Verses to a Child by Anne Brontë

    O raise those eyes to me again
    And smile again so joyously,
    And fear not, love; it was not pain
    Nor grief that drew these tears from me;
    Beloved child, thou canst not tell
    The thoughts that in my bosom dwell
    Whene'er I look on thee!

2

    Thou knowest not that a glance of thine
    Can bring back long departed years
    And that thy blue eyes' magic shine
    Can overflow my own with tears,
    And that each feature soft and fair
    And every curl of golden hair,
    Some sweet remembrance bears.

3

    Just then thou didst recall to me
    A distant long forgotten scene,
    One smile, and one sweet word from thee
    Dispelled the years that rolled between;
    I was a little child again,
    And every after joy and pain
    Seemed never to have been.

4

    Tall forest trees waved over me,
    To hide me from the heat of day,
    And by my side a child like thee
    Among the summer flowerets lay.
    He was thy sire, thou merry child.
    Like thee he spoke, like thee he smiled,
    Like thee he used to play.

5

    O those were calm and happy days,
    We loved each other fondly then;
    But human love too soon decays,
    And ours can never bloom again.
    I never thought to see the day
    When Florian's friendship would decay
    Like those of colder men.

6

    Now, Flora, thou hast but begun
    To sail on life's deceitful sea,
    O do not err as I have done,
    For I have trusted foolishly;
    The faith of every friend I loved
    I never doubted till I proved
    Their heart's inconstancy.

7

    'Tis mournful to look back upon
    Those long departed joys and cares,
    But I will weep since thou alone
    Art witness to my streaming tears.
    This lingering love will not depart,
    I cannot banish from my heart
    The friend of childish years.

8

    But though thy father loves me not,
    Yet I shall still be loved by thee,
    And though I am by him forgot,
    Say wilt thou not remember me!
    I will not cause thy heart to ache;
    For thy regretted father's sake
    I'll love and cherish thee.

Power of Love by Anne Brontë

    Love, indeed thy strength is mighty
    Thus, alone, such strife to bear,
    Three 'gainst one, and never ceasing,
    Death, and Madness, and Despair!

    'Tis not my own strength has saved me;
    Health, and hope, and fortitude,
    But for love, had long since failed me;
    Heart and soul had sunk subdued.

    Often, in my wild impatience,
    I have lost my trust in Heaven,
    And my soul has tossed and struggled,
    Like a vessel tempest-driven;

    But the voice of my beloved
    In my ear has seemed to say,
    'O, be patient if thou lov'st me!'
    And the storm has passed away.

    When outworn with weary thinking,
    Sight and thought were waxing dim,
    And my mind began to wander,
    And my brain began to swim,

    Then those hands outstretched to save me
    Seemed to call me back again,
    Those dark eyes did so implore me
    To resume my reason's reign,

    That I could not but remember
    How her hopes were fixed on me,
    And, with one determined effort,
    Rose, and shook my spirit free.

    When hope leaves my weary spirit,
    All the power to hold it gone,
    That loved voice so loudly prays me,
    'For my sake, keep hoping on,'

    That, at once my strength renewing,
    Though Despair had crushed me down,
    I can burst his bonds asunder,
    And defy his deadliest frown.

    When, from nights of restless tossing,
    Days of gloom and pining care,
    Pain and weakness, still increasing,
    Seem to whisper 'Death is near,'

    And I almost bid him welcome,
    Knowing he would bring release,
    Weary of this restless struggle,
    Longing to repose in peace,

    Then a glance of fond reproval
    Bids such selfish longings flee
    And a voice of matchless music
    Murmurs 'Cherish life for me!'

    Roused to newborn strength and courage,
    Pain and grief, I cast away,
    Health and life, I keenly follow,
    Mighty Death is held at bay.

    Yes, my love, I will be patient!
    Firm and bold my heart shall be:
    Fear not, though this life is dreary,
    I can bear it well for thee.

    Let our foes still rain upon me
    Cruel wrongs and taunting scorn;
    'Tis for thee their hate pursues me,
    And for thee, it shall be borne!

In Memory of a Happy Day in February by Anne Brontë

    Blessed be Thou for all the joy
    My soul has felt to-day!
    Oh, let its memory stay with me,
    And never pass away!

    I was alone, for those I loved
    Were far away from me;
    The sun shone on the withered grass,
    The wind blew fresh and free.

    Was it the smile of early spring
    That made my bosom glow?
    'Twas sweet; but neither sun nor wind
    Could cheer my spirit so.

    Was it some feeling of delight
    All vague and undefined?
    No; 'twas a rapture deep and strong,
    Expanding in the mind.

    Was it a sanguine view of life,
    And all its transient bliss,
    A hope of bright prosperity?
    Oh, no! it was not this.

    It was a glimpse of truth divine
    Unto my spirit given,
    Illumined by a ray of light
    That shone direct from heaven.

    I felt there was a God on high,
    By whom all things were made;
    I saw His wisdom and His power
    In all his works displayed.

    But most throughout the moral world,
    I saw his glory shine;
    I saw His wisdom infinite,
    His mercy all divine.

    Deep secrets of His providence,
    In darkness long concealed,
    Unto the vision of my soul
    Were graciously revealed.

    But while I wondered and adored
    His Majesty divine,
    I did not tremble at His power:
    I felt that God was mine;

    I knew that my Redeemer lived;
    I did not fear to die;
    Full sure that I should rise again
    To immortality.

    I longed to view that bliss divine,
    Which eye hath never seen;
    Like Moses, I would see His face
    Without the veil between.

A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep by Anne Brontë

    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.'

A Word to the Calvinists by Anne Brontë

    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 deserve 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 fellow men
    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, O! 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.

If This Be All by Anne Brontë

O GOD! if this indeed be all
That Life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may fall
No freshening dew from Thee;
If with no brighter light than this
The lamp of hope may glow,
And I may only dream of bliss,
And wake to weary woe;
If friendship’s solace must decay,
When other joys are gone,
And love must keep so far away,
While I go wandering on,—
Wandering and toiling without gain,
The slave of others’ will,
With constant care and frequent pain,
Despised, forgotten still;
Grieving to look on vice and sin,
Yet powerless to quell
The silent current from within,
The outward torrent’s swell;
While all the good I would impart,
The feelings I would share,
Are driven backward to my heart,
And turned to wormwood there;
If clouds must ever keep from sight
The glories of the Sun,
And I must suffer Winter’s blight,
Ere Summer is begun:
If Life must be so full of care—
Then call me soon to Thee;
Or give me strength enough to bear
My load of misery!

A Hymn by Anne Brontë

    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.

Three Things to Remember by William Blake

    A Robin Redbreast in a cage,
    Puts all Heaven in a rage.

    A skylark wounded on the wing
    Doth make a cherub cease to sing.

    He who shall hurt the little wren
    Shall never be beloved by men.

To the Evening Star by William Blake

    Thou fair-haired angel of the evening,
    Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
    Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
    Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
    Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the
    Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
    On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
    In timely sleep. Let thy west wing sleep on
    The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
    And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
    Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
    And the lion glares through the dun forest.
    The fleeces of our flocks are covered with
    Thy sacred dew; protect with them with thine influence.

Infant Sorrow by William Blake

    My mother groaned, my father wept:
    Into the dangerous world I leapt,
    Helpless, naked, piping loud,
    Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

    Struggling in my father's hands,
    Striving against my swaddling-bands,
    Bound and weary, I thought best
    To sulk upon my mother's breast.

Infant Joy by William Blake

    "I have no name;
    I am but two days old."
    What shall I call thee?
    "I happy am,
    Joy is my name."
    Sweet joy befall thee!

    Pretty joy!
    Sweet joy, but two days old.
    Sweet Joy I call thee:
    Thou dost smile,
    I sing the while;
    Sweet joy befall thee!

The Tyger by William Blake

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The Shepherd by William Blake

How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he stays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
And he hears the ewes' tender reply;
He is watching while they are in peace,
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.

The Lamb by William Blake

Little Lamb, who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!

The Chimney Sweeper by William Blake

A little black thing in the snow,
Crying "weep! weep!" in notes of woe!
"Where are thy father and mother? Say!"
"They are both gone up to the church to pray.

"Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smiled among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

"And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his priest and king,
Who make up a heaven of our misery."

The Chimney Sweeper (Songs of Innocence) by William Blake

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue,
Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep,
So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curled like a lambs back was shav’d, so I said.
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair

And so he was quiet. & that very night.
As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight
That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned, & Jack
Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black,

And by came an Angel who had a bright key
And he open’d the coffins & set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run
And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind.
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho’ the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

Love Arm'd by Aphra Behn

Love in Fantastique Triumph satt,
Whilst bleeding Hearts around him flow'd,
For whom Fresh pains he did create,
And strange Tryanic power he show'd;
From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire,
Which round about, in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desire,
Enough to undo the Amorous World.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his Pride and Crueltie;
From me his Languishments and Feares,
And every Killing Dart from thee;
Thus thou and I, the God have arm'd,
And sett him up a Deity;
But my poor Heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.