,

My God (oh, let me call Thee mine, Weak, wretched sinner though I be), My trembling soul would fain be Thine;

A prisoner in a dungeon deep Sat musing silently; His head was rested on his hand,

Yes, thou art gone ! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me ; But I may pass the old church door,

I'm buried now; I've done with life; I've done with hate, revenge and strife; I've done with joy, and hope and love

You may rejoice to think yourselves secure; You may be grateful for the gift divine That grace unsought, which made your black hearts pure,

You may rejoice to think yourselves secure, You may be grateful for the gift divine, That grace unsought which made your black hearts pure

Fair was the evening and brightly the sun Was shining on desert and grove, Sweet were the breezes and balmy the flowers

She's gone, and twice the summer's sun Has gilt Regina's towers, And melted wild Angora's snows,

Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tires of weeping,

Call me away; there's nothing here, That wins my soul to stay; Then let me leave this prospect drear,

Oppressed with sin and woe, A burdened heart I bear, Opposed by many a mighty foe;

I have gone backward in the work; The labour has not sped; Drowsy and dark my spirit lies,

Why should such gloomy silence reign, And why is all the house so drear, When neither danger, sickness, pain,

While on my lonely couch I lie, I seldom feel myself alone, For fancy fills my dreaming eye

Farewell to thee! but not farewell To all my fondest thoughts of thee: Within my heart they still shall dwell;

What though the sun had left my sky; To save me from despair The blessed moon arose on high,

Yes I will take a cheerful tone And feign to share their heartless glee, But I would rather weep alone

Gloomily the clouds are sailing O'er the dimly moonlit sky; Dolefully the wind is wailing;

How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays! While yonder beeches from their barks

O God! if this indeed be all That Life can show to me; If on my aching brow may fall

Blessed be Thou for all the joy My soul has felt to-day! Oh, let its memory stay with me,

Jan 7th A dreadful darkness closes in On my bewildered mind;

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze; For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,

Though not a breath can enter here, I know the wind blows fresh and free; I know the sun is shining clear,

That summer sun, whose genial glow Now cheers my drooping spirit so Must cold and distant be,

Though bleak these woods, and damp the ground, With fallen leaves so thickly strewn, And cold the wind that wanders round

Brightly the sun of summer shone, Green fields and waving woods upon, And soft winds wandered by;

'O cast away your sorrow; A while, at least, be gay! If grief must come tomorrow,

Why should such gloomy silence reign; And why is all the house so drear, When neither danger, sickness, pain,

Music I love, but never strain Could kindle raptures so divine, So grief assuage, so conquer pain,

My God! O let me call Thee mine! Weak wretched sinner though I be, My trembling soul would fain be Thine,

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring, And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze; For, above, and around me, the wild wind is roaring

I love the silent hour of night, For blissful dreams may then arise, Revealing to my charmed sight

Oh, they have robbed me of the hope My spirit held so dear; They will not let me hear that voice

O weep not, love! each tear that springs In those dear eyes of thine, To me a keener suffering brings

'Tis strange to think, there was a time When mirth was not an empty name, When laughter really cheered the heart,

Love, indeed thy strength is mighty Thus, alone, such strife to bear, Three 'gainst one, and never ceasing,

O, let me be alone a while, No human form is nigh. And may I sing and muse aloud,

'The mist is resting on the hill; The smoke is hanging in the air; The very clouds are standing still:

Ellen, you were thoughtless once Of beauty or of grace, Simple and homely in attire,

!Severed and gone, so many years! And art thou still so dear to me, That throbbing heart and burning tears

We know where deepest lies the snow, And where the frost-winds keenest blow, O'er every mountain's brow,

Come to the banquet, triumph in your songs! Strike up the chords, and sing of Victory! The oppressed have risen to redress their wrongs;

Oh, weep not, love! each tear that springs In those dear eyes of thine, To me a keener suffering brings,

I'll rest me in this sheltered bower, And look upon the clear blue sky That smiles upon me through the trees,

A fine and subtle spirit dwells In every little flower, Each one its own sweet feeling breathes

Poor restless dove, I pity thee; And when I hear thy plaintive moan, I mourn for thy captivity,

Methought I saw him but I knew him not; He was so changed from what he used to be, There was no redness on his woe-worn cheek,

Though bleak these woods and damp the ground With fallen leaves so thickly strewn, And cold the wind that wanders round

Eternal Power, of earth and air! Unseen, yet seen in all around, Remote, but dwelling everywhere,

Believe not those who say The upward path is smooth, Lest thou shouldst stumble in the way,

That wind is from the North, I know it well; No other breeze could have so wild a swell. Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell,

1 The chestnut steed stood by the gate His noble master's will to wait,

1 The lady of Alzerno's hall Is waiting for her lord;

I mourn with thee and yet rejoice That thou shouldst sorrow so; With Angel choirs I join my voice

I have slept upon my couch, But my spirit did not rest, For the labours of the day

Spirit of Earth! thy hand is chill: I've felt its icy clasp; And, shuddering, I remember still

I will not mourn thee, lovely one, Though thou art torn away. 'Tis said that if the morning sun

Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard; And oft, in childhood's years, I've read them o'er and o'er again,

In all we do, and hear, and see, Is restless Toil and Vanity; While yet the rolling earth abides,

In all we do, and hear, and see, Is restless Toil and Vanity. While yet the rolling earth abides,

Why, when I hear the stormy breath Of the wild winter wind Rushing o'er the mountain heath,

1 O raise those eyes to me again And smile again so joyously,

When sinks my heart in hopeless gloom, And life can shew no joy for me; And I behold a yawning tomb,

Weep not too much, my darling; Sigh not too oft for me; Say not the face of Nature

Yes, thou art gone! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me; But I may pass the old church door,

I dreamt last night; and in that dream My boyhood's heart was mine again; These latter years did nothing seem