Song

By Anne Brontë We know where deepest lies the snow, And where the frost-winds keenest blow, O'er every mountain's brow, We long have known and learnt to bear The wandering outlaw's toil and care, But where we late were hunted, there Our foes are hunted now. We have their princely homes, and they To our wild haunts are chased away, Dark woods, and desert caves. And we can range from hill to hill, And chase our vanquished victors still; Small respite will they find until They slumber in their graves.

But I would rather be the hare, That crouching in its sheltered lair Must start at every sound; That forced from cornfields waving wide Is driven to seek the bare hillside, Or in the tangled copse to hide, Than be the hunter's hound. Memory By Anne Brontë

Brightly the sun of summer The glory of the spring. shone Green fields and waving woods Still in the wallflower's upon, fragrance dwell; And soft winds wandered by; And hover round the slight Above, a sky of purest blue, bluebell, Around, bright flowers of My childhood's darling flower. loveliest hue, Smile on the little daisy still, Allured the gazer's eye. The buttercup's bright goblet fill With all thy former power. But what were all these charms to me, For ever hang thy dreamy spell When one sweet breath of Round mountain star and memory heather bell, Came gently wafting by? And do not pass away I closed my eyes against the day, From sparkling frost, or And called my willing soul wreathed snow, away, And whisper when the wild From earth, and air, and sky; winds blow, Or rippling waters play. That I might simply fancy there One little flower--a primrose Is childhood, then, so all divine? fair, Or Memory, is the glory thine, Just opening into sight; That haloes thus the past? As in the days of infancy, Not ALL divine; its pangs of An opening primrose seemed to grief me (Although, perchance, their stay A source of strange delight. be brief) Are bitter while they last. Sweet Memory! ever smile on me; Nor is the glory all thine own, Nature's chief beauties spring For on our earliest joys alone from thee; That holy light is cast. Oh, still thy tribute bring With such a ray, no spell of Still make the golden crocus thine shine Can make our later pleasures Among the flowers the most shine, divine, Though long ago they passed. A Reminiscence By Anne Brontë

YES, thou art gone! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me; But I may pass the old church door, And pace the floor that covers thee.

May stand upon the cold, damp stone, And think that, frozen, lies below The lightest heart that I have known, The kindest I shall ever know.

Yet, though I cannot see thee more, 'Tis still a comfort to have seen; And though thy transient life is o'er, 'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;

To think a soul so near divine, Within a form so angel fair, United to a heart like thine, Has gladdened once our humble sphere. Last Lines By Anne Brontë

I hoped, that with the brave and strong, My portioned task might lie; To toil amid the busy throng, With purpose pure and high.

But God has fixed another part, And He has fixed it well; I said so with my bleeding heart, Weak and weary though I lie, When first the anguish fell. Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain, I may lift to Heaven mine eye, A dreadful darkness closes in And strive to labour not in vain; On my bewildered mind; Oh, let me suffer and not sin, That inward strife against the sins Be tortured, yet resigned. That ever wait on suffering To strike whatever first begins: Shall I with joy thy blessings share Each ill that would corruption bring; And not endure their loss? Or hope the martyr's crown to wear That secret labour to sustain And cast away the cross? With humble patience every blow; To gather fortitude from pain, Thou, God, hast taken our delight, And hope and holiness from woe. Our treasured hope away; Thou bidst us now weep through the night Thus let me serve Thee from my heart, And sorrow through the day. Whate'er may be my written fate: Whether thus early to depart, These weary hours will not be lost, Or yet a while to wait. These days of misery, These nights of darkness, anguish-tost, If thou shouldst bring me back to life, Can I but turn to Thee. More humbled I should be; More wise, more strengthened for the strife, More apt to lean on Thee.

Should death be standing at the gate, Thus should I keep my vow; But, Lord! whatever be my fate, Oh, let me serve Thee now!