Poems List

Farewell

Farewell


Farewell to thee! but not farewell

To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;

And they shall cheer and comfort me.
O, beautiful, and full of grace!

If thou hadst never met mine eye,
I had not dreamed a living face

Could fancied charms so far outvie.

If I may ne'er behold again

That form and face so dear to me,
Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain

Preserve, for aye, their memory.

That voice, the magic of whose tone

Can wake an echo in my breast,
Creating feelings that, alone,

Can make my tranced spirit blest.

That laughing eye, whose sunny beam

My memory would not cherish less; And
oh, that smile! whose joyous gleam

Nor mortal language can express.

Adieu, but let me cherish, still,

The hope with which I cannot part.
Contempt may wound, and coldness chill,

But still it lingers in my heart.

And who can tell but Heaven, at last,

May answer all my thousand prayers,
And bid the future pay the past

With joy for anguish, smiles for tears?
74

An Orphan's Lament

An Orphan's Lament

She's gone and
twice the summer's sun
Has gilt Regina's towers,
And melted wild Angora's snows,
And warmed Exina's bowers.
The flowerets twice on hill and dale
Have bloomed and died away,
And twice the rustling forest leaves
Have fallen to decay,


And thrice stern winter's icy hand
Has checked the river's flow,
And three times o'er the mountains thrown
His spotless robe of snow.


Two summers springs and autumns sad
Three winters cold and grey And
is it then so long ago
That wild November day!


They say such tears as children weep
Will soon be dried away,
That childish grief however strong
Is only for a day,


And parted friends how dear soe'er
Will soon forgotten be;
It may be so with other hearts,
It is not thus with me.


My mother, thou wilt weep no more
For thou art gone above,
But can I ever cease to mourn
Thy good and fervent love?


While that was mine the world to me
Was sunshine bright and fair;
No feeling rose within my heart
But thou couldst read it there.


And thou couldst feel for all my joys
And all my childish cares
And never weary of my play
Or scorn my foolish fears.


Beneath thy sweet maternal smile
All pain and sorrow fled,
And even the very tears were sweet
Upon thy bosom shed.


Thy loss can never be repaired;
I shall not know again
While life remains, the peaceful joy



That filled my spirit then.


Where shall I find a heart like thine
While life remains to me,
And where shall I bestow the love
I ever bore for thee?


A.H.
90

Call Me Away

Call Me Away

Call me away; there's nothing here,
That wins my soul to stay;
Then let me leave this prospect drear,
And hasten far away.
To our beloved land I'll flee,
Our land of thought and soul,
Where I have roved so oft with thee,
Beyond the world's control.

I'll sit and watch those ancient trees,
Those Scotch firs dark and high;
I'll listen to the eerie breeze,
Among their branches sigh.

The glorious moon shines far above;
How soft her radiance falls,
On snowy heights, and rock, and grove;
And yonder palace walls!

Who stands beneath yon fir trees high?
A youth both slight and fair,
Whose bright and restless azure eye

Proclaims him known to care,
Though fair that brow, it is not smooth;
Though small those features, yet in sooth

Stern passion has been there.

Now on the peaceful moon are fixed
Those eyes so glistening bright,
But trembling teardrops hang betwixt,
And dim the blessed light.

Though late the hour, and keen the blast,
That whistles round him now,
Those raven locks are backward cast,
To cool his burning brow.

His hands above his heaving breast
Are clasped in agony '
O Father! Father! let me rest!
And call my soul to thee!

I know 'tis weakness thus to pray;
But all this cankering care This
doubt tormenting night and day
Is more than I can bear!

With none to comfort, none to guide
And none to strengthen me.
Since thou my only friend hast died I've
pined to follow thee!
Since thou hast died! And did he live


What comfort could his counsel give To
one forlorn like me?

Would he my Idol's form adore Her
soul, her glance, her tone?
And say, "Forget for ever more

Her kindred and thine own;
Let dreams of her thy peace destroy,
Leave every other hope and joy

And live for her alone"?'

He starts, he smiles, and dries the tears,
Still glistening on his cheek,
The lady of his soul appears,
And hark! I hear her speak


'Aye, dry thy tears; thou wilt not weep While
I am by thy side Our
foes all day their watch may keep

But cannot thus divide
Such hearts as ours; and we tonight
Together in the clear moon's light

Their malice will deride.

No fear our present bliss shall blast
And sorrow we'll defy.
Do thou forget the dreary past,
The dreadful future I.'

Forget it? Yes, while thou art by
I think of nought but thee,
'Tis only when thou art not nigh
Remembrance tortures me.

But such a lofty soul to find,
And such a heart as thine,
In such a glorious form enshrined

And still to call thee mine Would
be for earth too great a bliss,
Without a taint of woe like this,

Then why should I repine?
109

A Voice From The Dungeon

A Voice From The Dungeon

I'm buried now; I've done with life;
I've done with hate, revenge and strife;
I've done with joy, and hope and love
And all the bustling world above.
Long have I dwelt forgotten here
In pining woe and dull despair;
This place of solitude and gloom
Must be my dungeon and my tomb.


No hope, no pleasure can I find:
I am grown weary of my mind;
Often in balmy sleep I try
To gain a rest from misery,


And in one hour of calm repose
To find a respite from my woes,
But dreamless sleep is not for me
And I am still in misery.


I dream of liberty, 'tis true,
But then I dream of sorrow too,
Of blood and guilt and horrid woes,
Of tortured friends and happy foes;


I dream about the world, but then
I dream of fiends instead of men;
Each smiling hope so quickly fades
And such a lurid gloom pervades


That world that
when I wake and see
Those dreary phantoms fade and flee,
Even in my dungeon I can smile,
And taste of joy a little while.


And yet it is not always so;
I dreamt a little while ago
That all was as it used to be:
A fresh free wind passed over me;


It was a pleasant summer's day,
The sun shone forth with cheering ray,
Methought a little lovely child
Looked up into my face and smiled.


My heart was full, I wept for joy,
It was my own, my darling boy;
I clasped him to my breast and he
Kissed me and laughed in childish glee.


Just them I heard in whisper sweet
A well known voice my name repeat.
His father stood before my eyes;



I gazed at him in mute surprise,


I thought he smiled and spoke to me,
But still in silent ecstasy
I gazed at him; I could not speak;
I uttered one long piercing shriek.


Alas! Alas! That cursed scream
Aroused me from my heavenly dream;
I looked around in wild despair,
I called them, but they were not there;
The father and the child are gone,
And I must live and die alone.


Marina Sabia
75

A Word To The 'Elect'

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 earthborn
souls in Heaven to shine.
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 God the more,
Because to you alone his smiles are given;
Because he chose to pass 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 God 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 fellowmen,
Behold them doomed to endless misery,
How can you talk of joy and rapture then? May
God 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.

That even the wicked shall at last
Be fitted for the skies;
And, when their dreadful doom is past,
To life and light arise.

I ask not, how remote the day,
Nor what the sinner's woe,
Before their dross is purged away;


Enough for me, to know

That when the cup of wrath is drained,
The metal purified,

They'll cling to what they once disdained,
And live by Him that died.

Acton
75

A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep

A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep

A prisoner in a dungeon deep
Sat musing silently;
His head was rested on his hand,
His elbow on his knee.
Turned he his thoughts to future times
Or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now
Or mourning for the past?

No, he has lived so long enthralled
Alone in dungeon gloom
That he has lost regret and hope,
Has ceased to mourn his doom.

He pines not for the light of day
Nor sighs for freedom now;
Such weary thoughts have ceased at length
To rack his burning brow.

Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts
He sits unmoving there;
That posture and that look proclaim
The stupor of despair.

Yet not for ever did that mood
Of sullen calm prevail;
There was a something in his eye
That told another tale.

It did not speak of reason gone,
It was not madness quite;
It was a fitful flickering fire,
A strange uncertain light.

And sooth to say, these latter years
Strange fancies now and then
Had filled his cell with scenes of life
And forms of living men.

A mind that cannot cease to think
Why needs he cherish there?
Torpor may bring relief to pain
And madness to despair.

Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes
As feverish dreams display:
What if those fancies still increase
And reason quite decay?

But hark, what sounds have struck his ear;
Voices of men they seem;

And two have entered now his cell;


Can this too be a dream?

'Orlando, hear our joyful news:
Revenge and liberty!

Your foes are dead, and we are come
At last to set you free.'

So spoke the elder of the two,
And in the captive's eyes

He looked for gleaming ecstasy
But only found surprise.

'My foes are dead! It must be then
That all mankind are gone.

For they were all my deadly foes
And friends I had not one.'
69

A Hymn

A Hymn

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;
O give me give
me Faith I cry.


Without some glimmering in my heart,
I could not raise this fervent prayer;
But O 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 Hell 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 God 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.


O help me God! for thou alone
Canst my distracted soul relieve;
Forsake it not it
is thine own,
Though weak yet longing to believe.


O drive these cruel doubts away
And make me know that thou art God;
A Faith that shines 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 shield of safety o'er my head,
A spring of comfort in my heart.
68

And yet my comrades marked it not,

And yet my comrades marked it not,
My voice was still the same;

They saw me smile, and o'er my face No
signs of sadness came;

They little knew my hidden thoughts
And they will never know

The anguish of my drooping heart,
The bitter aching woe!

Olivia Vernon.
75

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Identification and basic context

Anne Brontë, also known by her pseudonym Acton Bell, was an English novelist and poet. She was the youngest of the Brontë siblings. Her family background was that of a clergyman's daughter in the early 19th century, a period of significant social and economic change. She was English and wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Born into a literary family, Anne's early life was shaped by her father's clerical duties and the remote parsonage at Haworth. She received a basic education at home and later attended Roe Head school with her sisters, though she did not stay long. She also served as a governess for a time. Early influences likely included religious teachings and the literary works her family read and discussed.

Literary trajectory

Anne Brontë began writing poetry early in life, a common practice among the Brontë siblings. Her literary career as a novelist began later, with the publication of 'Agnes Grey' in 1847, followed by 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall' in 1848. These works, published under the pseudonym Acton Bell, were part of a joint publication with her sisters' novels.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Anne Brontë's major works include "Agnes Grey" (1847) and "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" (1848). Her dominant themes revolved around the plight of governesses, the hypocrisy of society, marital abuse, alcoholism, and the struggle for female independence and moral integrity. Her style is characterized by its realism, directness, and moral earnestness, often presenting a stark contrast to the more romantic or Gothic elements found in her sisters' works. She was a pioneer in depicting the harsh realities faced by women in Victorian society, particularly in domestic and professional spheres. Her poetic voice is often clear, reasoned, and passionate about social justice.

Cultural and historical context

Anne Brontë lived during the Victorian era, a time of strict social conventions, particularly for women. As a woman, her professional options were limited, with governess positions being one of the few respectable avenues. The novel "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" was controversial for its frank depiction of marital degradation and alcoholism, reflecting contemporary social issues and moral debates. She belonged to a generation of writers grappling with the changes brought about by industrialization and a growing awareness of social inequalities.

Personal life

Anne's personal life was marked by the close bonds with her sisters and father, and the tragic early deaths of her siblings. Her experiences as a governess likely informed "Agnes Grey." While not as publicly engaged as some contemporaries, her deep moral convictions and her passionate defense of her second novel suggest a strong personal will and commitment to her artistic vision.

Recognition and reception

Initially, Anne Brontë's novels, particularly "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall," faced criticism for their perceived coarseness and controversial subject matter. However, their literary merit and unflinching honesty have been increasingly recognized over time. "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" is now considered a groundbreaking work of feminist literature and a powerful social commentary.

Influences and legacy

While direct influences are debated, Anne Brontë's writing shares a lineage with the realism of earlier novelists and her sisters' literary explorations. She, in turn, influenced subsequent generations of writers interested in social realism and feminist themes. Her legacy lies in her courageous depiction of female agency and her unflinching examination of social injustices, contributing significantly to the development of the novel as a vehicle for social critique.

Interpretation and critical analysis

"The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" has been interpreted as an early feminist text for its portrayal of a woman seeking escape from an abusive marriage and asserting her independence. Critics have analyzed its social realism, its psychological depth, and its theological undertones regarding redemption and personal responsibility.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Unlike her sisters Charlotte and Emily, Anne's temperament was often described as more reserved and outwardly conventional, yet her writing demonstrated a fierce independence of thought and a clear moral vision. Her dedication to her second novel, even after facing criticism, highlights a strong inner conviction.

Death and memory

Anne Brontë died at the age of 29, likely from tuberculosis, a disease that claimed many of her siblings. Her death occurred before her literary reputation had fully solidified, but her works have endured and grown in significance.