Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell Part 18

"Oh, heed her not!" Experience says; "For thus she whispered once to me; She told me, in my youthful days, How glorious manhood's prime would be.

"When, in the time of early Spring, Too chill the winds that o'er me pa.s.s'd, She said, each coming day would bring a fairer heaven, a gentler blast.

"And when the sun too seldom beamed, The sky, o'ercast, too darkly frowned, The soaking rain too constant streamed, And mists too dreary gathered round;

"She told me, Summer's glorious ray Would chase those vapours all away, And scatter glories round; With sweetest music fill the trees, Load with rich scent the gentle breeze, And strew with flowers the ground

"But when, beneath that scorching ray, I languished, weary through the day, While birds refused to sing, Verdure decayed from field and tree, And panting Nature mourned with me The freshness of the Spring.

"'Wait but a little while,' she said, 'Till Summer's burning days are fled; And Autumn shall restore, With golden riches of her own, And Summer's glories mellowed down, The freshness you deplore.'

And long I waited, but in vain: That freshness never came again, Though Summer pa.s.sed away, Though Autumn's mists hung cold and chill.

And drooping nature languished still, And sank into decay.

"Till wintry blasts foreboding blew Through leafless trees--and then I knew That Hope was all a dream.

But thus, fond youth, she cheated me; And she will prove as false to thee, Though sweet her words may seem.

Stern prophet! Cease thy bodings dire-- Thou canst not quench the ardent fire That warms the breast of youth.

Oh, let it cheer him while it may, And gently, gently die away-- Chilled by the damps of truth!

Tell him, that earth is not our rest; Its joys are empty--frail at best; And point beyond the sky.

But gleams of light may reach us here; And hope the ROUGHEST path can cheer: Then do not bid it fly!

Though hope may promise joys, that still Unkindly time will ne'er fulfil; Or, if they come at all, We never find them unalloyed,-- Hurtful perchance, or soon destroyed, They vanish or they pall;

Yet hope ITSELF a brightness throws O'er all our labours and our woes; While dark foreboding Care A thousand ills will oft portend, That Providence may ne'er intend The trembling heart to bear.

Or if they come, it oft appears, Our woes are lighter than our fears, And far more bravely borne.

Then let us not enhance our doom But e'en in midnight's blackest gloom Expect the rising morn.

Because the road is rough and long, Shall we despise the skylark's song, That cheers the wanderer's way?

Or trample down, with reckless feet, The smiling flowerets, bright and sweet, Because they soon decay?

Pa.s.s pleasant scenes unnoticed by, Because the next is bleak and drear; Or not enjoy a smiling sky, Because a tempest may be near?

No! while we journey on our way, We'll smile on every lovely thing; And ever, as they pa.s.s away, To memory and hope we'll cling.

And though that awful river flows Before us, when the journey's past, Perchance of all the pilgrim's woes Most dreadful--shrink not--'tis the last!

Though icy cold, and dark, and deep; Beyond it smiles that blessed sh.o.r.e, Where none shall suffer, none shall weep, And bliss shall reign for evermore!

APPEAL.

Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe;

My life is very lonely My days pa.s.s heavily, I'm weary of repining; Wilt thou not come to me?

Oh, didst thou know my longings For thee, from day to day, My hopes, so often blighted, Thou wouldst not thus delay!

THE STUDENT'S SERENADE.

I have slept upon my couch, But my spirit did not rest, For the labours of the day Yet my weary soul opprest;

And before my dreaming eyes Still the learned volumes lay, And I could not close their leaves, And I could not turn away.

But I oped my eyes at last, And I heard a m.u.f.fled sound; 'Twas the night-breeze, come to say That the snow was on the ground.

Then I knew that there was rest On the mountain's bosom free; So I left my fevered couch, And I flew to waken thee!

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.