Never doubt that Fate is keeping

  Future good for present ill!

  APOSTASY.

  This last denial of my faith,

  Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;

  And, though upon my bed of death,

  I call not back a word.

  Point not to thy Madonna, Priest, —

  Thy sightless saint of stone;

  She cannot, from this burning breast,

  Wring one repentant moan.

  Thou say’st, that when a sinless child,

  I duly bent the knee,

  And prayed to what in marble smiled

  Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.

  I did. But listen! Children spring

  Full soon to riper youth;

  And, for Love’s vow and Wedlock’s ring,

  I sold my early truth.

  ‘Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine,

  Bent o’er me, when I said,

  “That land and God and Faith are mine,

  For which thy fathers bled.”

  I see thee not, my eyes are dim;

  But well I hear thee say,

  “O daughter cease to think of him

  Who led thy soul astray.

  “Between you lies both space and time;

  Let leagues and years prevail

  To turn thee from the path of crime,

  Back to the Church’s pale.”

  And, did I need that, thou shouldst tell

  What mighty barriers rise

  To part me from that dungeon-cell,

  Where my loved Walter lies?

  And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt

  My dying hour at last,

  By bidding this worn spirit pant

  No more for what is past?

  Priest — MUST I cease to think of him?

  How hollow rings that word!

  Can time, can tears, can distance dim

  The memory of my lord?

  I said before, I saw not thee,

  Because, an hour agone,

  Over my eyeballs, heavily,

  The lids fell down like stone.

  But still my spirit’s inward sight

  Beholds his image beam

  As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,

  As some red planet’s gleam.

  Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,

  Tell not thy beads for me;

  Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,

  As dews upon the sea.

  Speak not one word of Heaven above,

  Rave not of Hell’s alarms;

  Give me but back my Walter’s love,

  Restore me to his arms!

  Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;

  Then will Hell shrink away,

  As I have seen night’s terrors shun

  The conquering steps of day.

  ‘Tis my religion thus to love,

  My creed thus fixed to be;

  Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break

  My rock-like constancy!

  Now go; for at the door there waits

  Another stranger guest;

  He calls — I come — my pulse scarce beats,

  My heart fails in my breast.

  Again that voice — how far away,

  How dreary sounds that tone!

  And I, methinks, am gone astray

  In trackless wastes and lone.

  I fain would rest a little while:

  Where can I find a stay,

  Till dawn upon the hills shall smile,

  And show some trodden way?

  “I come! I come!” in haste she said,

  “‘Twas Walter’s voice I heard!”

  Then up she sprang — but fell back, dead,

  His name her latest word.

  WINTER STORES.

  We take from life one little share,

  And say that this shall be

  A space, redeemed from toil and care,

  From tears and sadness free.

  And, haply, Death unstrings his bow,

  And Sorrow stands apart,

  And, for a little while, we know

  The sunshine of the heart.

  Existence seems a summer eve,

  Warm, soft, and full of peace,

  Our free, unfettered feelings give

  The soul its full release.

  A moment, then, it takes the power

  To call up thoughts that throw

  Around that charmed and hallowed hour,

  This life’s divinest glow.

  But Time, though viewlessly it flies,

  And slowly, will not stay;

  Alike, through clear and clouded skies,

  It cleaves its silent way.

  Alike the bitter cup of grief,

  Alike the draught of bliss,

  Its progress leaves but moment brief

  For baffled lips to kiss

  The sparkling draught is dried away,

  The hour of rest is gone,

  And urgent voices, round us, say,

  “Ho, lingerer, hasten on!”

  And has the soul, then, only gained,

  From this brief time of ease,

  A moment’s rest, when overstrained,

  One hurried glimpse of peace?

  No; while the sun shone kindly o’er us,

  And flowers bloomed round our feet, —

  While many a bud of joy before us

  Unclosed its petals sweet, —

  An unseen work within was plying;

  Like honey-seeking bee,

  From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,

  Laboured one faculty, —

  Thoughtful for Winter’s future sorrow,

  Its gloom and scarcity;

  Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,

  Toiled quiet Memory.

  ‘Tis she that from each transient pleasure

  Extracts a lasting good;

  ‘Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure

  To serve for winter’s food.

  And when Youth’s summer day is vanished,

  And Age brings Winter’s stress,

  Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,

  Life’s evening hours will bless.

  THE MISSIONARY.

  Plough, vessel, plough the British main,

  Seek the free ocean’s wider plain;

  Leave English scenes and English skies,

  Unbind, dissever English ties;

  Bear me to climes remote and strange,

  Where altered life, fast-following change,

  Hot action, never-ceasing toil,

  Shall stir, turn, dig, the spirit’s soil;

  Fresh roots shall plant, fresh seed shall sow,

  Till a new garden there shall grow,

  Cleared of the weeds that fill it now, —

  Mere human love, mere selfish yearning,

  Which, cherished, would arrest me yet.

  I grasp the plough, there’s no returning,

  Let me, then, struggle to forget.

  But England’s shores are yet in view,

  And England’s skies of tender blue

  Are arched above her guardian sea.

  I cannot yet Remembrance flee;

  I must again, then, firmly face

  That task of anguish, to retrace.

  Wedded to home — I home forsake;

  Fearful of change — I changes make;

  Too fond of ease — I plunge in toil;

  Lover of calm — I seek turmoil:

  Nature and hostile Destiny

  Stir in my heart a conflict wild;

  And long and fierce the war will be

  Ere duty both has reconciled.

  What other tie yet holds me fast

  To the divorced, abandoned past?

  Smouldering, on my heart’s altar lies

  The fire of some great sacrifice,

  Not yet half quenched. The sacred steel

  But lately struck my carnal will,

  My life-long hope, first joy and last,

  What I loved well, and clung to fast;

  What I wished wildly to retain,

  What I renounced with soul-felt pain;

  What — when I saw it, axe-struck, perish —

  Left me no joy on earth to cherish;

  A man bereft — yet sternly now

  I do confirm that Jephtha vow:

  Shall I retract, or fear, or flee?

  Did Christ, when rose the fatal tree

  Before him, on Mount Calvary?

  ‘Twas a long fight, hard fought, but won,

  And what I did was justly done.

  Yet, Helen! from thy love I turned,

  When my heart most for thy heart burned;

  I dared thy tears, I dared thy scorn —

  Easier the death-pang had been borne.

  Helen, thou mightst not go with me,

  I could not — dared not stay for thee!

  I heard, afar, in bonds complain

  The savage from beyond the main;

  And that wild sound rose o’er the cry

  Wrung out by passion’s agony;

  And even when, with the bitterest tear

  I ever shed, mine eyes were dim,

  Still, with the spirit’s vision clear,

  I saw Hell’s empire, vast and grim,

  Spread on each Indian river’s shore,

  Each realm of Asia covering o’er.

  There, the weak, trampled by the strong,

  Live but to suffer — hopeless die;

  There pagan-priests, whose creed is Wrong,

  Extortion, Lust, and Cruelty,

  Crush our lost race — and brimming fill

  The bitter cup of human ill;

  And I — who have the healing creed,

  The faith benign of Mary’s Son,

  Shall I behold my brother’s need,

  And, selfishly, to aid him shun?

  I — who upon my mother’s knees,

  In childhood, read Christ’s written word,

  Received his legacy of peace,

  His holy rule of action heard;

  I — in whose heart the sacred sense

  Of Jesus’ love was early felt;

  Of his pure, full benevolence,

  His pitying tenderness for guilt;

  His shepherd-care for wandering sheep,

  For all weak, sorrowing, trembling things,

  His mercy vast, his passion deep

  Of anguish for man’s sufferings;

  I — schooled from childhood in such lore —

  Dared I draw back or hesitate,

  When called to heal the sickness sore

  Of those far off and desolate?

  Dark, in the realm and shades of Death,

  Nations, and tribes, and empires lie,

  But even to them the light of Faith

  Is breaking on their sombre sky:

  And be it mine to bid them raise

  Their drooped heads to the kindling scene,

  And know and hail the sunrise blaze

  Which heralds Christ the Nazarene.

  I know how Hell the veil will spread

  Over their brows and filmy eyes,

  And earthward crush the lifted head

  That would look up and seek the skies;

  I know what war the fiend will wage

  Against that soldier of the Cross,

  Who comes to dare his demon rage,

  And work his kingdom shame and loss.

  Yes, hard and terrible the toil

  Of him who steps on foreign soil,

  Resolved to plant the gospel vine,

  Where tyrants rule and slaves repine;

  Eager to lift Religion’s light

  Where thickest shades of mental night

  Screen the false god and fiendish rite;

  Reckless that missionary blood,

  Shed in wild wilderness and wood,

  Has left, upon the unblest air,

  The man’s deep moan — the martyr’s prayer.

  I know my lot — I only ask

  Power to fulfil the glorious task;

  Willing the spirit, may the flesh

  Strength for the day receive afresh.

  May burning sun or deadly wind

  Prevail not o’er an earnest mind;

  May torments strange or direst death

  Nor trample truth, nor baffle faith.

  Though such blood-drops should fall from me

  As fell in old Gethsemane,

  Welcome the anguish, so it gave

  More strength to work — more skill to save.

  And, oh! if brief must be my time,

  If hostile hand or fatal clime

  Cut short my course — still o’er my grave,

  Lord, may thy harvest whitening wave.

  So I the culture may begin,

  Let others thrust the sickle in;

  If but the seed will faster grow,

  May my blood water what I sow!

  What! have I ever trembling stood,

  And feared to give to God that blood?

  What! has the coward love of life

  Made me shrink from the righteous strife?

  Have human passions, human fears

  Severed me from those Pioneers

  Whose task is to march first, and trace

  Paths for the progress of our race?

  It has been so; but grant me, Lord,

  Now to stand steadfast by Thy word!

  Protected by salvation’s helm,

  Shielded by faith, with truth begirt,

  To smile when trials seek to whelm

  And stand mid testing fires unhurt!

  Hurling hell’s strongest bulwarks down,

  Even when the last pang thrills my breast,

  When death bestows the martyr’s crown,

  And calls me into Jesus’ rest.

  Then for my ultimate reward —

  Then for the world-rejoicing word —

  The voice from Father — Spirit — Son:

  “Servant of God, well hast thou done!”

  POEMS BY ELLIS BELL (EMILY BRONTË)

  FAITH AND DESPONDENCY.

  “The winter wind is loud and wild,

  Come close to me, my darling child;

  Forsake thy books, and mateless play;

  And, while the night is gathering gray,

  We’ll talk its pensive hours away; —

  “Ierne, round our sheltered hall

  November’s gusts unheeded call;

  Not one faint breath can enter here

  Enough to wave my daughter’s hair,

  And I am glad to watch the blaze

  Glance from her eyes, with mimic rays;

  To feel her cheek, so softly pressed,

  In happy quiet on my breast,

  “But, yet, even this tranquillity

  Brings bitter, restless thoughts to me;

  And, in the red fire’s cheerful glow,

  I think of deep glens, blocked with snow;

  I dream of moor, and misty hill,

  Where evening closes dark and chill;

  For, lone, among the mountains cold,

  Lie those that I have loved of old.

  And my heart aches, in hopeless pain,

  Exhausted with repinings vain,

  That I shall greet them ne’er again!”

  “Father, in early infancy,

  When you were far beyond the sea,

  Such thoughts were tyrants over me!

  I often sat, for hours together,

  Through the long nights of angry weather,

  Raised on my pillow, to descry

  The dim moon struggling in the sky;

  Or, with strained ear, to catch the shock,

  Of rock with wave, and wave with rock;

  So would I fearful vigil keep,

  And, all for listening, never sleep.

  But this world’s life has much to dread,

  Not so, my Father, with the dead.

  “Oh! not for them, should we despair,

  The grave is drear, but they are not there;

  Their dust is mingled with the sod,

  Their happy souls are gone to God!

  You told me this, and yet you sigh,

  And murmur that your friends must die.

  Ah! my dear father, tell me why?

  For, if your former words were true,

  How useless would such sorrow be;

  As wise, to mourn the seed which grew

  Unnoticed on its parent tree,

  Because it fell in fertile earth,

  And sprang up to a glorious birth —

  Struck deep its root, and lifted high

  Its green boughs in the breezy sky.

  “But, I’ll not fear, I will not weep

  For those whose bodies rest in sleep, —

  I know there is a blessed shore,

  Opening its ports for me and mine;

  And, gazing Time’s wide waters o’er,

  I weary for that land divine,

  Where we were born, where you and I

  Shall meet our dearest, when we die;

  From suffering and corruption free,

  Restored into the Deity.”

  “Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child!

  And wiser than thy sire;

  And worldly tempests, raging wild,

  Shall strengthen thy desire —

  Thy fervent hope, through storm and foam,

  Through wind and ocean’s roar,

  To reach, at last, the eternal home,

  The steadfast, changeless shore!”

  STARS.

  Ah! why, because the dazzling sun

  Restored our Earth to joy,

  Have you departed, every one,

  And left a desert sky?

  All through the night, your glorious eyes

  Were gazing down in mine,

  And, with a full heart’s thankful sighs,

  I blessed that watch divine.

  I was at peace, and drank your beams

  As they were life to me;

  And revelled in my changeful dreams,

  Like petrel on the sea.

  Thought followed thought, star followed star,

  Through boundless regions, on;

  While one sweet influence, near and far,

  Thrilled through, and proved us one!

  Why did the morning dawn to break

 

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