Are made; for all that Truth would hail, And through this vestibule have pass'd Have cut their road, or fought their way. REFLECTIONS. EMILY BRONTE, DIED DECEMBER, 19, 1848. A LITTLE While, a little while, The weary task is put away, And I can sing and I can smile, Alike, while I have holiday. Where wilt thou go my harass'd heart— What thought, what scene invites thee now? What spot, or near or far apart, Has rest for thee, my weary brow? There is a spot, 'mid barren hills, Where Winter howls, and driving rain; But, if the dreary tempest chills, There is a light that warms again. The house is old, the trees are bare, So long'd for-as the hearth of home? The mute bird sitting on the stone; till, as I mused, the naked room, A little and a lone green lane That open'd on a common wide; A distant, dreamy, dim, blue chain Of mountains circling every side. A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, That was the scene, I knew it well; I knew the turfy pathway's sweep, That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Mark'd out the tracks of wandering sheep. Could I have linger'd but an hour, It well had paid a week of toil: But truth has banish'd fancy's power; Restraint and heavy task recoil. Even as I stood with raptured eye, And back came labour, bondage, care. THE NIGHT WIND. EMILY BRONTE. IN summer's mellow midnight A cloudless moon shone through Our open parlour-window, And rose-trees wet with dew. I sat in silent musing; The soft wind waved my hair; I needed not its breathing To bring such thoughts to me; "How dark the woods will be! "The thick leaves in my murmur Are rustling like a dream, I said, "Go, gentle singer, Has power to reach my mind. "Play with the scented flower, The young tree's supple bough, The wanderer would not heed me; Its kiss grew warmer still. "O come!" it sigh'd so sweetly; "I'll woo thee 'gainst thy will. "Were we not friends from childhood? "And when my heart is resting Beneath the church-aisle stone, I shall have time for mourning, And thou for being alone." * Ay-there it is! it wakes to-night Deep feelings I thought dead ; * Strong in the blast-quick gathering light The heart's flame kindles red. "Now I can tell by thy alter'd cheek, And by thine eyes' full gaze, And by the words thou scarce dost speak, How wildly fancy plays. "Yes I could swear that glorious wind Has dash'd its memory from thy mind "And thou art now a spirit pouring Thy presence into all : The thunder of the tempest's roaring, The whisper of its fall: An universal influence, From thine own influence free; A principle of life-intense- "Thus truly, when that breast is cold, Nature's deep being thine shall hold, Her spirit all thy spirit fold, Her breath absorb thy sighs. Mortal though soon life's tale is told, |