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Title: Epistle To The Rev. J--- B---, Whilst Journeying For Recovery Of His Health
Author: Patrick Bronte [
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When warm'd with zeal, my rustic Muse
Feels fluttering fain to tell her news,
And paint her simple, lowly views
With all her art,
And, though in genius but obtuse,
May touch the heart.
Of palaces and courts of kings
She thinks but little, never sings,
But wildly strikes her uncouth strings
In some pool cot,
Spreads o'er the poor hen fostering wings,
And soothes their lot.
Well pleased is she to see them smile,
And uses every honest wile
To mend then hearts, their cares beguile,
With rhyming story,
And lend them to then God the while,
And endless glory.
Perchance, my poor neglected Muse
Unfit to harass or amuse,
Escaping praise and loud abuse,
Unheard, unknown,
May feed the moths and wasting dews,
As some have done.
Her aims are good, howe'er they end--
Here comes a foe, and there a friend,
These point the dart and those defend,
Whilst some deride her;
But God will sweetest comforts blend,
Whate'er betide her.
Thus heaven-supported, forth she goes
Midst flatterers, critics, friends, and foes;
Secure, since He who all things knows
Approves her aim,
And kindly fans, or fostering blows
Her sinking flame.
Hence, when she shows her honest face,
And tells her tale with awkward grace,
Importunate to gain a place
Amongst your friends,
To ruthless critics leave her case,
And hail her ends.
To all my heart is kind and true,
But glows with ardent love for you;
Though absent, still you rise in view,
And talk and smile,
Whilst heavenly themes, for ever new,
Our cares beguile.
The happy seasons oft return,
When love our melting hearts did burn,
As we through heavenly themes were borne
With heavenward eyes,
And Faith this empty globe would spurn,
And sail the skies.
Or, when the rising sun shines bright,
Or, setting, leaves the world in night,
Or, dazzling, sheds his noon-day light,
Or, cloudy, hides,
My fancy, in her airy flight,
With you resides.
Where far you wander down the vale,
When balmy scents perfume the gale,
And purling rills and linnets hail
The King of kings,
To muse with you I never fail,
On heavenly things.
Where dashing cataracts astound,
And foaming shake the neighbouring ground,
And spread a hoary mist around,
With you I gaze!--
And think, amid'st the deaf'ning sound,
On wisdom's ways.
Where rocky mountains prop the skies,
And round the smiling landscape lies,
Whilst you look down with tearful eyes
On grovelling man,
My sympathetic fancy flies,
The scene to scan.
From Pisgah's top we then survey
The blissful realms of endless day,
And all the short but narrow way
That lies between,
Whilst Faith emits a heavenly ray,
And cheers the scene.
With you I wander on the shore
To hear the angry surges roar,
Whilst foaming through the sands they pour
With constant roll,
And meditations heavenward soar,
And charm the soul.
On life's rough sea we're tempest-driven
In crazy barks, our canvas riven!
Such is the lot to mortals given
Where sins resort:
But he whose anchor's fixed in heaven
Shall gain the port.
Though swelling waves oft beat him back,
And tempests make him half a wreck,
And passions strong, with dangerous tack,
Retard his course,
Yet Christ the pilot all will check,
And quell their force.
So talk we as we thoughtful stray
Along the coast, where dashing spray
With rising mist o'erhangs the day,
And wets the shore,
And thick the vivid flashes play
And thunders roar!
Whilst passing o'er this giddy stage,
A pious and a learned sage
Resolved eternal war to wage
With passions fell;
How oft you view with holy rage
These imps of hell!
See! with what madd'ning force they sway
The human breast and lead astray,
Down the steep, broad, destructive way,
The giddy throng;
Till grisly death sweeps all away
The fiends among!
As when the mad tornado flies,
And sounding mingles earth and skies,
And wild confusion 'fore the eyes
In terrors dressed.
So passions fell in whirlwinds rise,
And rend the breast!
But whilst this direful tempest raves,
And many barks are dashed to staves,
I see you tower above the waves
Like some tall rock,
Whose base the harmless ocean laves
Without a shock!
'Tis He who calmed the raging sea,
Who bids the waves be still in thee,
And keeps you from all dangers free
Amidst the wreck;
All sin, and care, and dangers flee
E'en at His beck.
And on that great and dreadful day
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
Each soul to bliss He will convey,
That knows His name;
And give the giddy world a prey
To quenchless flame.
So oft when Sabbaths bade us rest,
And heavenly zeal inspired your breast,
Obedient to the high behest
You preached to all,
Whilst God your zealous efforts blessed,
And owned your call.
The very thought my soul inspires,
And kindles bright her latent fires;
My Muse feels heart-warm fond desires,
And spreads her wing,
And aims to join th' angelic choirs,
And sweetly sing.
May rosy Health with speed return,
And all your wonted ardour burn,
And sickness buried in his urn,
Sleep many years!
So, countless friends who loudly mourn,
Shall dry their tears!
Your wailing flock will all rejoice
To hear their much-loved shepherd's voice,
And long will bless the happy choice
Their hearts have made,
And tuneful mirth will swell the noise
Through grove and glade.
Your dearer half will join with me
To celebrate the jubilee,
And praise the Great Eternal Three
With throbbing joy,
And taste those pleasures pure and free
Which never cloy.
[The end]
Patrick Bronte's poem: Epistle To The Rev. J--- B---, Whilst Journeying For Recovery Of His Health
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