Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

THE PRISONER

A FRAGMENT

 
     In the dungeon-crypts idly did I stray,
     Reckless of the lives wasting there away;
     "Draw the ponderous bars! open, Warder stern!"
     He dared not say me nay – the hinges harshly turn.
 
 
     "Our guests are darkly lodged," I whisper'd, gazing through
     The vault, whose grated eye showed heaven more gray than blue;
     (This was when glad Spring laughed in awaking pride;)
     "Ay, darkly lodged enough!" returned my sullen guide.
 
 
     Then, God forgive my youth; forgive my careless tongue;
     I scoffed, as the chill chains on the damp flagstones rung:
     "Confined in triple walls, art thou so much to fear,
     That we must bind thee down and clench thy fetters here?"
 
 
     The captive raised her face; it was as soft and mild
     As sculptured marble saint, or slumbering unwean'd child;
     It was so soft and mild, it was so sweet and fair,
     Pain could not trace a line, nor grief a shadow there!
 
 
     The captive raised her hand and pressed it to her brow;
     "I have been struck," she said, "and I am suffering now;
     Yet these are little worth, your bolts and irons strong;
     And, were they forged in steel, they could not hold me long."
 
 
     Hoarse laughed the jailor grim:  "Shall I be won to hear;
     Dost think, fond, dreaming wretch, that I shall grant thy prayer?
     Or, better still, wilt melt my master's heart with groans?
     Ah! sooner might the sun thaw down these granite stones.
 
 
     "My master's voice is low, his aspect bland and kind,
     But hard as hardest flint the soul that lurks behind;
     And I am rough and rude, yet not more rough to see
     Than is the hidden ghost that has its home in me."
 
 
     About her lips there played a smile of almost scorn,
     "My friend," she gently said, "you have not heard me mourn;
     When you my kindred's lives, MY lost life, can restore,
     Then may I weep and sue, – but never, friend, before!
 
 
     "Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear
     Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair;
     A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,
     And offers for short life, eternal liberty.
 
 
     "He comes with western winds, with evening's wandering airs,
     With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars.
     Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,
     And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.
 
 
     "Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,
     When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears.
     When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm,
     I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.
 
 
     "But, first, a hush of peace – a soundless calm descends;
     The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends;
     Mute music soothes my breast – unuttered harmony,
     That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.
 
 
     "Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;
     My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels:
     Its wings are almost free – its home, its harbour found,
     Measuring the gulph, it stoops and dares the final bound,
 
 
     "Oh I dreadful is the check – intense the agony —
     When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;
     When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again;
     The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.
 
 
     "Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less;
     The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;
     And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,
     If it but herald death, the vision is divine!"
 
 
     She ceased to speak, and we, unanswering, turned to go —
     We had no further power to work the captive woe:
     Her cheek, her gleaming eye, declared that man had given
     A sentence, unapproved, and overruled by Heaven.
 

HOPE

 
     Hope Was but a timid friend;
     She sat without the grated den,
     Watching how my fate would tend,
     Even as selfish-hearted men.
 
 
     She was cruel in her fear;
     Through the bars one dreary day,
     I looked out to see her there,
     And she turned her face away!
 
 
     Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
     Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
     She would sing while I was weeping;
     If I listened, she would cease.
 
 
     False she was, and unrelenting;
     When my last joys strewed the ground,
     Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
     Those sad relics scattered round;
 
 
     Hope, whose whisper would have given
     Balm to all my frenzied pain,
     Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
     Went, and ne'er returned again!
 

A DAY DREAM

 
     On a sunny brae alone I lay
     One summer afternoon;
     It was the marriage-time of May,
     With her young lover, June.
 
 
     From her mother's heart seemed loath to part
     That queen of bridal charms,
     But her father smiled on the fairest child
     He ever held in his arms.
 
 
     The trees did wave their plumy crests,
     The glad birds carolled clear;
     And I, of all the wedding guests,
     Was only sullen there!
 
 
     There was not one, but wished to shun
     My aspect void of cheer;
     The very gray rocks, looking on,
     Asked, "What do you here?"
 
 
     And I could utter no reply;
     In sooth, I did not know
     Why I had brought a clouded eye
     To greet the general glow.
 
 
     So, resting on a heathy bank,
     I took my heart to me;
     And we together sadly sank
     Into a reverie.
 
 
     We thought, "When winter comes again,
     Where will these bright things be?
     All vanished, like a vision vain,
     An unreal mockery!
 
 
     "The birds that now so blithely sing,
     Through deserts, frozen dry,
     Poor spectres of the perished spring,
     In famished troops will fly.
 
 
     "And why should we be glad at all?
     The leaf is hardly green,
     Before a token of its fall
     Is on the surface seen!"
 
 
     Now, whether it were really so,
     I never could be sure;
     But as in fit of peevish woe,
     I stretched me on the moor,
 
 
     A thousand thousand gleaming fires
     Seemed kindling in the air;
     A thousand thousand silvery lyres
     Resounded far and near:
 
 
     Methought, the very breath I breathed
     Was full of sparks divine,
     And all my heather-couch was wreathed
     By that celestial shine!
 
 
     And, while the wide earth echoing rung
     To that strange minstrelsy
     The little glittering spirits sung,
     Or seemed to sing, to me:
 
 
     "O mortal! mortal! let them die;
     Let time and tears destroy,
     That we may overflow the sky
     With universal joy!
 
 
     "Let grief distract the sufferer's breast,
     And night obscure his way;
     They hasten him to endless rest,
     And everlasting day.
 
 
     "To thee the world is like a tomb,
     A desert's naked shore;
     To us, in unimagined bloom,
     It brightens more and more!
 
 
     "And, could we lift the veil, and give
     One brief glimpse to thine eye,
     Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live,
     BECAUSE they live to die."
 
 
     The music ceased; the noonday dream,
     Like dream of night, withdrew;
     But Fancy, still, will sometimes deem
     Her fond creation true.
 

TO IMAGINATION

 
     When weary with the long day's care,
     And earthly change from pain to pain,
     And lost, and ready to despair,
     Thy kind voice calls me back again:
     Oh, my true friend!  I am not lone,
     While then canst speak with such a tone!
 
 
     So hopeless is the world without;
     The world within I doubly prize;
     Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,
     And cold suspicion never rise;
     Where thou, and I, and Liberty,
     Have undisputed sovereignty.
 
 
     What matters it, that all around
     Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,
     If but within our bosom's bound
     We hold a bright, untroubled sky,
     Warm with ten thousand mingled rays
     Of suns that know no winter days?
 
 
     Reason, indeed, may oft complain
     For Nature's sad reality,
     And tell the suffering heart how vain
     Its cherished dreams must always be;
     And Truth may rudely trample down
     The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:
 
 
     But thou art ever there, to bring
     The hovering vision back, and breathe
     New glories o'er the blighted spring,
     And call a lovelier Life from Death.
     And whisper, with a voice divine,
     Of real worlds, as bright as thine.
 
 
     I trust not to thy phantom bliss,
     Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour,
     With never-failing thankfulness,
     I welcome thee, Benignant Power;
     Sure solacer of human cares,
     And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!
 

HOW CLEAR SHE SHINES

 
     How clear she shines!  How quietly
     I lie beneath her guardian light;
     While heaven and earth are whispering me,
     "To morrow, wake, but dream to-night."
     Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love!
     These throbbing temples softly kiss;
     And bend my lonely couch above,
     And bring me rest, and bring me bliss.
 
 
     The world is going; dark world, adieu!
     Grim world, conceal thee till the day;
     The heart thou canst not all subdue
     Must still resist, if thou delay!
 
 
     Thy love I will not, will not share;
     Thy hatred only wakes a smile;
     Thy griefs may wound – thy wrongs may tear,
     But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile!
     While gazing on the stars that glow
     Above me, in that stormless sea,
     I long to hope that all the woe
     Creation knows, is held in thee!
 
 
     And this shall be my dream to-night;
     I'll think the heaven of glorious spheres
     Is rolling on its course of light
     In endless bliss, through endless years;
     I'll think, there's not one world above,
     Far as these straining eyes can see,
     Where Wisdom ever laughed at Love,
     Or Virtue crouched to Infamy;
 
 
     Where, writhing 'neath the strokes of Fate,
     The mangled wretch was forced to smile;
     To match his patience 'gainst her hate,
     His heart rebellious all the while.
     Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong,
     And helpless Reason warn in vain;
     And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong;
     And Joy the surest path to Pain;
     And Peace, the lethargy of Grief;
     And Hope, a phantom of the soul;
     And life, a labour, void and brief;
     And Death, the despot of the whole!
 

SYMPATHY

 
     There should be no despair for you
     While nightly stars are burning;
     While evening pours its silent dew,
     And sunshine gilds the morning.
     There should be no despair – though tears
     May flow down like a river:
     Are not the best beloved of years
     Around your heart for ever?
 
 
     They weep, you weep, it must be so;
     Winds sigh as you are sighing,
     And winter sheds its grief in snow
     Where Autumn's leaves are lying:
     Yet, these revive, and from their fate
     Your fate cannot be parted:
     Then, journey on, if not elate,
     Still, NEVER broken-hearted!
 

PLEAD FOR ME

 
     Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now,
     When Reason, with a scornful brow,
     Is mocking at my overthrow!
     Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me
     And tell why I have chosen thee!
 
 
     Stern Reason is to judgment come,
     Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
     Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
     No, radiant angel, speak and say,
     Why I did cast the world away.
 
 
     Why I have persevered to shun
     The common paths that others run;
     And on a strange road journeyed on,
     Heedless, alike of wealth and power —
     Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower.
 
 
     These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine;
     And they, perchance, heard vows of mine,
     And saw my offerings on their shrine;
     But careless gifts are seldom prized,
     And MINE were worthily despised.
 
 
     So, with a ready heart, I swore
     To seek their altar-stone no more;
     And gave my spirit to adore
     Thee, ever-present, phantom thing —
     My slave, my comrade, and my king.
 
 
     A slave, because I rule thee still;
     Incline thee to my changeful will,
     And make thy influence good or ill:
     A comrade, for by day and night
     Thou art my intimate delight, —
 
 
     My darling pain that wounds and sears,
     And wrings a blessing out from tears
     By deadening me to earthly cares;
     And yet, a king, though Prudence well
     Have taught thy subject to rebel
 
 
     And am I wrong to worship where
     Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair,
     Since my own soul can grant my prayer?
     Speak, God of visions, plead for me,
     And tell why I have chosen thee!
 

SELF-INTEROGATION,

 
     "The evening passes fast away.
     'Tis almost time to rest;
     What thoughts has left the vanished day,
     What feelings in thy breast?
 
 
     "The vanished day?  It leaves a sense
     Of labour hardly done;
     Of little gained with vast expense —
     A sense of grief alone?
 
 
     "Time stands before the door of Death,
     Upbraiding bitterly
     And Conscience, with exhaustless breath,
     Pours black reproach on me:
 
 
     "And though I've said that Conscience lies
     And Time should Fate condemn;
     Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes,
     And makes me yield to them!
 
 
     "Then art thou glad to seek repose?
     Art glad to leave the sea,
     And anchor all thy weary woes
     In calm Eternity?
 
 
     "Nothing regrets to see thee go —
     Not one voice sobs' farewell;'
     And where thy heart has suffered so,
     Canst thou desire to dwell?"
 
 
     "Alas! the countless links are strong
     That bind us to our clay;
     The loving spirit lingers long,
     And would not pass away!
 
 
     "And rest is sweet, when laurelled fame
     Will crown the soldier's crest;
     But a brave heart, with a tarnished name,
     Would rather fight than rest.
 
 
     "Well, thou hast fought for many a year,
     Hast fought thy whole life through,
     Hast humbled Falsehood, trampled Fear;
     What is there left to do?
 
 
     "'Tis true, this arm has hotly striven,
     Has dared what few would dare;
     Much have I done, and freely given,
     But little learnt to bear!
 
 
     "Look on the grave where thou must sleep
     Thy last, and strongest foe;
     It is endurance not to weep,
     If that repose seem woe.
 
 
     "The long war closing in defeat —
     Defeat serenely borne, —
     Thy midnight rest may still be sweet,
     And break in glorious morn!"
 

DEATH

 
     Death! that struck when I was most confiding.
     In my certain faith of joy to be —
     Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing
     From the fresh root of Eternity!
 
 
     Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,
     Full of sap, and full of silver dew;
     Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;
     Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.
 
 
     Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;
     Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride
     But, within its parent's kindly bosom,
     Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide.
 
 
     Little mourned I for the parted gladness,
     For the vacant nest and silent song —
     Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness;
     Whispering, "Winter will not linger long!"
 
 
     And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing,
     Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray;
     Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing,
     Lavished glory on that second May!
 
 
     High it rose – no winged grief could sweep it;
     Sin was scared to distance with its shine;
     Love, and its own life, had power to keep it
     From all wrong – from every blight but thine!
 
 
     Cruel Death!  The young leaves droop and languish;
     Evening's gentle air may still restore —
     No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish-
     Time, for me, must never blossom more!
 
 
     Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish
     Where that perished sapling used to be;
     Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish
     That from which it sprung – Eternity.
 

STANZAS TO —

 
     Well, some may hate, and some may scorn,
     And some may quite forget thy name;
     But my sad heart must ever mourn
     Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame!
     'Twas thus I thought, an hour ago,
     Even weeping o'er that wretch's woe;
     One word turned back my gushing tears,
     And lit my altered eye with sneers.
     Then "Bless the friendly dust," I said,
     "That hides thy unlamented head!
     Vain as thou wert, and weak as vain,
     The slave of Falsehood, Pride, and Pain —
     My heart has nought akin to thine;
     Thy soul is powerless over mine."
     But these were thoughts that vanished too;
     Unwise, unholy, and untrue:
     Do I despise the timid deer,
     Because his limbs are fleet with fear?
     Or, would I mock the wolf's death-howl,
     Because his form is gaunt and foul?
     Or, hear with joy the leveret's cry,
     Because it cannot bravely die?
     No!  Then above his memory
     Let Pity's heart as tender be;
     Say, "Earth, lie lightly on that breast,
     And, kind Heaven, grant that spirit rest!"
 

HONOUR'S MARTYR

 
     The moon is full this winter night;
     The stars are clear, though few;
     And every window glistens bright
     With leaves of frozen dew.
 
 
     The sweet moon through your lattice gleams,
     And lights your room like day;
     And there you pass, in happy dreams,
     The peaceful hours away!
 
 
     While I, with effort hardly quelling
     The anguish in my breast,
     Wander about the silent dwelling,
     And cannot think of rest.
 
 
     The old clock in the gloomy hall
     Ticks on, from hour to hour;
     And every time its measured call
     Seems lingering slow and slower:
 
 
     And, oh, how slow that keen-eyed star
     Has tracked the chilly gray!
     What, watching yet! how very far
     The morning lies away!
 
 
     Without your chamber door I stand;
     Love, are you slumbering still?
     My cold heart, underneath my hand,
     Has almost ceased to thrill.
 
 
     Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs,
     And drowns the turret bell,
     Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies
     Unheard, like my farewell!
 
 
     To-morrow, Scorn will blight my name,
     And Hate will trample me,
     Will load me with a coward's shame —
     A traitor's perjury.
 
 
     False friends will launch their covert sneers;
     True friends will wish me dead;
     And I shall cause the bitterest tears
     That you have ever shed.
 
 
     The dark deeds of my outlawed race
     Will then like virtues shine;
     And men will pardon their disgrace,
     Beside the guilt of mine.
 
 
     For, who forgives the accursed crime
     Of dastard treachery?
     Rebellion, in its chosen time,
     May Freedom's champion be;
 
 
     Revenge may stain a righteous sword,
     It may be just to slay;
     But, traitor, traitor, – from THAT word
     All true breasts shrink away!
 
 
     Oh, I would give my heart to death,
     To keep my honour fair;
     Yet, I'll not give my inward faith
     My honour's NAME to spare!
 
 
     Not even to keep your priceless love,
     Dare I, Beloved, deceive;
     This treason should the future prove,
     Then, only then, believe!
 
 
     I know the path I ought to go
     I follow fearlessly,
     Inquiring not what deeper woe
     Stern duty stores for me.
 
 
     So foes pursue, and cold allies
     Mistrust me, every one:
     Let me be false in others' eyes,
     If faithful in my own.
 

STANZAS

 
     I'll not weep that thou art going to leave me,
     There's nothing lovely here;
     And doubly will the dark world grieve me,
     While thy heart suffers there.
 
 
     I'll not weep, because the summer's glory
     Must always end in gloom;
     And, follow out the happiest story —
     It closes with a tomb!
 
 
     And I am weary of the anguish
     Increasing winters bear;
     Weary to watch the spirit languish
     Through years of dead despair.
 
 
     So, if a tear, when thou art dying,
     Should haply fall from me,
     It is but that my soul is sighing,
     To go and rest with thee.
 

MY COMFORTER

 
     Well hast thou spoken, and yet not taught
     A feeling strange or new;
     Thou hast but roused a latent thought,
     A cloud-closed beam of sunshine brought
     To gleam in open view.
 
 
     Deep down, concealed within my soul,
     That light lies hid from men;
     Yet glows unquenched – though shadows roll,
     Its gentle ray cannot control —
     About the sullen den.
 
 
     Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways
     To walk alone so long?
     Around me, wretches uttering praise,
     Or howling o'er their hopeless days,
     And each with Frenzy's tongue; —
 
 
     A brotherhood of misery,
     Their smiles as sad as sighs;
     Whose madness daily maddened me,
     Distorting into agony
     The bliss before my eyes!
 
 
     So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun,
     And in the glare of Hell;
     My spirit drank a mingled tone,
     Of seraph's song, and demon's moan;
     What my soul bore, my soul alone
     Within itself may tell!
 
 
     Like a soft, air above a sea,
     Tossed by the tempest's stir;
     A thaw-wind, melting quietly
     The snow-drift on some wintry lea;
     No:  what sweet thing resembles thee,
     My thoughtful Comforter?
 
 
     And yet a little longer speak,
     Calm this resentful mood;
     And while the savage heart grows meek,
     For other token do not seek,
     But let the tear upon my cheek
     Evince my gratitude!