Call Me Away
Call me away; there's nothing here, That wins my soul to stay; Then let me leave this prospect drear, And hasten far away. To our beloved land I'll flee, Our land of thought and soul, Where I have roved so oft with thee, Beyond the world's control. I'll sit and watch those ancient trees, Those Scotch firs dark and high; I'll listen to the eerie breeze, Among their branches sigh. The glorious moon shines far above; How soft her radiance falls, On snowy heights, and rock, and grove; And yonder palace walls! Who stands beneath yon fir trees high? A youth both slight and fair, Whose bright and restless azure eye Proclaims him known to care, Though fair that brow, it is not smooth; Though small those features, yet in sooth Stern passion has been there. Now on the peaceful moon are fixed Those eyes so glistening bright, But trembling teardrops hang betwixt, And dim the blessed light. Though late the hour, and keen the blast, That whistles round him now, Those raven locks are backward cast, To cool his burning brow. His hands above his heaving breast Are clasped in agony -- 'O Father! Father! let me rest! And call my soul to thee! I know 'tis weakness thus to pray; But all this cankering care -- This doubt tormenting night and day Is more than I can bear! With none to comfort, none to guide And none to strengthen me. Since thou my only friend hast died -- I've pined to follow thee! Since thou hast died! And did he live What comfort could his counsel give -- To one forlorn like me? Would he my Idol's form adore -- Her soul, her glance, her tone? And say, "Forget for ever more Her kindred and thine own; Let dreams of her thy peace destroy, Leave every other hope and joy And live for her alone"?' He starts, he smiles, and dries the tears, Still glistening on his cheek, The lady of his soul appears, And hark! I hear her speak -- 'Aye, dry thy tears; thou wilt not weep -- While I am by thy side -- Our foes all day their watch may keep But cannot thus divide Such hearts as ours; and we tonight Together in the clear moon's light Their malice will deride. No fear our present bliss shall blast And sorrow we'll defy. Do thou forget the dreary past, The dreadful future I.' Forget it? Yes, while thou art by I think of nought but thee, 'Tis only when thou art not nigh Remembrance tortures me. But such a lofty soul to find, And such a heart as thine, In such a glorious form enshrined And still to call thee mine -- Would be for earth too great a bliss, Without a taint of woe like this, Then why should I repine?
Anne Brontë’s other poems:
- To Cowper
- My God! O Let Me Call Thee Mine!
- Lines Written From Home
- Severed And Gone
- A Word To The Calvinists
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