At once stagnation thou wouldst bring
With that cold touch of thine.
If, glancing up, I sought to snatch
But one glimpse of the sky,
My baffled gaze would only catch
Thy heartless, cold grey eye.
If to the breezes wandering near,
I listened eagerly,
And deemed an angel’s tongue to hear
That whispered hope to me,
That heavenly music would be drowned
In thy harsh, droning voice;
Nor inward thought, nor sight, nor sound,
Might my sad soul rejoice.
Dull is thine ear, unheard by thee
The still, small voice of Heaven;
Thine eyes are dim and cannot see
The helps that God has given.
There is a bridge o’er every flood
Which thou canst not perceive;
A path through every tangled wood,
But thou wilt not believe.
Striving to make thy way by force,
Toil-spent and bramble-torn,
Thou’lt fell the tree that checks thy course,
And burst through brier and thorn:
And, pausing by the river’s side,
Poor reasoner! thou wilt deem,
By casting pebbles in its tide,
To cross the swelling stream.
Right through the flinty rock thou’lt try
Thy toilsome way to bore,
Regardless of the pathway nigh
That would conduct thee o’er
Not only art thou, then, unkind,
And freezing cold to me,
But unbelieving, deaf, and blind:
I will not walk with thee!
Spirit of Pride! thy wings are strong,
Thine eyes like lightning shine;
Ecstatic joys to thee belong,
And powers almost divine.
But ‘tis a false, destructive blaze
Within those eyes I see;
Turn hence their fascinating gaze;
I will not follow thee.
“Coward and fool!” thou mayst reply,
Walk on the common sod;
Go, trace with timid foot and eye
The steps by others trod.
‘Tis best the beaten path to keep,
The ancient faith to hold;
To pasture with thy fellow-sheep,
And lie within the fold.
“Cling to the earth, poor grovelling worm;
‘Tis not for thee to soar
Against the fury of the storm,
Amid the thunder’s roar!
There’s glory in that daring strife
Unknown, undreamt by thee;
There’s speechless rapture in the life
Of those who follow me.
Yes, I have seen thy votaries oft,
Upheld by thee their guide,
In strength and courage mount aloft
The steepy mountain-side;
I’ve seen them stand against the sky,
And gazing from below,
Beheld thy lightning in their eye
Thy triumph on their brow.
Oh, I have felt what glory then,
What transport must be theirs!
So far above their fellow-men,
Above their toils and cares;
Inhaling Nature’s purest breath,
Her riches round them spread,
The wide expanse of earth beneath,
Heaven’s glories overhead!
But I have seen them helpless, dash’d
Down to a bloody grave,
And still thy ruthless eye has flash’d,
Thy strong hand did not save;
I’ve seen some o’er the mountain’s brow
Sustain’d awhile by thee,
O’er rocks of ice and hills of snow
Bound fearless, wild, and free.
Bold and exultant was their mien,
While thou didst cheer them on;
But evening fell, — and then, I ween,
Their faithless guide was gone.
Alas! how fared thy favourites then, —
Lone, helpless, weary, cold?
Did ever wanderer find again
The path he left of old?
Where is their glory, where the pride
That swelled their hearts before?
Where now the courage that defied
The mightiest tempest’s roar?
What shall they do when night grows black,
When angry storms arise?
Who now will lead them to the track
Thou taught’st them to despise?
Spirit of Pride, it needs not this
To make me shun thy wiles,
Renounce thy triumph and thy bliss,
Thy honours and thy smiles!
Bright as thou art, and bold, and strong,
That fierce glance wins not me,
And I abhor thy scoffing tongue —
I will not follow thee!
Spirit of Faith! be thou my guide,
O clasp my hand in thine,
And let me never quit thy side;
Thy comforts are divine!
Earth calls thee blind, misguided one, —
But who can shew like thee
Forgotten things that have been done,
And things that are to be?
Secrets conceal’d from Nature’s ken,
Who like thee can declare?
Or who like thee to erring men
God’s holy will can bear?
Pride scorns thee for thy lowly mien, —
But who like thee can rise
Above this toilsome, sordid scene,
Beyond the holy skies?
Meek is thine eye and soft thy voice,
But wondrous is thy might,
To make the wretched soul rejoice,
To give the simple light!
And still to all that seek thy way
This magic power is given, —
E’en while their footsteps press the clay,
Their souls ascend to heaven.
Danger surrounds them, — pain and woe
Their portion here must be,
But only they that trust thee know
What comfort dwells with thee;
Strength to sustain their drooping pow’rs,
And vigour to defend, —
Thou pole-star of my darkest hours
Affliction’s firmest friend!
Day does not always mark our way,
Night’s shadows oft appal,
But lead me, and I cannot stray, —
Hold me, I shall not fall;
Sustain me, I shall never faint,
How rough soe’er may be
My upward road, — nor moan, nor plaint
Shall mar my trust in thee.
Narrow the path by which we go,
And oft it turns aside
From pleasant meads where roses blow,
And peaceful waters glide;
Where flowery turf lies green and soft,
And gentle gales are sweet,
To where dark mountains frown aloft,
Hard rocks distress the feet, —
Deserts beyond lie bleak and bare,
And keen winds round us blow;
But if thy hand conducts me there,
The way is right, I know.
I have no wish to turn away;
My spirit does not quail, —
How can it while I hear thee say,
“Press forward and prevail!”
Even above the tempest’s swell
I hear thy voice of love, —
Of hope and peace, I hear thee tell,
And that blest home above;
Through pain and death I can rejoice.
If but thy strength be mine, —
Earth hath no music like thy voice,
Life owns no joy like thine!
Spirit of Faith, I�
�ll go with thee!
Thou, if I hold thee fast,
Wilt guide, defend, and strengthen me,
And bear me home at last;
By thy help all things I can do,
In thy strength all things bear, —
Teach me, for thou art just and true,
Smile on me, thou art fair!
I have given the last memento of my sister Emily; this is the last of my sister Anne: —
I hoped, that with the brave and strong,
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high.
But God has fixed another part,
And He has fixed it well;
I said so with my bleeding heart,
When first the anguish fell.
Thou, God, hast taken our delight,
Our treasured hope away:
Thou bid’st us now weep through the night
And sorrow through the day.
These weary hours will not be lost,
These days of misery,
These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,
Can I but turn to Thee.
With secret labour to sustain
In humble patience every blow;
To gather fortitude from pain,
And hope and holiness from woe.
Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,
Whate’er may be my written fate:
Whether thus early to depart,
Or yet a while to wait.
If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,
More humbled I should be;
More wise — more strengthened for the strife —
More apt to lean on Thee.
Should death be standing at the gate,
Thus should I keep my vow:
But, Lord! whatever be my fate,
Oh, let me serve Thee now!
These lines written, the desk was closed, the pen laid aside — for ever.
Patrick Brontë’s Works
Patrick Brontë, 1860
COTTAGE POEMS
The Reverend Patrick Brontë was born in Drumballyroney, Rathfriland, County Down, Ireland, 17 March 1777. He was an Irish Anglican curate and writer, who spent most of his adult life in England and was the father of the Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, and of Branwell Brontë, his only son. In 1809 he became assistant curate at Wellington in Shropshire and in 1810 he published his first poem Winter Evening Thoughts in a local newspaper, followed in 1811 by a collection of moral verse, Cottage Poems. The following year he was appointed school examiner at a Wesleyan academy, Woodhouse Grove School, near Guiseley.
CONTENTS
EPISTLE TO THE REV. J — - B — -, WHILST JOURNEYING FOR THE RECOVERY OF HIS HEALTH.
THE HAPPY COTTAGERS.
THE RAINBOW.
WINTER-NIGHT MEDITATIONS.
VERSES SENT TO A LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY.
THE IRISH CABIN.
TO THE REV. J. GILPIN, ON HIS IMPROVED EDITION OF THE “PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.”
THE COTTAGE MAID.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG CLERGYMAN.
EPISTLE TO THE LABOURING POOR.
THE COTTAGER’S HYMN.
EPISTLE TO THE REV. J — - B — -, WHILST JOURNEYING FOR THE RECOVERY OF HIS HEALTH.
When warm’d with zeal, my rustic Muse
Feels fluttering fain to tell her news,
And paint her simple, lowly views
With all her art,
And, though in genius but obtuse,
May touch the heart.
Of palaces and courts of kings
She thinks but little, never sings,
But wildly strikes her uncouth strings
In some pool cot,
Spreads o’er the poor hen fostering wings,
And soothes their lot.
Well pleased is she to see them smile,
And uses every honest wile
To mend then hearts, their cares beguile,
With rhyming story,
And lend them to then God the while,
And endless glory.
Perchance, my poor neglected Muse
Unfit to harass or amuse,
Escaping praise and loud abuse,
Unheard, unknown,
May feed the moths and wasting dews,
As some have done.
Her aims are good, howe’er they end —
Here comes a foe, and there a friend,
These point the dart and those defend,
Whilst some deride her;
But God will sweetest comforts blend,
Whate’er betide her.
Thus heaven-supported, forth she goes
Midst flatterers, critics, friends, and foes;
Secure, since He who all things knows
Approves her aim,
And kindly fans, or fostering blows
Her sinking flame.
Hence, when she shows her honest face,
And tells her tale with awkward grace,
Importunate to gain a place
Amongst your friends,
To ruthless critics leave her case,
And hail her ends.
To all my heart is kind and true,
But glows with ardent love for you;
Though absent, still you rise in view,
And talk and smile,
Whilst heavenly themes, for ever new,
Our cares beguile.
The happy seasons oft return,
When love our melting hearts did burn,
As we through heavenly themes were borne
With heavenward eyes,
And Faith this empty globe would spurn,
And sail the skies.
Or, when the rising sun shines bright,
Or, setting, leaves the world in night,
Or, dazzling, sheds his noon-day light,
Or, cloudy, hides,
My fancy, in her airy flight,
With you resides.
Where far you wander down the vale,
When balmy scents perfume the gale,
And purling rills and linnets hail
The King of kings,
To muse with you I never fail,
On heavenly things.
Where dashing cataracts astound,
And foaming shake the neighbouring ground,
And spread a hoary mist around,
With you I gaze! —
And think, amid’st the deaf’ning sound,
On wisdom’s ways.
Where rocky mountains prop the skies,
And round the smiling landscape lies,
Whilst you look down with tearful eyes
On grovelling man,
My sympathetic fancy flies,
The scene to scan.
From Pisgah’s top we then survey
The blissful realms of endless day,
And all the short but narrow way
That lies between,
Whilst Faith emits a heavenly ray,
And cheers the scene.
With you I wander on the shore
To hear the angry surges roar,
Whilst foaming through the sands they pour
With constant roll,
And meditations heavenward soar,
And charm the soul.
On life’s rough sea we’re tempest-driven
In crazy barks, our canvas riven!
Such is the lot to mortals given
Where sins resort:
But he whose anchor’s fixed in heaven
Shall gain the port.
Though swelling waves oft beat him back,
And tempests make him half a wreck,
And passions strong, with dangerous tack,
Retard his course,
Yet Christ the pilot all will check,
And quell their force.
So talk we as we thoughtful stray
Along the coast, where dashing spray
With rising mist
o’erhangs the day,
And wets the shore,
And thick the vivid flashes play
And thunders roar!
Whilst passing o’er this giddy stage,
A pious and a learned sage
Resolved eternal war to wage
With passions fell;
How oft you view with holy rage
These imps of hell!
See! with what madd’ning force they sway
The human breast and lead astray,
Down the steep, broad, destructive way,
The giddy throng;
Till grisly death sweeps all away
The fiends among!
As when the mad tornado flies,
And sounding mingles earth and skies,
And wild confusion ’fore the eyes
In terrors dressed.
So passions fell in whirlwinds rise,
And rend the breast!
But whilst this direful tempest raves,
And many barks are dashed to staves,
I see you tower above the waves
Like some tall rock,
Whose base the harmless ocean laves
Without a shock!
’Tis He who calmed the raging sea,
Who bids the waves be still in thee,
And keeps you from all dangers free
Amidst the wreck;
All sin, and care, and dangers flee
E’en at His beck.
And on that great and dreadful day
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
Each soul to bliss He will convey,
That knows His name;
And give the giddy world a prey
To quenchless flame.
So oft when Sabbaths bade us rest,
And heavenly zeal inspired your breast,
Obedient to the high behest
You preached to all,
Whilst God your zealous efforts blessed,
And owned your call.
The very thought my soul inspires,
And kindles bright her latent fires;
My Muse feels heart-warm fond desires,
And spreads her wing,
And aims to join th’ angelic choirs,
And sweetly sing.
May rosy Health with speed return,
And all your wonted ardour burn,
And sickness buried in his urn,
Sleep many years!
So, countless friends who loudly mourn,
Shall dry their tears!
Your wailing flock will all rejoice
To hear their much-loved shepherd’s voice,
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 360
