Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes
Page 361
And long will bless the happy choice
Their hearts have made,
And tuneful mirth will swell the noise
Through grove and glade.
Your dearer half will join with me
To celebrate the jubilee,
And praise the Great Eternal Three
With throbbing joy,
And taste those pleasures pure and free
Which never cloy.
THE HAPPY COTTAGERS.
One sunny morn of May,
When dressed in flowery green
The dewy landscape, charmed
With Nature’s fairest scene,
In thoughtful mood
I slowly strayed
O’er hill and dale,
Through bush and glade.
Throughout the cloudless sky
Of light unsullied blue,
The larks their matins raised,
Whilst on my dizzy view,
Like dusky motes,
They winged their way
Till vanished in
The blaze of day.
The linnets sweetly sang
On every fragrant thorn,
Whilst from the tangled wood
The blackbirds hailed the morn;
And through the dew
Ran here and there,
But half afraid,
The startled hare.
The balmy breeze just kissed
The countless dewy gems
Which decked the yielding blade
Or gilt the sturdy stems,
And gently o’er
The charmed sight
A deluge shed
Of trembling light.
A sympathetic glow
Ran through my melting soul,
And calm and sweet delight
O’er all my senses stole;
And through my heart
A grateful flood
Of joy rolled on
To Nature’s God.
Time flew unheeded by,
Till wearied and oppressed,
Upon a flowery bank
I laid me down to rest;
Beneath my feet
A purling stream
Ran glittering in
The noontide beam.
I turned me round to view
The lovely rural scene;
And, just at hand, I spied
A cottage on the green;
The street was clean,
The walls were white,
The thatch was neat,
The window bright.
Bold chanticleer, arrayed
In velvet plumage gay,
With many an amorous dame,
Fierce strutted o’er the way;
And motley ducks
Were waddling seen,
And drake with neck
Of glossy green.
The latch I gently raised,
And oped the humble door;
An oaken stool was placed
On the neat sanded floor;
An aged man
Said with a smile,
“You’re welcome, sir:
Come rest a while.”
His coarse attire was clean,
His manner rude yet kind:
His air, his words, and looks
Showed a contented mind;
Though mean and poor,
Thrice happy he,
As by our tale
You soon shall see.
But don’t expect to hear
Of deeds of martial fame,
Or that our peasant mean
Was born of rank or name,
And soon will strut,
As in romance,
A knight and all
In armour glance.
I sing of real life;
All else is empty show —
To those who read a source
Of much unreal woe:
Pollution, too,
Through novel-veins,
Oft fills the mind
With guilty stains.
Our peasant long was bred
Affliction’s meagre child,
Yet gratefully resigned,
Loud hymning praises, smiled,
And like a tower
He stood unmoved,
Supported by
The God he loved.
His loving wife long since
Was numbered with the dead
His son, a martial youth,
Had for his country bled;
And now remained
One daughter fair,
And only she,
To soothe his care.
The aged man with tears
Spoke of the lovely maid;
How earnestly she strove
To lend her father aid,
And as he ran
Her praises o’er,
She gently oped
The cottage-door.
With vegetable store
The table soon she spread,
And pressed me to partake;
Whilst blushes rosy-red
Suffused her face —
The old man smiled,
Well pleased to see
His darling child.
With venerable air
He then looked up to God,
A blessing craved on all,
And on our daily food;
Then kindly begged
I would excuse
Their humble fair,
And not refuse. —
The tablecloth, though coarse,
Was of a snowy white,
The vessels, spoons, and knives
Were clean and dazzling bright;
So down we sat
Devoid of care,
Nor envied kings
Their dainty fare.
When nature was refreshed,
And we familiar grown;
The good old man exclaimed,
“Around Jehovah’s throne,
Come, let us all
Our voices raise,
And sing our great
Redeemer’s praise!”
Their artless notes were sweet,
Grace ran through every line;
Their breasts with rapture swelled,
Their looks were all divine:
Delight o’er all
My senses stole,
And heaven’s pure joy
O’erwhelmed my soul.
When we had praised our God,
And knelt around His throne,
The aged man began
In deep and zealous tone,
With hands upraised
And heavenward eye,
And prayed loud
And fervently:
He prayed that for His sake,
Whose guiltless blood was shed
For guilty ruined man,
We might that day be fed
With that pure bread
Which cheers the soul,
And living stream,
Where pleasures roll.
He prayed long for all,
And for his daughter dear,
That she, preserved from ill,
Might lead for many a year
A spotless life
When he’s no more;
Then follow him
To Canaan’s shore.
His faltering voice then fell,
His tears were dropping fast,
And muttering praise to God
For all His mercies past,
He closed his prayer
Midst heavenly joys,
And tasted bliss
Which never cloys.
In sweet discourse we spent
The fast declining day:
We spoke of Jesus’ love,
And of that narrow way
Which leads, through care
And toil below,
To streams where joys
Eternal flow.
The wondrous plan of Grace,
Adoring, we surveyed,
The birth of heavenly ski
ll —
In Love Eternal laid —
Too deep for clear
Angelic ken,
And far beyond
Dim-sighted men.
To tell you all that passed
Would far exceed my power;
Suffice it, then, to say,
Joy winged the passing hour,
Till, ere we knew,
The setting day
Had clad the world
In silver grey.
I kindly took my leave,
And blessed the happy lot
Of those I left behind
Lodged in their humble cot;
And pitied some
In palace walls,
Where pride torments,
And pleasure palls.
The silver moon now shed
A flood of trembling light
On tower, and tree, and stream;
The twinkling stars shone bright,
Nor misty stain
Nor cloud was seen
O’er all the deep
Celestial green.
Mild was the lovely night,
Nor stirred a whispering breeze.
Smooth was the glassy lake,
And still the leafy trees;
No sound in air
Was heard afloat,
Save Philomel’s
Sweet warbling note.
My thoughts were on the wing,
And back my fancy fled
To where contentment dwelt
In the neat humble shed;
To shining courts
From thence it ran,
Where restless pride
Oppresses man.
In fame some search for bliss,
Some seek content in gain,
In search of happiness
Some give the slackened rein
To passions fierce,
And down the stream
Through giddy life,
Of pleasures dream.
These all mistake the way,
As many more have done:
The narrow path of bliss
Through God’s Eternal Son
Directly tends;
And only he
Who treads this path
Can happy be.
Who anchors all above
Has still a happy lot,
Though doomed for life to dwell
E’en in a humble cot,
And when he lays
This covering down
He’ll wear a bright
Immortal crown.
THE RAINBOW.
The shower is past, and the sky
O’erhead is both mild and serene,
Save where a few drops from on high,
Like gems, twinkle over the green:
And glowing fair, in the black north,
The rainbow o’erarches the cloud;
The sun in his glory comes forth,
And larks sweetly warble aloud.
That dismally grim northern sky
Says God in His vengeance once frowned,
And opened His flood-gates on high,
Till obstinate sinners were drowned:
The lively bright south, and that bow,
Say all this dread vengeance is o’er;
These colours that smilingly glow
Say we shall be deluged no more.
Ever blessed be those innocent days,
Ever sweet their remembrance to me;
When often, in silent amaze,
Enraptured, I’d gaze upon thee!
Whilst arching adown the black sky
Thy colours glowed on the green hill,
To catch thee as lightning I’d fly,
But aye you eluded my skill.
From hill unto hill your gay scene
You shifted — whilst crying aloud,
I ran, till at length from the green,
You shifted, at once to the cloud!
So, vain worldly phantoms betray
The youths who too eager pursue,
When ruined and far led astray,
Th’ illusion escapes from their view.
Those peaceable days knew no care,
Except what arose from my play,
My favourite lambkin and hare,
And cabin I built o’er the way.
No cares did I say? Ah! I’m wrong:
Even childhood from cares is not free:
Far distant I see a grim throng
Shake horrible lances at me!
One day — I remember it still —
For pranks I had played on the clown
Who lived on the neighbouring hill,
My cabin was trod to the ground.
Who ever felt grief such as I
When crashed by this terrible blow?
Not Priam, the monarch of Troy,
When all his proud towers lay low.
And grief upon grief was my lot:
Soon after, my lambkin was slain;
My hare, having strayed from its cot,
Was chased by the hounds o’er the plain.
What countless calamities teem
From memory’s page on my view! —
How trifling soever you seem,
Yet once I have wept over you.
Then cease, foolish heart, to repine;
No stage is exempted from care:
If you would true happiness find,
Come follow! and I’ll show you where.
But, first, let us take for our guide
The Word which Jehovah has penned;
By this the true path is descried
Which leads to a glorious end.
How narrow this path to our view!
How steep an ascent lies before!
Whilst, foolish fond heart, laid for you
Are dazzling temptations all o’er.
What bye-ways with easy descent
Invite us through pleasures to stray!
Whilst Satan, with hellish intent,
Suggests that we ought to obey.
But trust not the father of lies,
He tempts you with vanity’s dream;
His pleasure, when touched, quickly dies,
Like bubbles that dance on the stream.
Look not on the wine when it glows
All ruddy, in vessels of gold;
At last it will sting your repose,
And death at the bottom unfold.
But lo! an unnatural night
Pours suddenly down on the eye;
The sun has withdrawn all his light,
And rolls a black globe o’er the sky!
And hark! what a cry rent the air!
Immortal the terrible sound! —
The rocks split with honible tear,
And fearfully shakes all the ground!
The dead from their slumbers awake,
And, leaving their mouldy domain,
Make poor guilty mortals to quake
As pallid they glide o’er the plain!
Sure, Nature’s own God is oppressed,
And Nature in agony cries; —
The sun in his mourning is dressed,
To tell the sad news through the skies!
Yet surely some victory’s gained,
Important, and novel, and great,
Since Death has his captives unchained,
And widely thrown open his gate!
Yes, victory great as a God
Could gain over hell, death, and sin,
This moment’s achieved by the blood
Of Jesus, our crucified King.
But all the dread conflict is o’er;
Lo! cloud after cloud rolls away;
And heaven, serene as before,
Breaks forth in the splendour of day!
And all the sweet landscape around,
Emerged from the ocean of night,
With groves, woods, and villages crowned,
Astonish and fill with delight!
But see! where that crowd melts away,
Our Guide has not led us astray;
Heart! this is the secret you’d know —
Two thieves, and a crucified God
Hangs awfully mangled between!
Whilst fast from His veins spouting blood
Runs, dyeing with purple the green!
Behold! the red flood rolls along,
And forming a bason below,
Is termed in Emanuel’s song
The fount for uncleanness and woe.
Immerged in that precious tide,
The soul quickly loses its stains,
Though deeper than crimson they’re dyed,
And ’scapes from its sorrows and pains.
This fountain is opened for you:
Go, wash, without money or price;
And instantly formed anew,
You’ll lose all your woes in a trice.
Then cease, foolish heart, to repine,
No stage is exempted from care;
If you would true happiness find,
’Tis on Calvary — seek for it there.
WINTER-NIGHT MEDITATIONS.
Rude winter’s come, the sky’s o’ercast,
The night is cold and loud the blast,
The mingling snow comes driving down,
Fast whitening o’er the flinty ground.
Severe their lots whose crazy sheds
Hang tottering o’er their trembling heads:
Whilst blows through walls and chinky door
The drifting snow across the floor,
Where blinking embers scarcely glow,
And rushlight only serves to show
What well may move the deepest sigh,
And force a tear from pity’s eye.
You there may see a meagre pair,
Worn out with labour, grief, and care:
Whose naked babes, in hungry mood,
Complain of cold and cry for food;
Whilst tears bedew the mother’s cheek,
And sighs the father’s grief bespeak;
For fire or raiment, bed or board,
Their dreary shed cannot afford.
Will no kind hand confer relief,
And wipe away the tear of grief?
A little boon it well might spare
Would kindle joy, dispel their care,
Abate the rigour of the night
And warm each heart — achievement bright.
Yea, brighter far than such as grace
The annals of a princely race,
Where kings bestow a large domain
But to receive as much again,
Or e’en corrupt the purest laws,
Or fan the breath of vain applause.
Peace to the man who stoops his head
To enter the most wretched shed:
Who, with his condescending smiles,
Poor diffidence and awe beguiles:
Till all encouraged, soon disclose
The different causes of their woes —
The moving tale dissolves his heart:
He liberally bestows a part
Of God’s donation. From above
Approving Heaven, in smiles of love,
Looks on, and through the shining skies
The great Recording Angel flies