Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

  Not in scorn do I reprove thee,
     Not in pride thy vows I waive,
     But, believe, I could not love thee,
     Wert thou prince, and I a slave.
     These, then, are thine oaths of passion?
     This, thy tenderness for me?
     Judged, even, by thine own confession,
     Thou art steeped in perfidy.
     Having vanquished, thou wouldst leave me!
     Thus I read thee long ago;
     Therefore, dared I not deceive thee,
     Even with friendship's gentle show.
     Therefore, with impassive coldness
     Have I ever met thy gaze;
     Though, full oft, with daring boldness,
     Thou thine eyes to mine didst raise.
     Why that smile? Thou now art deeming
     This my coldness all untrue,—
     But a mask of frozen seeming,
     Hiding secret fires from view.
     Touch my hand, thou self-deceiver;
     Nay-be calm, for I am so:
     Does it burn? Does my lip quiver?
     Has mine eye a troubled glow?
     Canst thou call a moment's colour
     To my forehead—to my cheek?
     Canst thou tinge their tranquil pallor
     With one flattering, feverish streak?
     Am I marble?  What! no woman
     Could so calm before thee stand?
     Nothing living, sentient, human,
     Could so coldly take thy hand?
     Yes—a sister might, a mother:
     My good-will is sisterly:
     Dream not, then, I strive to smother
     Fires that inly burn for thee.
     Rave not, rage not, wrath is fruitless,
     Fury cannot change my mind;
     I but deem the feeling rootless
     Which so whirls in passion's wind.
     Can I love?  Oh, deeply—truly—
     Warmly—fondly—but not thee;
     And my love is answered duly,
     With an equal energy.
     Wouldst thou see thy rival?  Hasten,
     Draw that curtain soft aside,
     Look where yon thick branches chasten
     Noon, with shades of eventide.
     In that glade, where foliage blending
     Forms a green arch overhead,
     Sits thy rival, thoughtful bending
     O'er a stand with papers spread—
     Motionless, his fingers plying
     That untired, unresting pen;
     Time and tide unnoticed flying,
     There he sits—the first of men!
     Man of conscience—man of reason;
     Stern, perchance, but ever just;
     Foe to falsehood, wrong, and treason,
     Honour's shield, and virtue's trust!
     Worker, thinker, firm defender
     Of Heaven's truth—man's liberty;
     Soul of iron—proof to slander,
     Rock where founders tyranny.
     Fame he seeks not—but full surely
     She will seek him, in his home;
     This I know, and wait securely
     For the atoning hour to come.
     To that man my faith is given,
     Therefore, soldier, cease to sue;
     While God reigns in earth and heaven,
     I to him will still be true!