Are made; for all that Truth would hail,
Must force this frontier line, or fail.

And through this vestibule have pass'd
All master minds; the first as last,
And inch by inch, and day by day,

Have cut their road, or fought their way.

REFLECTIONS.

EMILY BRONTE, DIED DECEMBER, 19, 1848.

A LITTLE While, a little while,

The weary task is put away,

And I can sing and I can smile,

Alike, while I have holiday.

Where wilt thou go my harass'd heart—

What thought, what scene invites thee now?

What spot, or near or far apart,

Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, 'mid barren hills,

Where Winter howls, and driving rain;

But, if the dreary tempest chills,

There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear-

So long'd for-as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone;
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them-how I love them all!

till, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away;
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I pass'd to bright, unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane

That open'd on a common wide; A distant, dreamy, dim, blue chain Of mountains circling every side.

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hush'd an air;
And-deepening still the dream-like charm—
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

That was the scene, I knew it well;

I knew the turfy pathway's sweep,

That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Mark'd out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have linger'd but an hour,

It well had paid a week of toil:

But truth has banish'd fancy's power; Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorb'd in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,

And back came labour, bondage, care.

THE NIGHT WIND.

EMILY BRONTE.

IN summer's mellow midnight

A cloudless moon shone through

Our open parlour-window,

And rose-trees wet with dew.

I sat in silent musing;

The soft wind waved my hair;
It told me heaven was glorious,
And sleeping earth was fair.

I needed not its breathing

To bring such thoughts to me;
But still it whisper'd lowly,

"How dark the woods will be!

"The thick leaves in my murmur

Are rustling like a dream,
And all their myriad voices
Instinct with spirit seem."

I said, "Go, gentle singer,
Thy moving voice is kind:
But do not think its music

Has power to reach my mind.

"Play with the scented flower,

The young tree's supple bough,
And leave my human feelings
In their own course to flow."

The wanderer would not heed me; Its kiss grew warmer still. "O come!" it sigh'd so sweetly; "I'll woo thee 'gainst thy will.

"Were we not friends from childhood?
Have I not loved thee long?
As long as thou, the solemn night,
Whose silence wakes my song?

"And when my heart is resting

Beneath the church-aisle stone, I shall have time for mourning, And thou for being alone."

*

Ay-there it is! it wakes to-night

Deep feelings I thought dead ;

*

Strong in the blast-quick gathering light

The heart's flame kindles red.

"Now I can tell by thy alter'd cheek,

And by thine eyes' full gaze,

And by the words thou scarce dost speak, How wildly fancy plays.

"Yes I could swear that glorious wind
Has swept the world aside,

Has dash'd its memory from thy mind
Like foam-bells from the tide :

"And thou art now a spirit pouring Thy presence into all :

The thunder of the tempest's roaring,

The whisper of its fall:

An universal influence,

From thine own influence free;

A principle of life-intense-
Lost to mortality,

"Thus truly, when that breast is cold,
Thy prison'd soul shall rise;
The dungeon mingle with the mould---
The captive with the skies.

Nature's deep being thine shall hold,

Her spirit all thy spirit fold,

Her breath absorb thy sighs.

Mortal though soon life's tale is told,
Who once lives, never dies!"