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

       Yet if I tell the dream—­but let me pause.

       What dream? Erewhile the characters were clear,

       Graved on my brain—­at once some unknown cause

       Has dimmed and rased the thoughts, which now appear,

       Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene;—

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

       I suffered 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 prowled side by side,

       There he lived famished—­there methought he died;

       But not of hunger, nor by malady;

       I saw the snow around him, stained 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 enfolding 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 shewn!

       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 your 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.

      Currer.

      For other versions of this work, see Faith and Despondency.

      ​

FAITH AND DESPONDENCY.

       Table of Contents

      "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 grey,

       We'll talk its pensive hours away;—

      ⁠"Iernë, 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,