Bishop of souls in servitude astray,
Who didst for holy service set them free:
Use still thy discipline of love, and pray,
Saint Charles! unto the world's High Priest, for me.
1893.
BRONTË.
To Hubert Crackanthorpe.
Upon the moorland winds blown forth,
Your mighty music storms our heart:
Immortal sisters of the North!
Daughters of nature: Queens of art.
Becomingly you bore that name,
Your Celtic name, that sounds of Greece:
Children of thunder and of flame;
Passion, that clears the air for peace.
Stoic, thy chosen title: thou,
Whose soul conversed with vehement nights,
Till love, with lightnings on his brow,
Met anguish, upon Wuthering Heights.
Thou, Stoic! Though the heart in thee
Never knew fear, yet always pain:
Not Stoic, thou! whose eyes could see
Passion's immeasurable gain:
Not standing from the war apart,
Not cancelling the lust of life;
But loving with triumphant heart
The impassioned glory of the strife.
Oh, welcome death! But first, to know
The trials and the agonies:
Oh, perfect rest! But ere life go,
To leave eternal memories.