Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell Part 8

APOSTASY.

This last denial of my faith, Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard; And, though upon my bed of death, I call not back a word.

Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,-- Thy sightless saint of stone; She cannot, from this burning breast, Wring one repentant moan.

Thou say'st, that when a sinless child, I duly bent the knee, And prayed to what in marble smiled Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.

I did. But listen! Children spring Full soon to riper youth; And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring, I sold my early truth.

'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine, Bent o'er me, when I said, "That land and G.o.d and Faith are mine, For which thy fathers bled."

I see thee not, my eyes are dim; But well I hear thee say, "O daughter cease to think of him Who led thy soul astray.

"Between you lies both s.p.a.ce and time; Let leagues and years prevail To turn thee from the path of crime, Back to the Church's pale."

And, did I need that, thou shouldst tell What mighty barriers rise To part me from that dungeon-cell, Where my loved Walter lies?

And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt My dying hour at last, By bidding this worn spirit pant No more for what is past?

Priest--MUST I cease to think of him?

How hollow rings that word!

Can time, can tears, can distance dim The memory of my lord?

I said before, I saw not thee, Because, an hour agone, Over my eyeb.a.l.l.s, heavily, The lids fell down like stone.

But still my spirit's inward sight Beholds his image beam As fixed, as clear, as burning bright, As some red planet's gleam.

Talk not of thy Last Sacrament, Tell not thy beads for me; Both rite and prayer are vainly spent, As dews upon the sea.

Speak not one word of Heaven above, Rave not of h.e.l.l's alarms; Give me but back my Walter's love, Restore me to his arms!

Then will the bliss of Heaven be won; Then will h.e.l.l shrink away, As I have seen night's terrors shun The conquering steps of day.

'Tis my religion thus to love, My creed thus fixed to be; Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break My rock-like constancy!

Now go; for at the door there waits Another stranger guest; He calls--I come--my pulse scarce beats, My heart fails in my breast.

Again that voice--how far away, How dreary sounds that tone!

And I, methinks, am gone astray In trackless wastes and lone.

I fain would rest a little while: Where can I find a stay, Till dawn upon the hills shall smile, And show some trodden way?

"I come! I come!" in haste she said, "'Twas Walter's voice I heard!"

Then up she sprang--but fell back, dead, His name her latest word.

WINTER STORES.

We take from life one little share, And say that this shall be A s.p.a.ce, 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 h.o.a.rded 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 sh.o.r.es 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 pa.s.sion'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 h.e.l.l's empire, vast and grim, Spread on each Indian river's sh.o.r.e, 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, l.u.s.t, and Cruelty, Crush our lost race--and br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 pa.s.sion 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 h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d 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!