THE NOVELIST POETS.

EMILY BRONTÈ.

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!

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!

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.

STANZAS.

OFTEN rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be :
To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
And visions rising, legion after legion,

Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.

I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:
It vexes me to choose another guide:

Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are feeding; Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

THE OLD STOIC.

RICHES I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;

And lust of fame was but a dream,
That vanished with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer

That moves my lips for me
Is, 'Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!'

Yes, as my swift days near their goal,
'Tis all that I implore;

In life and death, a chainless soul,

With courage to endure.