POEMS OF EMILY BRONTE COMPLIMENTS OF WIKISOURCE LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP Love is like the wild rose-brier; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-brier blooms, But which will bloom most constantly? The wild rose-brier is sweet in spring, Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-brier fair! Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with the hollys sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green. VIII THE ELDERS REBUKE Listen! When your hair, like mine, Takes a tint of silver gray; When your eyes, with dimmer shine, Watch lifes bubbles float away: When you, young man, have borne like me The weary weight of sixty-three, Then shall penance sore be paid For those hours so wildly squandered; And the words that now fall dead On your ear, be deeply pondered— Pondered and approved at last: But their virtue will be past! Glorious is the prize of Duty, Though she be a serious power; Treacherous all the lures of Beauty, Thorny bud and poisonous flower! Mirth is but a mad beguiling Of the golden-gifted time; Love—a demon-meteor, wiling Heedless feet to gulfs of crime. Those who follow earthly pleasure, Heavenly knowledge will not lead; Wisdom hides from them her treasure, Virtue bids them evil-speed! Vainly may their hearts repenting, Seek for aid in future years; Wisdom, scorned, knows no relenting; Virtue is not won by fears. Thus spake the ice-blooded elder gray; The young man scoffed as he turned away, Turned to the call of a sweet lutes measure, Waked by the lightsome touch of pleasure: Had he neer met a gentler teacher, Woe had been wrought by that pitiless preacher. IX THE WANDERER FROM THE FOLD How few, of all the hearts that loved, Are grieving for thee now; And why should mine to-night be moved With such a sense of woe? Too often thus, when left alone, Where none my thoughts can see, Comes back a word, a passing tone From thy strange history. Sometimes I seem to see thee rise, A glorious child again; All virtues beaming from thine eyes That ever honoured men: Courage and truth, a generous breast Where sinless sunshine lay: A being whose very presence blest Like gladsome summer-day. O, fairly spread thy early sail, And fresh, and pure, and free, Was the first impulse of the gale Which urged lifes wave for thee! Why did the pilot, too confiding, Dream oer that oceans foam, And trust in Pleasures careless guiding To bring his vessel home? For well he knew what dangers frowned, What mists would gather, dim; What rocks and shelves, and sands lay round Between his port and him. The very brightness of the sun, The splendour of the main, The wind which bore him wildly on Should not have warned in vain. An anxious gazer from the shore— I marked the whitening wave, And wept above thy fate the more Because—I could not save. It recks not now, when all is over: But yet my heart will be A mourner still, though friend and lover Have both forgotten thee! X WARNING AND REPLY In the earth—the earth—thou shalt be laid, A grey stone standing over thee; Black mould beneath thee spread, And black mould to cover thee. Well—there is rest there, So fast come thy prophecy; The time when my sunny hair Shall with grass roots entwined be. But cold—cold is that resting-place, Shut out from joy and liberty, And all who loved thy living face Will shrink from it shudderingly. Not so. Here the world is chill, And sworn friends fall from me: But there—they will own me still, And prize my memory. Farewell, then, all that love, All that deep sympathy: Sleep on; Heaven laughs above, Earth never misses thee. Turf-sod and tombstone drear Part human company; One heart breaks only—here, But that heart was worthy thee!
Posted on: Tue, 03 Dec 2013 21:22:41 +0000
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