THE REV. THOMAS WHYTEHEAD. 1815-1843

THE SECOND DAY OF CREATION

This world I deem

But a beautiful dream

Of shadows that are not what they seem;
Where visions rise

Giving dim surmise

Of the things that shall meet our waking eyes.

Arm of the Lord!

Creating Word!

Whose glory the silent skies record-
Where stands thy name

In scrolls of flame,

On the firmament's high-shadowing frame!

I gaze

o'erhead,

Where thy hand hath spread

For the waters of Heaven that crystal bed;

And stored the dew

In its deeps of blue,

Which the fires of the sun come tempered through.

Soft they shine

Through that pure shrine,

As beneath the veil of thy flesh divine
Beams forth the light

That were else too bright

For the feebleness of a sinner's sight.

And such I deem

This world will seem

When we waken from life's mysterious dream, And burst the shell

Where our spirits dwell

In their wondrous antenatal cell.

I gaze aloof

On the tissued roof

Where time and space are the warp and woof, Which the King of Kings

As a curtain flings

O'er the dreadfulness of eternal things.

A tapestried tent

To shade us meant

From the bare everlasting firmament—
Where the blaze of the skies

Comes soft to our eyes

Through a veil of mystical imageries.

But could I see

As in truth they be,

The glories of heaven that encompass me,
I should lightly hold

The tissued fold

Of that marvellous curtain of blue and gold.

Soon the whole,

Like a parched scroll,

Shall before my amazed sight uproll;

And without a screen

At one burst be seen

The Presence wherein I have ever been.

O! who shall bear

The blinding glare

Of the Majesty that shall meet us there?
What eye may gaze

On the unveiled blaze

Of the light-girdled throne of the Ancient of Days?

Christ, us aid!

Himself be our shade,

That in that dread day we be not dismay'd.

TO A SPIDER

Patient creature, sitting there,
Fisher of the deep-blue air,

With thy net of filing twine,
Stretch'd upon my cottage-vine,
Sure a quiet heart is thine!

I have watched thee there this hour

In thy secret leafy bower;

All the while a single fly

Has not flown thy meshes by,-
They are empty, night is nigh.

Yet thou lonesome thing, for thee
Few have thought or sympathy

Where thy scanty food to get,
Thou that weary watch dost set
By thy solitary net.

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Thou, as God has given thee skill,
Dost thy humble task fulfil,

Busy at thy lines outspread,
Mending up each broken thread;
Thus thy little life is led.

Yet belike some idler's hand,
Who Nature cannot understand,
As in pity for thy prey,
All thy toil for many a day
At one stroke will sweep away.

Shame upon the delicate sense
That at thee would take offence!

Thus, some passing qualm to smother,
Oft will man, too, treat his brother,
Wronging one to right another.

Oh, how selfish and unsound
Such sensibility is found!

Few there are of those, I trow,
Who such tender hearts avow,
Half as innocent as thou.

EMILY BRONTË. 1816-1855

REMEMBRANCE

Cold in the earth-and the deep snow piled above thee,

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love Thee, Sever'd at last, by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth-and fifteen wild Decembers

From those brown hills have melted into Spring:
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;

Other desires and other hopes beset me,

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lighten'd up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All
my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perish'd,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how Existence could be cherish'd,
Strengthen'd and fed without the aid of joy.