Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell Part 16

Sweet Memory! ever smile on me; Nature's chief beauties spring from thee; Oh, still thy tribute bring Still make the golden crocus s.h.i.+ne Among the flowers the most divine, The glory of the spring.

Still in the wallflower's fragrance dwell; And hover round the slight bluebell, My childhood's darling flower.

Smile on the little daisy still, The b.u.t.tercup's bright goblet fill With all thy former power.

For ever hang thy dreamy spell Round mountain star and heather bell, And do not pa.s.s away From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow, And whisper when the wild winds blow, Or rippling waters play.

Is childhood, then, so all divine?

Or Memory, is the glory thine, That haloes thus the past?

Not ALL divine; its pangs of grief (Although, perchance, their stay be brief) Are bitter while they last.

Nor is the glory all thine own, For on our earliest joys alone That holy light is cast.

With such a ray, no spell of thine Can make our later pleasures s.h.i.+ne, Though long ago they pa.s.sed.

TO COWPER.

Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard; And oft, in childhood's years, I've read them o'er and o'er again, With floods of silent tears.

The language of my inmost heart I traced in every line; MY sins, MY sorrows, hopes, and fears, Were there-and only mine.

All for myself the sigh would swell, The tear of anguish start; I little knew what wilder woe Had filled the Poet's heart.

I did not know the nights of gloom, The days of misery; The long, long years of dark despair, That crushed and tortured thee.

But they are gone; from earth at length Thy gentle soul is pa.s.s'd, And in the bosom of its G.o.d Has found its home at last.

It must be so, if G.o.d is love, And answers fervent prayer; Then surely thou shalt dwell on high, And I may meet thee there.

Is He the source of every good, The spring of purity?

Then in thine hours of deepest woe, Thy G.o.d was still with thee.

How else, when every hope was fled, Couldst thou so fondly cling To holy things and help men?

And how so sweetly sing,

Of things that G.o.d alone could teach?

And whence that purity, That hatred of all sinful ways-- That gentle charity?

Are THESE the symptoms of a heart Of heavenly grace bereft-- For ever banished from its G.o.d, To Satan's fury left?

Yet, should thy darkest fears be true, If Heaven be so severe, That such a soul as thine is lost,-- Oh! how shall I appear?

THE DOUBTER'S PRAYER.

Eternal Power, of earth and air!

Unseen, yet seen in all around, Remote, but dwelling everywhere, Though silent, heard in every sound;

If e'er thine ear in mercy bent, When wretched mortals cried to Thee, And if, indeed, Thy Son was sent, To save lost sinners such as me:

Then hear me now, while kneeling here, I lift to thee my heart and eye, And all my soul ascends in prayer, OH, GIVE ME--GIVE ME FAITH! I cry.

Without some glimmering in my heart, I could not raise this fervent prayer; But, oh! a stronger light impart, And in Thy mercy fix it there.

While Faith is with me, I am blest; It turns my darkest night to day; But while I clasp it to my breast, I often feel it slide away.

Then, cold and dark, my spirit sinks, To see my light of life depart; And every fiend of h.e.l.l, methinks, Enjoys the anguish of my heart.

What shall I do, if all my love, My hopes, my toil, are cast away, And if there be no G.o.d above, To hear and bless me when I pray?

If this be vain delusion all, If death be an eternal sleep, And none can hear my secret call, Or see the silent tears I weep!

Oh, help me, G.o.d! For thou alone Canst my distracted soul relieve; Forsake it not: it is thine own, Though weak, yet longing to believe.

Oh, drive these cruel doubts away; And make me know, that Thou art G.o.d!

A faith, that s.h.i.+nes by night and day, Will lighten every earthly load.

If I believe that Jesus died, And waking, rose to reign above; Then surely Sorrow, Sin, and Pride, Must yield to Peace, and Hope, and Love.

And all the blessed words He said Will strength and holy joy impart: A s.h.i.+eld of safety o'er my head, A spring of comfort in my heart.

A WORD TO THE "ELECT."

You may rejoice to think YOURSELVES secure; You may be grateful for the gift divine-- That grace unsought, which made your black hearts pure, And fits your earth-born souls in Heaven to s.h.i.+ne.

But, is it sweet to look around, and view Thousands excluded from that happiness Which they deserved, at least, as much as you.-- Their faults not greater, nor their virtues less?

And wherefore should you love your G.o.d the more, Because to you alone his smiles are given; Because He chose to pa.s.s the MANY o'er, And only bring the favoured FEW to Heaven?

And, wherefore should your hearts more grateful prove, Because for ALL the Saviour did not die?

Is yours the G.o.d of justice and of love?

And are your bosoms warm with charity?

Say, does your heart expand to all mankind?

And, would you ever to your neighbour do-- The weak, the strong, the enlightened, and the blind-- As you would have your neighbour do to you?

And when you, looking on your fellow-men, Behold them doomed to endless misery, How can you talk of joy and rapture then?-- May G.o.d withhold such cruel joy from me!

That none deserve eternal bliss I know; Unmerited the grace in mercy given: But, none shall sink to everlasting woe, That have not well deserved the wrath of Heaven.

And, oh! there lives within my heart A hope, long nursed by me; (And should its cheering ray depart, How dark my soul would be!)

That as in Adam all have died, In Christ shall all men live; And ever round his throne abide, Eternal praise to give.