"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 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 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 swept the world aside, 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 rearing, 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, Her spirit all thy spirit fold, Her breath absorb thy sighs. Mortal though soon life's tale is told, LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. EMILY BRONTE. LOVE is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly? The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring, Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair? Then, scorn 'the silly rose-wreath now, SONG. EMILY BRONTE. THE linnet in the rocky dells, The wild deer browse above her breast; I ween, that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again. They thought the tide of grief would flow But where is all their anguish now, Ꮮ Well let them fight for honour's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too. And, if their eyes should watch and weep, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound, To soothe my lady's dreams. The foregoing pieces were composed at twilight, in a schoolroom on the Continent, when the leisure of the evening play-hour brought back in full tide the thoughts of home. My sister Emily loved the moors. Flowers brighter than the rose bloomed in the blackest of the heath for her; out of a sullen hollow in a livid hill-side her mind could make an Eden. She found in the bleak solitude many and dear delights; and not the least and best loved was-liberty. One day, in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of verse in my sister Emily's hand-writing. Of course, I was not surprised, knowing that she could and did write verse: I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me, a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear, they had also a peculiar music-wild, melancholy, and elevating. The fixed conviction I held, and |