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Remembrance Emily Bronte Essay Writing

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Emily Bronte

Emily Bronte/Remembrance by Emily Bronte

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,
Severed 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
That 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:
Sterner desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened 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 perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy;

Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And even yet I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?

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Emily Brontë

Emily Brontë

Emily Brontë was born on 30 July 1818 in Thornton, near Bradford in Yorkshire, to Maria (Branwell) and Patrick Brontë. She was the younger sister of Charlotte Brontë and the 5th of 6 children. In 1824, the family moved to Haworth, where Emily's father was perpetual curate, and it was in these surroundings that their literary gifts flourished.

After the death of their mother in 1821, when Emily was 3 years old, [3] the older sisters Maria. Elizabeth and Charlotte were sent to the Clergy Daughters' School at Cowan Bridge, where they encountered abuse and privations later described by Charlotte in Jane Eyre . Emily joined the school for a brief period. When a typhus epidemic swept the school, Maria and Elizabeth caught it. Maria, who may actually have had tuberculosis. was sent home, where she died. Emily was subsequently removed from the school along with Charlotte and Elizabeth. Elizabeth died soon after their return home.

The three remaining sisters and their brother Patrick Branwell were thereafter educated at home by their father and aunt Elizabeth Branwell. their mother's sister. In their leisure time the children created a number of paracosms. which were featured in stories they wrote and enacted about the imaginary adventures of their toy soldiers along with the Duke of Wellington and his sons, Charles and Arthur Wellesley. Little of Emily's work from this period survives, except for poems spoken by characters (The Brontës' Web of Childhood. Fannie Ratchford, 1941). [4]

The three Brontë sisters, in a 1834 painting by their brother Patrick Branwell. From left to right: Anne, Emily and Charlotte. (Branwell used to be between Emily and Charlotte, but subsequently painted himself out.)

When Emily was 13, she and Anne withdrew from participation in the Angria story and began a new one about Gondal, a large island in the North Pacific. If they wrote stories or novels about Gondal, these were not preserved. Some "diary papers" of Emily's have survived in which she describes current events in Gondal, some of which were written, others enacted with Anne. One dates from 1841, when Emily was twenty-three: another from 1845, when she was twenty-seven. [5] Anne made a list of Gondal names and places which also survives.

At seventeen, Emily attended the Roe Head girls' school, where Charlotte was a teacher, but managed to stay only three months before being overcome by extreme homesickness. She returned home and Anne took her place. [6] At this time, the girls' objective was to obtain sufficient education to open a small school of their own.

Emily became a teacher at Law Hill School in Halifax beginning in September 1838, when she was twenty. Her health broke under the stress of the 17-hour work day and she returned home in April 1839. Thereafter she became the stay-at-home daughter, doing most of the cooking and cleaning and teaching Sunday school. She taught herself German out of books and practised piano.

n 1842, Emily accompanied Charlotte to Brussels, Belgium, where they attended a girls' academy run by Constantin Heger. They planned to perfect their French and German in anticipation of opening their school. Nine of Emily's French essays survive from this period. The sisters returned home upon the death of their aunt. They did try to open a school at their home, but were unable to attract students to the remote area.

In 1844, Emily began going through all the poems she had written, recopying them neatly into two notebooks. One was labelled "Gondal Poems"; the other was unlabelled. Scholars such as Fannie Ratchford and Derek Roper have attempted to piece together a Gondal storyline and chronology from these poems. [7] [8]

In the fall of 1845, Charlotte discovered the notebooks and insisted that the poems be published. Emily, furious at the invasion of her privacy, at first refused, but relented when Anne brought out her own manuscripts and revealed she had been writing poems in secret as well.

In 1846, the sisters' poems were published in one volume as Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell . The Brontë sisters had adopted pseudonyms for publication: Charlotte was Currer Bell. Emily was Ellis Bell and Anne was Acton Bell. Charlotte writes in the "Biographical Notice of Ellis and Acton Bell" that they chose "Christian names positively masculine" to dissuade any bias on the premise of their gender. The poetry, which was mostly if not all of Emily's, received unfavourable reviews. It was this that drove them to begin their first professional novels. In 1847, Emily published her only novel, Wuthering Heights . as two volumes of a three-volume set (the last volume being Agnes Grey by her sister Anne). Its innovative structure somewhat puzzled critics.

File:The Climb to Top Withens. - - 393405.jpg Although it received mixed reviews when it first came out, and was often condemned for its portrayal of amoral passion, the book subsequently became an English literary classic. In 1850, Charlotte edited and published Wuthering Heights as a stand-alone novel and under Emily's real name.

Emily's health, like her sisters', had been weakened by unsanitary conditions at home(Citation needed), the source of water being contaminated by runoff from the church's graveyard(Citation needed). She caught a cold during the funeral of her brother in September 1848. She soon grew very thin and ill, but rejected medical help and refused all proffered remedies, saying that she would have "no poisoning doctor" near her. [9] She died on 19 December 1848 at about two in the afternoon. She was interred in the Church of St. Michael and All Angels family vault, Haworth, West Yorkshire.

Writing Edit Critical introduction Edit

Not even the unstinted praise of three great and very dissimilar poets has given to Emily Brontë her due rank in popular esteem. Her work is not universally acceptable, even to imaginative readers; her personality is almost repulsive to many who have schooled themselves to endure the vehemence of genius but not its ominous self-restraint. Most people were afraid of Emily Brontë’s ‘whitening face and set mouth’ when she was alive, and even now that she is dead her memory seems to inspire more terror than affection. Against an instinctive repugnance it is in vain to reason, and in discussing her poetical quality we must assume that her power has at least been felt and not disliked by the reader, since "you must love her, ere to you she should seem worthy to be loved."

Those who have come under the spell of her genius will expect no apology for her intellectual rebellion, her stoic harshness of purpose, her more than manlike strength. She was a native blossom of those dreary and fascinating moorlands of which Charlotte has given, in a few brilliant phrases, so perfect a description, and like the acrid heaths and gentians that flourish in the peat, to transplant her was to kill her. Her actions, like her writings, were strange, but consistent in their strangeness. Even the dreadful incident of her death, which occurred as she stood upright in the little parlour at Haworth, refusing to go to bed, but just leaning one hand upon the table, seems to me to be no unfit ending for a life so impatient of constraint from others, so implacable in its slavery to its own principles.

The poetry of Emily Brontë is small in extent and conventional in form. Its burning thoughts are concealed for the most part in the tame and ambling measures dedicated to female verse by the practice of Felicia Hemans and Letitia Landon. That she was progressing to the last even in this matter of the form is shown by the little posthumous collection of her verses issued by Charlotte, consisting of early, and very weak pieces, and of two poems written in the last year of her life, which attain, for the first time, the majesty of rhythm demanded by such sublime emotions. But it is impossible not to regret that she missed that accomplishment in the art of poetry which gives an added force to the verse of her great French contemporary, Marceline Valmore, the only modern poetess who can fitly be compared with Emily Brontë for power of expressing passion in its simplicity.

In the 1846 volume there are but few of the contributions of Ellis Bell in which the form is adequate to the thought. Even The Prisoner, certain lines of which have justly called forth Mr. Swinburne’s admiration, is on the whole a disjointed and halting composition. The moving and tear-compelling elegy called A Death-Scene, in conception one of the most original and passionate poems in existence, is clothed in a measure that is like the livery of a charitable institution. This limitation of style does not interfere with the beauty of her three or four best poems, where indeed it does not exist, but it prevents the poetess in all but these superlative successes from attaining that harmony and directness of utterance which should characterise a song so unflinchingly sincere as hers.

It is difficult to praise Emily’s three or four greatest poems without an air of exaggeration. Finest among them all is that outburst of agnostic faith that was found by Charlotte on her desk when she died, a ‘last poem’ not to be surpassed in dignity and self-reliance by any in the language. "The Old Stoic" might have prepared us for the Last Lines by its concentrated force and passion. But the "chainless soul" of the author found its most characteristic utterance in the "Stanzas" which stand second in our selection, the two last of which contain in its quintessence the peculiar gospel that it was the mission of Emily Brontë to preach. It was a message that brought no peace or happiness to the fiery soul that bore it. For her, in her own wonderful words,

  ‘intense the agony—
When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;
When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again;
The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.’

Under such a strain of being, no wonder that the pale and slender physical frame declined, and that our literature was deprived, at the age of twenty-nine, of an unrecognised, uncherished, undeveloped woman,

  ‘whose soul
Knew no fellow for might,
Passion, vehemence, grief,
Daring, since Byron died.’ [10]

Recognition Edit

Four of her poems ("My Lady's Grave", "Remembrance", "The Prisoner", and "Last Lines") were included in the Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900. [11]

Charlotte, Anne, and Emily Brontë are commemorated by a memorial stone in Poets Corner. Westminster Abbey. donated by the Brontë Society. The stone, carved from Huddlestone stone, was erected in 1939 and dedicated in 1947. [12]

Publications Edit Poetry Edit
  • Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (by Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë). London: Aylott & Jones, 1846; Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard, 1848.
  • Poems of Emily Charlotte, and Anne Bronte, now for the first time printed . New York: Dodd Mead, 1902. [13]
  • The Complete Poems of Emily Jane Brontë, edited by C. W. Hatfield (New York: Columbia University Press, 1941; London: Oxford University Press, 1941).
  • The Poems of Emily Brontë (edited by Derek Roper and Edward Chitham). Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995.
Fiction Edit Non-fiction Edit
  • Five Essays Written in French by Emily Jane Brontë (translated by Lorine White Nagel, edited by Fannie E. Ratchford). Austin: University of Texas Press, 1948.
Letters Edit
  • The Brontë Letters (edited by Muriel Spark). London: Peter Nevill, 1954.
See also Edit

The Night-Wind. A poem by Emily Bronte. Performed by Frankie MacEachen

References Edit Notes Edit
  1. ↑ American Heritage and Collins dictionaries
  2. ↑ Columbia Encyclopedia
  4. ↑ An analysis of Emily's use of paracosm play as a response to the deaths of her sisters is found in Delmont C. Morrison's Memories of Loss and Dreams of Perfection (Baywood, 2005), ISBN 0895033097.
  5. ↑ "Emily Brontë's Letters and Diary Papers". City University of New York
  6. ↑ At Roe Head and Blake Hall with pictures of the school then and now, and descriptions of Anne's time there.
  7. ↑ Fannie Ratchford, ed. Gondal's Queen. University of Texas Press, 1955. ISBN 0292727119.
  8. ↑ Derek Roper, ed. The Poems of Emily Brontë. Oxford University Press, 1996. ISBN 0198126417.
  9. ↑ Fraser, Rebecca (2008). Charlotte Brontë: A Writer's Life (2 ed.). 45 Wall Street, Suite 1021 New York, NY 10005: Pegasus Books LLC. p. 261. ISBN  978-1-933648-88-0.  
  10. ↑ from Edmund W. Gosse, "Critical Introduction: Emily Brontë (1818–1848) ," The English Poets: Selections with critical introductions (edited by Thomas Humphry Ward ). New York & London: Macmillan, 1880-1918. Web, Mar. 17, 2016.
  11. ↑ "Alphabetical list of authors: Brontë, Emily to Cutts, Lord. Arthur Quiller-Couch, editor, Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900 (Oxford, UK: Clarendon, 1919)., Web, May 16, 2012.
  12. ↑ Bronte, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. People, History, Westminster Abbey. Web, July 11, 2016.
  13. ↑ Poems of Emily Charlotte, and Anne Bronte, now for the first time printed (1902). Internet Archive, Web, Oct. 28, 2012.
  14. ↑ Emily Jane Brontë 1818-1848. Poetry Foundation, Web, Aug. 12, 2012.
External links Edit

Персональный сайт - Emily Bronte Chronology

Emily Jane Bronte, fifth child of the Bronte family was born at Thornton.

Emily Jane Bronte, fifth child of the Bronte family was baptised.

Emily Bronte was sent to the Clergy Daughters School at Cowan Bridge.

Emily Bronte wrote:
"I fed Rainbow, Diamond, Snowflake Jasper pheasent alias this morning. Branwell went down to Mr Drivers and brought news that Sir Robert Peel was going to be invited to stand for Leeds. Anne and I have been peeling apples for Charlotte to make an apple pudding. Taby said just now come Anne pillopatate. "

Emily Bronte wrote her poem "O God of Heaven! The dream of horror".

Emily Bronte wrote the poem "A little while, a little while, The noisy crowd are barred away. ".

Emily Bronte wrote her poem "The Bluebell".

Emily Bronte wrote the poem "The night was dark yet winter breathed. "

Emily Bronte wrote her poem "And now the house-dog stretched once more".

Emily Bronte wrote the poem "The organ swells the trumpets sound".

Emily Bronte wrote the poem "Well, some may hate, and some may scorn, And some may quite forget thy name. ".

Emily Bronte wrote the poem "Thy son is near meridian height, and my sun sinks in endless night. ".

Emily Bronte wrote her poem "Riches I hold in light esteem and Love I laugh to scorn. ".

Emily Bronte wrote her poem "Aye, there it is! It wakes tonight".

Emily Bronte wrote her poem "The Wanderer from the Fold".

Emily Bronte wrote a poem "The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air. ".

Emily Bronte wrote her poem "The Philosopher".

Emily Bronte wrote her poem "Remembrance".

Emily Bronte wrote her poem "Death".

Emily Bronte wrote the poem Stars: ". All through the night, your glorious eyes were gazing down in mine. "

Emily Bronte wrote her poem "No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere. ".

Emily Bronte wrote the poem, "No coward soul is mine No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere. ".

First printed copies of the Book of "Poems" by Charlotte, Emily and Anne Bronte arrived at the Parsonage. They had used the pseudonym of Acton, Currer and Ellis Bell.

The published Bronte Poems using the pseudonym of Acton, Currer and Ellis Bell received favourable criticism. Only two copies were sold.

Emily Bronte wrote the poem "Why ask to know the date – the clime?”.

The manuscripts of Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights and Anne's Agnes Grey were sent to the publishers; T.C. Newby. They were published in December 1847.

Emily and Anne received six published copies of their novels, Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey from their publishers.

Emily Brontes health was poor. Charlotte Bronte wrote of her sister having difficulty breathing and pains in her chest.

Emily Bronte died at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. She was 30 years old.

Emily Bronte was buried in the family vault at Haworth Parish Church. She had died on 19th December aged 30.

Charlotte Bronte wrote of her dead sister Emily Bronte:

"For my part I am free to walk on the moors - but when I go out there alone - everything reminds me of the times when others were with me and then the moors seem a wilderness, featureless, solitary, saddening - My sister Emily had a particular love for them. and there is not a knoll of heather, not a branch of fern, not a young bilberry leaf not a fluttering lark or linnet but reminds me of her."

Selected poetry by Emily Bront

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Selected Poetry by Emily Brontë

On this page are featured some of the better-known poems by Emily Brontë and one by Charlotte written after her sister had died.

Note: don't fall into the trap of thinking her poems were autobiographical – many were written about her imaginary Gondal characters.

The Visionary

Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:
One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep,
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;
Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:
I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star.

Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame!
Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame:
But neither sire nor dame, nor prying serf shall know,
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.

What I love shall come like visitant of air,
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;
What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray,
Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay

Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—
Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;
Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.

Note: the final two verses were actually written by Charlotte

Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be:

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
And visions rising, legion after legion,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.

I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:
It vexes me to choose another guide:
Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

A Little While 4 December 1838

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 harassed 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 longed 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!

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

A little and a lone green lane
That opened 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 hushed 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,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour,
It well had paid a week of toil;
But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, bondage, care.

I Am The Only Being Whose Doom 17 May, 1839

I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask, no eye would mourn;
I've never caused a thought of gloom,
A smile of joy, since I was born.

In secret pleasure, secret tears,
This changeful life has slipped away,
As friendless after eighteen years,
As lone as on my natal day.

There have been times I cannot hide,
There have been times when this was drear,
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here.

But those were in the early glow
Of feelings that subdued by care,
And they have died so long ago,
I hardly now believe they were.

First melted off the hope of youth,
Then fancy's rainbow fast withdrew;
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew.

'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow, servile, insincere;
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same Corruption there.

Stanzas to— 14 November 1839

Well, some may hate, and some may scorn,
And some may quite forget thy name;
But my sad heart must ever mourn
Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame!
'Twas thus I thought, an hour ago,
Even weeping o'er that wretch's woe;
One word turned back my gushing tears,
And lit my altered eye with sneers.
Then "Bless the friendly dust," I said,
"That hides thy unlamented head!
Vain as thou wert, and weak as vain,
The slave of Falsehood, Pride, and Pain–
My heart has nought akin to thine;
Thy soul is powerless over mine."
But these were thoughts that vanished too;
Unwise, unholy, and untrue:
Do I despise the timid deer,
Because his limbs are fleet with fear?
Or, would I mock the wolf's death-howl,
Because his form is gaunt and foul?
Or, hear with joy the leveret's cry,
Because it cannot bravely die?
No! Then above his memory
Let Pity's heart as tender be;
Say, "Earth, lie lightly on that breast,
And, kind Heaven, grant that spirit rest!"

The Old Stoic March 1841

Riches I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream,
That vanished with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal:
'Tis all that I implore;
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure.

Remembrance March 1845

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,
Severed 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 lightened 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 perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion—
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?

No Coward Soul is Mine 2 January 1846.
"The following are the last lines my sister Emily ever wrote." (Charlotte).

No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven’s glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life that in me has rest,
As I undying Life have power in thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men’s hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idle froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thine infinity;
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in thee.

There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou thou art Being and Breath,
And what thou art may never be destroyed.

On the Death of Emily Jane Brontë by Charlotte Bronte. Christmas Eve 1848

My darling thou wilt never know
The grinding agony of woe
That we have bourne for thee,
Thus may we consolation tear
E'en from the depth of our despair
And wasting misery.

The nightly anguish thou art spared
When all the crushing truth is bared
To the awakening mind,
When the galled heart is pierced with grief,
Till wildly it implores relief,
But small relief can find.

Nor know'st thou what it is to lie
Looking forth with streaming eye
On life's lone wilderness.
"Weary, weary, dark and drear,
How shall I the journey bear,
The burden and distress?"

Then since thou art spared such pain
We will not wish thee here again;
He that lives must mourn.
God help us through our misery
And give us rest and joy with thee
When we reach our bourne!