Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

WINTER STORES

 
     We take from life one little share,
     And say that this shall be
     A space, redeemed from toil and care,
     From tears and sadness free.
 
 
     And, haply, Death unstrings his bow,
     And Sorrow stands apart,
     And, for a little while, we know
     The sunshine of the heart.
 
 
     Existence seems a summer eve,
     Warm, soft, and full of peace,
     Our free, unfettered feelings give
     The soul its full release.
 
 
     A moment, then, it takes the power
     To call up thoughts that throw
     Around that charmed and hallowed hour,
     This life's divinest glow.
 
 
     But Time, though viewlessly it flies,
     And slowly, will not stay;
     Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
     It cleaves its silent way.
 
 
     Alike the bitter cup of grief,
     Alike the draught of bliss,
     Its progress leaves but moment brief
     For baffled lips to kiss
 
 
     The sparkling draught is dried away,
     The hour of rest is gone,
     And urgent voices, round us, say,
     "Ho, lingerer, hasten on!"
 
 
     And has the soul, then, only gained,
     From this brief time of ease,
     A moment's rest, when overstrained,
     One hurried glimpse of peace?
 
 
     No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us,
     And flowers bloomed round our feet, —
     While many a bud of joy before us
     Unclosed its petals sweet, —
 
 
     An unseen work within was plying;
     Like honey-seeking bee,
     From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
     Laboured one faculty, —
 
 
     Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow,
     Its gloom and scarcity;
     Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
     Toiled quiet Memory.
 
 
     'Tis she that from each transient pleasure
     Extracts a lasting good;
     'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure
     To serve for winter's food.
 
 
     And when Youth's summer day is vanished,
     And Age brings Winter's stress,
     Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
     Life's evening hours will bless.
 

THE MISSIONARY

 
     Plough, vessel, plough the British main,
     Seek the free ocean's wider plain;
     Leave English scenes and English skies,
     Unbind, dissever English ties;
     Bear me to climes remote and strange,
     Where altered life, fast-following change,
     Hot action, never-ceasing toil,
     Shall stir, turn, dig, the spirit's soil;
     Fresh roots shall plant, fresh seed shall sow,
 
 
     Till a new garden there shall grow,
     Cleared of the weeds that fill it now, —
     Mere human love, mere selfish yearning,
     Which, cherished, would arrest me yet.
     I grasp the plough, there's no returning,
     Let me, then, struggle to forget.
 
 
     But England's shores are yet in view,
     And England's skies of tender blue
     Are arched above her guardian sea.
     I cannot yet Remembrance flee;
     I must again, then, firmly face
     That task of anguish, to retrace.
     Wedded to home – I home forsake;
     Fearful of change – I changes make;
     Too fond of ease – I plunge in toil;
     Lover of calm – I seek turmoil:
     Nature and hostile Destiny
     Stir in my heart a conflict wild;
     And long and fierce the war will be
     Ere duty both has reconciled.
 
 
     What other tie yet holds me fast
     To the divorced, abandoned past?
     Smouldering, on my heart's altar lies
     The fire of some great sacrifice,
     Not yet half quenched. The sacred steel
     But lately struck my carnal will,
     My life-long hope, first joy and last,
     What I loved well, and clung to fast;
     What I wished wildly to retain,
     What I renounced with soul-felt pain;
     What – when I saw it, axe-struck, perish —
     Left me no joy on earth to cherish;
     A man bereft – yet sternly now
     I do confirm that Jephtha vow:
     Shall I retract, or fear, or flee?
     Did Christ, when rose the fatal tree
     Before him, on Mount Calvary?
     'Twas a long fight, hard fought, but won,
     And what I did was justly done.
 
 
     Yet, Helen! from thy love I turned,
     When my heart most for thy heart burned;
     I dared thy tears, I dared thy scorn —
     Easier the death-pang had been borne.
     Helen, thou mightst not go with me,
     I could not – dared not stay for thee!
     I heard, afar, in bonds complain
     The savage from beyond the main;
     And that wild sound rose o'er the cry
     Wrung out by passion's agony;
     And even when, with the bitterest tear
     I ever shed, mine eyes were dim,
     Still, with the spirit's vision clear,
     I saw Hell's empire, vast and grim,
     Spread on each Indian river's shore,
     Each realm of Asia covering o'er.
     There, the weak, trampled by the strong,
     Live but to suffer – hopeless die;
     There pagan-priests, whose creed is Wrong,
     Extortion, Lust, and Cruelty,
     Crush our lost race – and brimming fill
     The bitter cup of human ill;
     And I – who have the healing creed,
     The faith benign of Mary's Son,
     Shall I behold my brother's need,
     And, selfishly, to aid him shun?
     I – who upon my mother's knees,
     In childhood, read Christ's written word,
     Received his legacy of peace,
     His holy rule of action heard;
     I – in whose heart the sacred sense
     Of Jesus' love was early felt;
     Of his pure, full benevolence,
     His pitying tenderness for guilt;
     His shepherd-care for wandering sheep,
     For all weak, sorrowing, trembling things,
     His mercy vast, his passion deep
     Of anguish for man's sufferings;
     I – schooled from childhood in such lore —
     Dared I draw back or hesitate,
     When called to heal the sickness sore
     Of those far off and desolate?
     Dark, in the realm and shades of Death,
     Nations, and tribes, and empires lie,
     But even to them the light of Faith
     Is breaking on their sombre sky:
     And be it mine to bid them raise
     Their drooped heads to the kindling scene,
     And know and hail the sunrise blaze
     Which heralds Christ the Nazarene.
     I know how Hell the veil will spread
     Over their brows and filmy eyes,
     And earthward crush the lifted head
     That would look up and seek the skies;
     I know what war the fiend will wage
     Against that soldier of the Cross,
     Who comes to dare his demon rage,
     And work his kingdom shame and loss.
     Yes, hard and terrible the toil
     Of him who steps on foreign soil,
     Resolved to plant the gospel vine,
     Where tyrants rule and slaves repine;
     Eager to lift Religion's light
     Where thickest shades of mental night
     Screen the false god and fiendish rite;
     Reckless that missionary blood,
     Shed in wild wilderness and wood,
     Has left, upon the unblest air,
     The man's deep moan – the martyr's prayer.
     I know my lot – I only ask
     Power to fulfil the glorious task;
     Willing the spirit, may the flesh
     Strength for the day receive afresh.
     May burning sun or deadly wind
     Prevail not o'er an earnest mind;
     May torments strange or direst death
     Nor trample truth, nor baffle faith.
     Though such blood-drops should fall from me
     As fell in old Gethsemane,
     Welcome the anguish, so it gave
     More strength to work – more skill to save.
     And, oh! if brief must be my time,
     If hostile hand or fatal clime
     Cut short my course – still o'er my grave,
     Lord, may thy harvest whitening wave.
     So I the culture may begin,
     Let others thrust the sickle in;
     If but the seed will faster grow,
     May my blood water what I sow!
 
 
     What! have I ever trembling stood,
     And feared to give to God that blood?
     What! has the coward love of life
     Made me shrink from the righteous strife?
     Have human passions, human fears
     Severed me from those Pioneers
     Whose task is to march first, and trace
     Paths for the progress of our race?
     It has been so; but grant me, Lord,
     Now to stand steadfast by Thy word!
     Protected by salvation's helm,
     Shielded by faith, with truth begirt,
     To smile when trials seek to whelm
     And stand mid testing fires unhurt!
     Hurling hell's strongest bulwarks down,
     Even when the last pang thrills my breast,
     When death bestows the martyr's crown,
     And calls me into Jesus' rest.
     Then for my ultimate reward —
     Then for the world-rejoicing word —
     The voice from Father – Spirit – Son:
     "Servant of God, well hast thou done!"
 

POEMS BY ELLIS BELL

FAITH AND DESPONDENCY

 
     "The winter wind is loud and wild,
     Come close to me, my darling child;
     Forsake thy books, and mateless play;
     And, while the night is gathering gray,
     We'll talk its pensive hours away; —
 
 
     "Ierne, round our sheltered hall
     November's gusts unheeded call;
     Not one faint breath can enter here
     Enough to wave my daughter's hair,
     And I am glad to watch the blaze
     Glance from her eyes, with mimic rays;
     To feel her cheek, so softly pressed,
     In happy quiet on my breast,
 
 
     "But, yet, even this tranquillity
     Brings bitter, restless thoughts to me;
     And, in the red fire's cheerful glow,
     I think of deep glens, blocked with snow;
     I dream of moor, and misty hill,
     Where evening closes dark and chill;
     For, lone, among the mountains cold,
     Lie those that I have loved of old.
     And my heart aches, in hopeless pain,
     Exhausted with repinings vain,
     That I shall greet them ne'er again!"
 
 
     "Father, in early infancy,
     When you were far beyond the sea,
     Such thoughts were tyrants over me!
     I often sat, for hours together,
     Through the long nights of angry weather,
     Raised on my pillow, to descry
     The dim moon struggling in the sky;
     Or, with strained ear, to catch the shock,
     Of rock with wave, and wave with rock;
     So would I fearful vigil keep,
     And, all for listening, never sleep.
     But this world's life has much to dread,
     Not so, my Father, with the dead.
 
 
     "Oh! not for them, should we despair,
     The grave is drear, but they are not there;
     Their dust is mingled with the sod,
     Their happy souls are gone to God!
     You told me this, and yet you sigh,
     And murmur that your friends must die.
     Ah! my dear father, tell me why?
     For, if your former words were true,
     How useless would such sorrow be;
     As wise, to mourn the seed which grew
     Unnoticed on its parent tree,
     Because it fell in fertile earth,
     And sprang up to a glorious birth —
     Struck deep its root, and lifted high
     Its green boughs in the breezy sky.
 
 
     "But, I'll not fear, I will not weep
     For those whose bodies rest in sleep, —
     I know there is a blessed shore,
     Opening its ports for me and mine;
     And, gazing Time's wide waters o'er,
     I weary for that land divine,
     Where we were born, where you and I
     Shall meet our dearest, when we die;
     From suffering and corruption free,
     Restored into the Deity."
 
 
     "Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child!
     And wiser than thy sire;
     And worldly tempests, raging wild,
     Shall strengthen thy desire —
     Thy fervent hope, through storm and foam,
     Through wind and ocean's roar,
     To reach, at last, the eternal home,
     The steadfast, changeless shore!"
 

STARS

 
     Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
     Restored our Earth to joy,
     Have you departed, every one,
     And left a desert sky?
 
 
     All through the night, your glorious eyes
     Were gazing down in mine,
     And, with a full heart's thankful sighs,
     I blessed that watch divine.
 
 
     I was at peace, and drank your beams
     As they were life to me;
     And revelled in my changeful dreams,
     Like petrel on the sea.
 
 
     Thought followed thought, star followed star,
     Through boundless regions, on;
     While one sweet influence, near and far,
     Thrilled through, and proved us one!
 
 
     Why did the morning dawn to break
     So great, so pure, a spell;
     And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek,
     Where your cool radiance fell?
 
 
     Blood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight,
     His fierce beams struck my brow;
     The soul of nature sprang, elate,
     But mine sank sad and low!
 
 
     My lids closed down, yet through their veil
     I saw him, blazing, still,
     And steep in gold the misty dale,
     And flash upon the hill.
 
 
     I turned me to the pillow, then,
     To call back night, and see
     Your worlds of solemn light, again,
     Throb with my heart, and me!
 
 
     It would not do – the pillow glowed,
     And glowed both roof and floor;
     And birds sang loudly in the wood,
     And fresh winds shook the door;
 
 
     The curtains waved, the wakened flies
     Were murmuring round my room,
     Imprisoned there, till I should rise,
     And give them leave to roam.
 
 
     Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;
     Oh, night and stars, return!
     And hide me from the hostile light
     That does not warm, but burn;
 
 
     That drains the blood of suffering men;
     Drinks tears, instead of dew;
     Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
     And only wake with you!
 

THE PHILOSOPHER

 
     Enough of thought, philosopher!
     Too long hast thou been dreaming
     Unlightened, in this chamber drear,
     While summer's sun is beaming!
     Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain
     Concludes thy musings once again?
 
 
     "Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
     Without identity.
     And never care how rain may steep,
     Or snow may cover me!
     No promised heaven, these wild desires
     Could all, or half fulfil;
     No threatened hell, with quenchless fires,
     Subdue this quenchless will!"
 
 
     "So said I, and still say the same;
     Still, to my death, will say —
     Three gods, within this little frame,
     Are warring night; and day;
     Heaven could not hold them all, and yet
     They all are held in me;
     And must be mine till I forget
     My present entity!
     Oh, for the time, when in my breast
     Their struggles will be o'er!
     Oh, for the day, when I shall rest,
     And never suffer more!"
 
 
     "I saw a spirit, standing, man,
     Where thou dost stand – an hour ago,
     And round his feet three rivers ran,
     Of equal depth, and equal flow —
     A golden stream – and one like blood;
     And one like sapphire seemed to be;
     But, where they joined their triple flood
     It tumbled in an inky sea
     The spirit sent his dazzling gaze
     Down through that ocean's gloomy night;
     Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze,
     The glad deep sparkled wide and bright —
     White as the sun, far, far more fair
     Than its divided sources were!"
 
 
     "And even for that spirit, seer,
     I've watched and sought my life-time long;
     Sought him in heaven, hell, earth, and air,
     An endless search, and always wrong.
     Had I but seen his glorious eye
     ONCE light the clouds that wilder me;
     I ne'er had raised this coward cry
     To cease to think, and cease to be;
 
 
     I ne'er had called oblivion blest,
     Nor stretching eager hands to death,
     Implored to change for senseless rest
     This sentient soul, this living breath —
     Oh, let me die – that power and will
     Their cruel strife may close;
     And conquered good, and conquering ill
     Be lost in one repose!"
 

REMEMBRANCE

 
     Cold in the earth – and the deep snow piled above thee,
     Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave!
     Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
     Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
 
 
     Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
     Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
     Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
     Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
 
 
     Cold in the earth – and fifteen wild Decembers,
     From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
     Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
     After such years of change and suffering!
 
 
     Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
     While the world's tide is bearing me along;
     Other desires and other hopes beset me,
     Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
 
 
     No later light has lightened up my heaven,
     No second morn has ever shone for me;
     All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
     All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
 
 
     But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
     And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
     Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
     Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.
 
 
     Then did I check the tears of useless passion —
     Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
     Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
     Down to that tomb already more than mine.
 
 
     And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
     Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
     Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
     How could I seek the empty world again?
 

A DEATH-SCENE

 
     "O day! he cannot die
     When thou so fair art shining!
     O Sun, in such a glorious sky,
     So tranquilly declining;
 
 
     He cannot leave thee now,
     While fresh west winds are blowing,
     And all around his youthful brow
     Thy cheerful light is glowing!
 
 
     Edward, awake, awake —
     The golden evening gleams
     Warm and bright on Arden's lake —
     Arouse thee from thy dreams!
 
 
     Beside thee, on my knee,
     My dearest friend, I pray
     That thou, to cross the eternal sea,
     Wouldst yet one hour delay:
 
 
     I hear its billows roar —
     I see them foaming high;
     But no glimpse of a further shore
     Has blest my straining eye.
 
 
     Believe not what they urge
     Of Eden isles beyond;
     Turn back, from that tempestuous surge,
     To thy own native land.
 
 
     It is not death, but pain
     That struggles in thy breast —
     Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again;
     I cannot let thee rest!"
 
 
     One long look, that sore reproved me
     For the woe I could not bear —
     One mute look of suffering moved me
     To repent my useless prayer:
 
 
     And, with sudden check, the heaving
     Of distraction passed away;
     Not a sign of further grieving
     Stirred my soul that awful day.
 
 
     Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting;
     Sunk to peace the twilight breeze:
     Summer dews fell softly, wetting
     Glen, and glade, and silent trees.
 
 
     Then his eyes began to weary,
     Weighed beneath a mortal sleep;
     And their orbs grew strangely dreary,
     Clouded, even as they would weep.
 
 
     But they wept not, but they changed not,
     Never moved, and never closed;
     Troubled still, and still they ranged not —
     Wandered not, nor yet reposed!
 
 
     So I knew that he was dying —
     Stooped, and raised his languid head;
     Felt no breath, and heard no sighing,
     So I knew that he was dead.
 

SONG

 
     The linnet in the rocky dells,
     The moor-lark in the air,
     The bee among the heather bells
     That hide my lady fair:
 
 
     The wild deer browse above her breast;
     The wild birds raise their brood;
     And they, her smiles of love caressed,
     Have left her solitude!
 
 
     I ween, that when the grave's dark wall
     Did first her form retain,
     They thought their hearts could ne'er recall
     The light of joy again.
 
 
     They thought the tide of grief would flow
     Unchecked through future years;
     But where is all their anguish now,
     And where are all their tears?
 
 
     Well, let them fight for honour's breath,
     Or pleasure's shade pursue —
     The dweller in the land of death
     Is changed and careless too.
 
 
     And, if their eyes should watch and weep
     Till sorrow's source were dry,
     She would not, in her tranquil sleep,
     Return a single sigh!
 
 
     Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound,
     And murmur, summer-streams —
     There is no need of other sound
     To soothe my lady's dreams.
 

ANTICIPATION

 
     How beautiful the earth is still,
     To thee – how full of happiness?
     How little fraught with real ill,
     Or unreal phantoms of distress!
     How spring can bring thee glory, yet,
     And summer win thee to forget
     December's sullen time!
     Why dost thou hold the treasure fast,
     Of youth's delight, when youth is past,
     And thou art near thy prime?
 
 
     When those who were thy own compeers,
     Equals in fortune and in years,
     Have seen their morning melt in tears,
     To clouded, smileless day;
     Blest, had they died untried and young,
     Before their hearts went wandering wrong, —
     Poor slaves, subdued by passions strong,
     A weak and helpless prey!
 
 
     'Because, I hoped while they enjoyed,
     And by fulfilment, hope destroyed;
     As children hope, with trustful breast,
     I waited bliss – and cherished rest.
     A thoughtful spirit taught me soon,
     That we must long till life be done;
     That every phase of earthly joy
     Must always fade, and always cloy:
 
 
     'This I foresaw – and would not chase
     The fleeting treacheries;
     But, with firm foot and tranquil face,
     Held backward from that tempting race,
     Gazed o'er the sands the waves efface,
     To the enduring seas —
     There cast my anchor of desire
     Deep in unknown eternity;
     Nor ever let my spirit tire,
     With looking for WHAT IS TO BE!
 
 
     "It is hope's spell that glorifies,
     Like youth, to my maturer eyes,
     All Nature's million mysteries,
     The fearful and the fair —
     Hope soothes me in the griefs I know;
     She lulls my pain for others' woe,
     And makes me strong to undergo
     What I am born to bear.
 
 
     Glad comforter! will I not brave,
     Unawed, the darkness of the grave?
     Nay, smile to hear Death's billows rave —
     Sustained, my guide, by thee?
     The more unjust seems present fate,
     The more my spirit swells elate,
     Strong, in thy strength, to anticipate
     Rewarding destiny!