Thorp Green

I SIT, this evening, far away,

From all I used to know,

And nought reminds my soul to-day

Of happy long ago.

Unwelcome cares, unthought-of fears,

Around my room arise;

I seek for suns of former years

But clouds o'ercast my skies.

Yes--Memory, wherefore does thy voice

Bring old times back to view,

As thou wouldst bid me not rejoice

In thoughts and prospects new?

I'll thank thee, Memory, in the hour

When troubled thoughts are mine--

For thou, like suns in April's shower,

On shadowy scenes wilt shine.

I'll thank thee when approaching death

Would quench life's feeble ember,

For thou wouldst even renew my breath

With thy sweet word 'Remember'!

Branwell Brontë

My soul is awakened

MY soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring,

And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;

For, above, and around me, the wild wind is roaring,

Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,

The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;

The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,

The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing

The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray,

I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing

And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!

Anne Brontë

Home

HOW brightly glistening in the sun

The woodland ivy plays!

While yonder beeches from their barks

Reflect his silver rays.

That sun surveys a lovely scene

From softly smiling skies;

And wildly through unnumbered trees

The wind of winter sighs:

Now loud, it thunders o'er my head,

And now in distance dies.

But give me back my barren hills

Where colder breezes rise:

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees

Can yield an answering swell,

But where a wilderness of heath

Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide,

With groves of evergreen,

Long winding walks, and borders trim,

And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot,

With gray walls compassed round,

Where knotted grass neglected lies,

And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high

Invites the foot to roam,

And though the halls are fair within--

Oh, give me back my home!

Anne Brontë

Pleasure

True pleasure breathes not city air,

Nor in Art's temples dwells,

In palaces and towers where

The voice of Grandeur dwells.

No! Seek it where high Nature holds

Her court 'mid stately groves,

Where she her majesty unfolds,

And in fresh beauty moves;

Where thousand birds of sweetest song,

The wildly rushing storm

And hundred streams which glide along,

Her mighty concert form!

Go where the woods in beauty sleep

Bathed in pale Luna's light,

Or where among their branches sweep

The hollow sounds of night.

Go where the warbling nightingale

In gushes rich doth sing,

Till all the lonely, quiet vale

With melody doth ring.

Go, sit upon a mountain steep,

And view the prospect round;

The hills and vales, the valley's sweep,

The far horizon bound.

Then view the wide sky overhead,

The still, deep vault of blue,

The sun which golden light doth shed,

The clouds of pearly hue.

And as you gaze on this vast scene

Your thoughts will journey far,

Though hundred years should roll between

On Time's swift-passing car.

To ages when the earth was young,

When patriarchs, grey and old,

The praises of their god oft sung,

And oft his mercies told.

You see them with their beards of snow,

Their robes of ample form,

Their lives whose peaceful, gentle flow,

Felt seldom passion's storm.

Then a calm, solemn pleasure steals

Into your inmost mind;

A quiet aura your spirit feels,

A softened stillness kind.

Charlotte Brontë

Life

LIFE, believe, is not a dream,

So dark as sages say;

Oft a little morning rain

Foretells a pleasant day:

Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,

But these are transient all;

If the shower will make the roses bloom,

Oh, why lament its fall?

     Rapidly, merrily,

Life's sunny hours flit by,

     Gratefully, cheerily,

Enjoy them as they fly.

What though death at times steps in,

And calls our Best away?

What though Sorrow seems to win,

O'er hope a heavy sway?

Yet Hope again elastic springs,

Unconquered, though she fell,

Still buoyant are her golden wings,

Still strong to bear us well.

     Manfuly, fearlessly,

The day of trial bear,

     For gloriously, victoriously,

Can courage quell dispair!

Charlotte Brontë