Poems, by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

(Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë)

(Originally published in 1846, this text is trom the 1850 edition,
with comments and additional selctions added by Charlotte)


Portrait of the sisters (Anne, Emily and Charlotte) by their brother, Branwell. He originally
included himself in the center of the portrait, but painted himself
out. A shadow of his outline remains. [ca. 1834]

---

Gilbert

I. THE GARDEN.

ABOVE the city hung the moon,

Right o'er a plot of ground

Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced

With lofty walls around:

'Twas Gilbert's garden--there to-night

Awhile he walked alone;

And, tired with sedentary toil,

Mused where the moonlight shone.

This garden, in a city-heart,

Lay still as houseless wild,

Though many-windowed mansion fronts

Were round it; closely piled;

But thick their walls, and those within

Lived lives by noise unstirred;

Like wafting of an angel's wing,

Time's flight by them was heard.

Some soft piano-notes alone

Were sweet as faintly given,

Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearth

With song that winter-even.

The city's many-mingled sounds

Rose like the hum of ocean;

They rather lulled the heart than roused

Its pulse to faster motion.

Gilbert has paced the single walk

An hour, yet is not weary;

And, though it be a winter night

He feels nor cold nor dreary.

The prime of life is in his veins,

And sends his blood fast flowing,

And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts

Now in his bosom glowing.

Those thoughts recur to early love,

Or what he love would name,

Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds

Might other title claim.

Such theme not oft his mind absorbs,

He to the world clings fast,

And too much for the present lives,

To linger o'er the past.

But now the evening's deep repose

Has glided to his soul;

That moonlight falls on Memory,

And shows her fading scroll.

One name appears in every line

The gentle rays shine o'er,

And still he smiles and still repeats

That one name--Elinor.

There is no sorrow in his smile,

No kindness in his tone;

The triumph of a selfish heart

Speaks coldly there alone;

He says: "She loved me more than life;

And truly it was sweet

To see so fair a woman kneel,

In bondage, at my feet.

"There was a sort of quiet bliss

To be so deeply loved,

To gaze on trembling eagerness

And sit myself unmoved.

And when it pleased my pride to grant

At last some rare caress,

To feel the fever of that hand

My fingers deigned to press.

"'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide

What every glance revealed;

Endowed, the while, with despot-might

Her destiny to wield.

I knew myself no perfect man,

Nor, as she deemed, divine;

I knew that I was glorious--but

By her reflected shine;

"Her youth, her native energy,

Her powers new-born and fresh,

'Twas these with Godhead sanctified

My sensual frame of flesh.

Yet, like a god did I descend

At last, to meet her love;

And, like a god, I then withdrew

To my own heaven above.

"And never more could she invoke

My presence to her sphere;

No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers

Could win my awful ear.

I knew her blinded constancy

Would ne'er my deeds betray,

And, calm in conscience, whole in heart.

I went my tranquil way.

"Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish,

The fond and flattering pain

Of passion's anguish to create

In her young breast again.

Bright was the lustre of her eyes,

When they caught fire from mine;

If I had power--this very hour,

Again I'd light their shine.

"But where she is, or how she lives,

I have no clue to know;

I've heard she long my absence pined,

And left her home in woe.

But busied, then, in gathering gold,

As I am busied now,

I could not turn from such pursuit,

To weep a broken vow.

"Nor could I give to fatal risk

The fame I ever prized;

Even now, I fear, that precious fame

Is too much compromised."

An inward trouble dims his eye,

Some riddle he would solve;

Some method to unloose a knot,

His anxious thoughts revolve.

He, pensive, leans against a tree,

A leafy evergreen,

The boughs, the moonlight, intercept,

And hide him like a screen

He starts--the tree shakes with his tremor,

Yet nothing near him pass'd;

He hurries up the garden alley,

In strangely sudden haste.

With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet,

Steps o'er the threshold stone;

The heavy door slips from his fingers--

It shuts, and he is gone.

What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul?--

A nervous thought, no more;

'Twill sink like stone in placid pool,

And calm close smoothly o'er.

II. THE PARLOUR.

Warm is the parlour atmosphere,

Serene the lamp's soft light;

The vivid embers, red and clear,

Proclaim a frosty night.

Books, varied, on the table lie,

Three children o'er them bend,

And all, with curious, eager eye,

The turning leaf attend.

Picture and tale alternately

Their simple hearts delight,

And interest deep, and tempered glee,

Illume their aspects bright.

The parents, from their fireside place,

Behold that pleasant scene,

And joy is on the mother's face,

Pride in the father's mien.

As Gilbert sees his blooming wife,

Beholds his children fair,

No thought has he of transient strife,

Or past, though piercing fear.

The voice of happy infancy

Lisps sweetly in his ear,

His wife, with pleased and peaceful eye,

Sits, kindly smiling, near.

The fire glows on her silken dress,

And shows its ample grace,

And warmly tints each hazel tress,

Curled soft around her face.

The beauty that in youth he wooed,

Is beauty still, unfaded;

The brow of ever placid mood

No churlish grief has shaded.

Prosperity, in Gilbert's home,

Abides the guest of years;

There Want or Discord never come,

And seldom Toil or Tears.

The carpets bear the peaceful print

Of comfort's velvet tread,

And golden gleams, from plenty sent,

In every nook are shed.

The very silken spaniel seems

Of quiet ease to tell,

As near its mistress' feet it dreams,

Sunk in a cushion's swell

And smiles seem native to the eyes

Of those sweet children, three;

They have but looked on tranquil skies,

And know not misery.

Alas! that Misery should come

In such an hour as this;

Why could she not so calm a home

A little longer miss?

But she is now within the door,

Her steps advancing glide;

Her sullen shade has crossed the floor,

She stands at Gilbert's side.

She lays her hand upon his heart,

It bounds with agony;

His fireside chair shakes with the start

That shook the garden tree.

His wife towards the children looks,

She does not mark his mien;

The children, bending o'er their books,

His terror have not seen.

In his own home, by his own hearth,

He sits in solitude,

And circled round with light and mirth,

Cold horror chills his blood.

His mind would hold with desperate clutch

The scene that round him lies;

No--changed, as by some wizard's touch,

The present prospect flies.

A tumult vague--a viewless strife

His futile struggles crush;

'Twixt him and his an unknown life

And unknown feelings rush.

He sees--but scarce can language paint

The tissue fancy weaves;

For words oft give but echo faint

Of thoughts the mind conceives.

Noise, tumult strange, and darkness dim,

Efface both light and quiet;

No shape is in those shadows grim,

No voice in that wild riot.

Sustain'd and strong, a wondrous blast

Above and round him blows;

A greenish gloom, dense overcast,

Each moment denser grows.

He nothing knows--nor clearly sees,

Resistance checks his breath,

The high, impetuous, ceaseless breeze

Blows on him cold as death.

And still the undulating gloom

Mocks sight with formless motion:

Was such sensation Jonah's doom,

Gulphed in the depths of ocean?

Streaking the air, the nameless vision,

Fast-driven, deep-sounding, flows;

Oh! whence its source, and what its mission?

How will its terrors close?

Long-sweeping, rushing, vast and void,

The universe it swallows;

And still the dark, devouring tide

A typhoon tempest follows.

More slow it rolls; its furious race

Sinks to its solemn gliding;

The stunning roar, the wind's wild chase,

To stillness are subsiding.

And, slowly borne along, a form

The shapeless chaos varies;

Poised in the eddy to the storm,

Before the eye it tarries.

A woman drowned--sunk in the deep,

On a long wave reclining;

The circling waters' crystal sweep,

Like glass, her shape enshrining.

Her pale dead face, to Gilbert turned,

Seems as in sleep reposing;

A feeble light, now first discerned,

The features well disclosing.

No effort from the haunted air

The ghastly scene could banish,

That hovering wave, arrested there,

Rolled--throbbed--but did not vanish.

If Gilbert upward turned his gaze,

He saw the ocean-shadow;

If he looked down, the endless seas

Lay green as summer meadow.

And straight before, the pale corpse lay,

Upborne by air or billow,

So near, he could have touched the spray

That churned around its pillow.

The hollow anguish of the face

Had moved a fiend to sorrow;

Not death's fixed calm could rase the trace

Of suffering's deep-worn furrow.

All moved; a strong returning blast,

The mass of waters raising,

Bore wave and passive carcase past,

While Gilbert yet was gazing.

Deep in her isle-conceiving womb,

It seemed the ocean thundered,

And soon, by realms of rushing gloom,

Were seer and phantom sundered.

Then swept some timbers from a wreck.

On following surges riding;

Then sea-weed, in the turbid rack

Uptorn, went slowly gliding.

The horrid shade, by slow degrees,

A beam of light defeated,

And then the roar of raving seas,

Fast, far, and faint, retreated.

And all was gone--gone like a mist,

Corse, billows, tempest, wreck;

Three children close to Gilbert prest

And clung around his neck.

Good night! good night! the prattlers said,

And kissed their father's cheek;

'Twas now the hour their quiet bed

And placid rest to seek.

The mother with her offspring goes

To hear their evening prayer;

She nought of Gilbert's vision knows,

And nought of his despair.

Yet, pitying God, abridge the time

Of anguish, now his fate!

Though, haply, great has been his crime:

Thy mercy, too, is great.

Gilbert, at length, uplifts his head,

Bent for some moments low,

And there is neither grief nor dread

Upon his subtle brow.

For well can he his feelings task,

And well his looks command;

His features well his heart can mask,

With smiles and smoothness bland.

Gilbert has reasoned with his mind--

He says 'twas all a dream;

He strives his inward sight to blind

Against truth's inward beam.

He pitied not that shadowy thing,

When it was flesh and blood;

Nor now can pity's balmy spring

Refresh his arid mood.

"And if that dream has spoken truth,"

Thus musingly he says;

"If Elinor be dead, in sooth,

Such chance the shock repays:

A net was woven round my feet,

I scarce could further go;

Ere shame had forced a fast retreat,

Dishonour brought me low.

"Conceal her, then, deep, silent sea,

Give her a secret grave!

She sleeps in peace, and I am free,

No longer terror's slave:

And homage still, from all the world,

Shall greet my spotless name,

Since surges break and waves are curled

Above its threatened shame."

III. THE WELCOME HOME.

Above the city hangs the moon,

Some clouds are boding rain;

Gilbert, erewhile on journey gone,

To-night comes home again.

Ten years have passed above his head,

Each year has brought him gain;

His prosperous life has smoothly sped,

Without or tear or stain.

'Tis somewhat late--the city clocks

Twelve deep vibrations toll,

As Gilbert at the portal knocks,

Which is his journey's goal.

The street is still and desolate,

The moon hid by a cloud;

Gilbert, impatient, will not wait,--

His second knock peals loud.

The clocks are hushed--there's not a light

In any window nigh,

And not a single planet bright

Looks from the clouded sky;

The air is raw, the rain descends,

A bitter north-wind blows;

His cloak the traveller scarce defends--

Will not the door unclose?

He knocks the third time, and the last

His summons now they hear,

Within, a footstep, hurrying fast,

Is heard approaching near.

The bolt is drawn, the clanking chain

Falls to the floor of stone;

And Gilbert to his heart will strain

His wife and children soon.

The hand that lifts the latchet, holds

A candle to his sight,

And Gilbert, on the step, beholds

A woman, clad in white.

Lo! water from her dripping dress

Runs on the streaming floor;

From every dark and clinging tress

The drops incessant pour.

There's none but her to welcome him;

She holds the candle high,

And, motionless in form and limb,

Stands cold and silent nigh;

There's sand and sea-weed on her robe,

Her hollow eyes are blind;

No pulse in such a frame can throb,

No life is there defined.

Gilbert turned ashy-white, but still

His lips vouchsafed no cry;

He spurred his strength and master-will

To pass the figure by,--

But, moving slow, it faced him straight,

It would not flinch nor quail:

Then first did Gilbert's strength abate,

His stony firmness quail.

He sank upon his knees and prayed

The shape stood rigid there;

He called aloud for human aid,

No human aid was near.

An accent strange did thus repeat

Heaven's stern but just decree:

"The measure thou to her didst mete,

To thee shall measured be!"

Gilbert sprang from his bended knees,

By the pale spectre pushed,

And, wild as one whom demons seize,

Up the hall-staircase rushed;

Entered his chamber--near the bed

Sheathed steel and fire-arms hung--

Impelled by maniac purpose dread

He chose those stores among.

Across his throat a keen-edged knife

With vigorous hand he drew;

The wound was wide--his outraged life

Rushed rash and redly through.

And thus died, by a shameful death,

A wise and worldly man,

Who never drew but selfish breath

Since first his life began.

Charlotte Bronte

Life

LIFE, believe, is not a dream

So dark as sages say;

Oft a little morning rain

Foretells a pleasant day.

Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,

But these are transient all;

If the shower will make the roses bloom,

O why lament its fall?

Rapidly, merrily,

Life's sunny hours flit by,

Gratefully, cheerily

Enjoy them as they fly!

What though Death at times steps in,

And calls our Best away?

What though sorrow seems to win,

O'er hope, a heavy sway?

Yet Hope again elastic springs,

Unconquered, though she fell;

Still buoyant are her golden wings,

Still strong to bear us well.

Manfully, fearlessly,

The day of trial bear,

For gloriously, victoriously,

Can courage quell despair!

Charlotte Bronte

The Letter

WHAT is she writing? Watch her now,

How fast her fingers move!

How eagerly her youthful brow

Is bent in thought above!

Her long curls, drooping, shade the light,

She puts them quick aside,

Nor knows that band of crystals bright,

Her hasty touch untied.

It slips adown her silken dress,

Falls glittering at her feet;

Unmarked it falls, for she no less

Pursues her labour sweet.

The very loveliest hour that shines,

Is in that deep blue sky;

The golden sun of June declines,

It has not caught her eye.

The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate,

The white road, far away,

In vain for her light footsteps wait,

She comes not forth to-day.

There is an open door of glass

Close by that lady's chair,

From thence, to slopes of messy grass,

Descends a marble stair.

Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom

Around the threshold grow;

Their leaves and blossoms shade the room

From that sun's deepening glow.

Why does she not a moment glance

Between the clustering flowers,

And mark in heaven the radiant dance

Of evening's rosy hours?

O look again! Still fixed her eye,

Unsmiling, earnest, still,

And fast her pen and fingers fly,

Urged by her eager will.

Her soul is in th'absorbing task;

To whom, then, doth she write?

Nay, watch her still more closely, ask

Her own eyes' serious light;

Where do they turn, as now her pen

Hangs o'er th'unfinished line?

Whence fell the tearful gleam that then

Did in their dark spheres shine?

The summer-parlour looks so dark,

When from that sky you turn,

And from th'expanse of that green park,

You scarce may aught discern.

Yet, o'er the piles of porcelain rare,

O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase,

Sloped, as if leaning on the air,

One picture meets the gaze.

'Tis there she turns; you may not see

Distinct, what form defines

The clouded mass of mystery

Yon broad gold frame confines.

But look again; inured to shade

Your eyes now faintly trace

A stalwart form, a massive head,

A firm, determined face.

Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek

A brow high, broad, and white,

Where every furrow seems to speak

Of mind and moral might.

Is that her god? I cannot tell;

Her eye a moment met

Th'impending picture, then it fell

Darkened and dimmed and wet.

A moment more, her task is done,

And sealed the letter lies;

And now, towards the setting sun

She turns her tearful eyes.

Those tears flow over, wonder not,

For by the inscription see

In what a strange and distant spot

Her heart of hearts must be!

Three seas and many a league of land

That letter must pass o'er,

Ere read by him to whose loved hand

'Tis sent from England's shore.

Remote colonial wilds detain

Her husband, loved though stern;

She, 'mid that smiling English scene,

Weeps for his wished return.

Charlotte Bronte

Regret

LONG ago I wished to leave

"The house where I was born;"

Long ago I used to grieve,

My home seemed so forlorn.

In other years, its silent rooms

Were filled with haunting fears;

Now, their very memory comes

O'ercharged with tender tears.

Life and marriage I have known.

Things once deemed so bright;

Now, how utterly is flown

Every ray of light!

'Mid the unknown sea, of life

I no blest isle have found;

At last, through all its wild wave's strife,

My bark is homeward bound.

Farewell, dark and rolling deep!

Farewell, foreign shore!

Open, in unclouded sweep,

Thou glorious realm before!

Yet, though I had safely pass'd

That weary, vexed main,

One loved voice, through surge and blast

Could call me back again.

Though the soul's bright morning rose

O'er Paradise for me,

William! even from Heaven's repose

I'd turn, invoked by thee!

Storm nor surge should e'er arrest

My soul, exalting then:

All my heaven was once thy breast,

Would it were mine again!

Charlotte Bronte

Presentiment

"SISTER, you've sat there all the day,

Come to the hearth awhile;

The wind so wildly sweeps away,

The clouds so darkly pile.

That open book has lain, unread,

For hours upon your knee;

You've never smiled nor turned your head;

What can you, sister, see?"

"Come hither, Jane, look down the field;

How dense a mist creeps on!

The path, the hedge, are both concealed,

Ev'n the white gate is gone

No landscape through the fog I trace,

No hill with pastures green;

All featureless is Nature's face.

All masked in clouds her mien.

"Scarce is the rustle of a leaf

Heard in our garden now;

The year grows old, its days wax brief,

The tresses leave its brow.

The rain drives fast before the wind,

The sky is blank and grey;

O Jane, what sadness fills the mind

On such a dreary day!"

"You think too much, my sister dear;

You sit too long alone;

What though November days be drear?

Full soon will they be gone.

I've swept the hearth, and placed your chair.

Come, Emma, sit by me;

Our own fireside is never drear,

Though late and wintry wane the year,

Though rough the night may be."

"The peaceful glow of our fireside

Imparts no peace to me:

My thoughts would rather wander wide

Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.

I'm on a distant journey bound,

And if, about my heart,

Too closely kindred ties were bound,

'Twould break when forced to part.

"'Soon will November days be o'er:'

Well have you spoken, Jane:

My own forebodings tell me more--

For me, I know by presage sure,

They'll ne'er return again.

Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me

Will bring or joy or gloom;

They reach not that Eternity

Which soon will be my home."

Eight months are gone, the summer sun

Sets in a glorious sky;

A quiet field, all green and lone,

Receives its rosy dye.

Jane sits upon a shaded stile,

Alone she sits there now;

Her head rests on her hand the while,

And thought o'ercasts her brow.

She's thinking of one winter's day,

A few short months ago,

Then Emma's bier was borne away

O'er wastes of frozen snow.

She's thinking how that drifted snow

Dissolved in spring's first gleam,

And how her sister's memory now

Fades, even as fades a dream.

The snow will whiten earth again,

But Emma comes no more;

She left, 'mid winter's sleet and rain,

This world for Heaven's far shore.

On Beulah's hills she wanders now,

On Eden's tranquil plain;

To her shall Jane hereafter go,

She ne'er shall come to Jane!

Charlotte Bronte

The Teacher's Monologue

THE room is quiet, thoughts alone

People its mute tranquillity;

The yoke put off, the long task done,--

I am, as it is bliss to be,

Still and untroubled. Now, I see,

For the first time, how soft the day

O'er waveless water, stirless tree,

Silent and sunny, wings its way.

Now, as I watch that distant hill,

So faint, so blue, so far removed,

Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill,

That home where I am known and loved:

It lies beyond; yon azure brow

Parts me from all Earth holds for me;

And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow

Thitherward tending, changelessly.

My happiest hours, aye! all the time,

I love to keep in memory,

Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime

Decayed to dark anxiety.

Sometimes, I think a narrow heart

Makes me thus mourn those far away,

And keeps my love so far apart

From friends and friendships of to-day;

Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream

I treasure up so jealously,

All the sweet thoughts I live on seem

To vanish into vacancy:

And then, this strange, coarse world around

Seems all that's palpable and true;

And every sight, and every sound,

Combines my spirit to subdue

To aching grief, so void and lone

Is Life and Earth--so worse than vain,

The hopes that, in my own heart sown,

And cherished by such sun and rain

As Joy and transient Sorrow shed,

Have ripened to a harvest there:

Alas! methinks I hear it said,

"Thy golden sheaves are empty air."

All fades away; my very home

I think will soon be desolate;

I hear, at times, a warning come

Of bitter partings at its gate;

And, if I should return and see

The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;

And hear it whispered mournfully,

That farewells have been spoken there,

What shall I do, and whither turn?

Where look for peace? When cease to mourn?

'Tis not the air I wished to play,

The strain I wished to sing;

My wilful spirit slipped away

And struck another string.

I neither wanted smile nor tear,

Bright joy nor bitter woe,

But just a song that sweet and clear,

Though haply sad, might flow.

A quiet song, to solace me

When sleep refused to come;

A strain to chase despondency,

When sorrowful for home.

In vain I try; I cannot sing;

All feels so cold and dead;

No wild distress, no gushing spring

Of tears in anguish shed;

But all the impatient gloom of one

Who waits a distant day,

When, some great task of suffering done,

Repose shall toil repay.

For youth departs, and pleasure flies,

And life consumes away,

And youth's rejoicing ardour dies

Beneath this drear delay;

And Patience, weary with her yoke,

Is yielding to despair,

And Health's elastic spring is broke

Beneath the strain of care.

Life will be gone ere I have lived;

Where now is Life's first prime?

I've worked and studied, longed and grieved,

Through all that rosy time.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,--

Is such my future fate?

The morn was dreary, must the eve

Be also desolate?

Well, such a life at least makes Death

A welcome, wished-for friend;

Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,

To suffer to the end!

Charlotte Bronte

Passion

SOME have won a wild delight,

By daring wilder sorrow;

Could I gain thy love to-night,

I'd hazard death to-morrow.

Could the battle-struggle earn

One kind glance from thine eye,

How this withering heart would burn,

The heady fight to try!

Welcome nights of broken sleep,

And days of carnage cold,

Could I deem that thou wouldst weep

To hear my perils told.

Tell me, if with wandering bands

I roam full far away,

Wilt thou to those distant lands

In spirit ever stray?

Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar;

Bid me--bid me go

Where Seik and Briton meet in war,

On Indian Sutlej's flow.

Blood has dyed the Sutlej's waves

With scarlet stain, I know;

Indus' borders yawn with graves,

Yet, command me go!

Though rank and high the holocaust

Of nations steams to heaven,

Glad I'd join the death-doomed host,

Were but the mandate given.

Passion's strength should nerve my arm,

Its ardour stir my life,

Till human force to that dread charm

Should yield and sink in wild alarm,

Like trees to tempest-strife.

If, hot from war, I seek thy love,

Darest thou turn aside?

Darest thou then my fire reprove,

By scorn, and maddening pride?

No--my will shall yet control

Thy will, so high and free,

And love shall tame that haughty soul--

Yes--tenderest love for me.

I'll read my triumph in thine eyes,

Behold, and prove the change;

Then leave, perchance, my noble prize,

Once more in arms to range.

I'd die when all the foam is up,

The bright wine sparkling high;

Nor wait till in the exhausted cup

Life's dull dregs only lie.

Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward,

Hope blest with fulness large,

I'd mount the saddle, draw the sword,

And perish in the charge!

Charlotte Bronte

Preference

NOT in scorn do I reprove thee,

Not in pride thy vows I waive,

But, believe, I could not love thee,

Wert thou prince, and I a slave.

These, then, are thine oaths of passion?

This, thy tenderness for me?

Judged, even, by thine own confession,

Thou art steeped in perfidy.

Having vanquished, thou wouldst leave me!

Thus I read thee long ago;

Therefore, dared I not deceive thee,

Even with friendship's gentle show.

Therefore, with impassive coldness

Have I ever met thy gaze;

Though, full oft, with daring boldness,

Thou thine eyes to mine didst raise.

Why that smile? Thou now art deeming

This my coldness all untrue,--

But a mask of frozen seeming,

Hiding secret fires from view.

Touch my hand, thou self-deceiver;

Nay-be calm, for I am so:

Does it burn? Does my lip quiver?

Has mine eye a troubled glow?

Canst thou call a moment's colour

To my forehead--to my cheek?

Canst thou tinge their tranquil pallor

With one flattering, feverish streak?

Am I marble? What! no woman

Could so calm before thee stand?

Nothing living, sentient, human,

Could so coldly take thy hand?

Yes--a sister might, a mother:

My good-will is sisterly:

Dream not, then, I strive to smother

Fires that inly burn for thee.

Rave not, rage not, wrath is fruitless,

Fury cannot change my mind;

I but deem the feeling rootless

Which so whirls in passion's wind.

Can I love? Oh, deeply--truly--

Warmly--fondly--but not thee;

And my love is answered duly,

With an equal energy.

Wouldst thou see thy rival? Hasten,

Draw that curtain soft aside,

Look where yon thick branches chasten

Noon, with shades of eventide.

In that glade, where foliage blending

Forms a green arch overhead,

Sits thy rival, thoughtful bending

O'er a stand with papers spread--

Motionless, his fingers plying

That untired, unresting pen;

Time and tide unnoticed flying,

There he sits--the first of men!

Man of conscience--man of reason;

Stern, perchance, but ever just;

Foe to falsehood, wrong, and treason,

Honour's shield, and virtue's trust!

Worker, thinker, firm defender

Of Heaven's truth--man's liberty;

Soul of iron--proof to slander,

Rock where founders tyranny.

Fame he seeks not--but full surely

She will seek him, in his home;

This I know, and wait securely

For the atoning hour to come.

To that man my faith is given,

Therefore, soldier, cease to sue;

While God reigns in earth and heaven,

I to him will still be true!

Charlotte Bronte

Evening Solace

THE human heart has hidden treasures,

In secret kept, in silence sealed;--

The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,

Whose charms were broken if revealed.

And days may pass in gay confusion,

And nights in rosy riot fly,

While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,

The memory of the Past may die.

But there are hours of lonely musing,

Such as in evening silence come,

When, soft as birds their pinions closing,

The heart's best feelings gather home.

Then in our souls there seems to languish

A tender grief that is not woe;

And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish

Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,

Float softly back--a faded dream;

Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,

The tale of others' sufferings seem.

Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding,

How longs it for that time to be,

When, through the mist of years receding,

Its woes but live in reverie!

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,

On evening shade and loneliness;

And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,

Feel no untold and strange distress--

Only a deeper impulse given

By lonely hour and darkened room,

To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven

Seeking a life and world to come.

Charlotte Bronte

Stanzas

I

If thou be in a lonely place,

If one hour's calm be thine,

As Evening bends her placid face

O'er this sweet day's decline;

If all the earth and all the heaven

Now look serene to thee,

As o'er them shuts the summer even,

One moment--think of me!

Pause, in the lane, returning home;

'Tis dusk, it will be still:

Pause near the elm, a sacred gloom

Its breezeless boughs will fill.

Look at that soft and golden light,

High in the unclouded sky;

Watch the last bird's belated flight,

As it flits silent by.

Hark! for a sound upon the wind,

A step, a voice, a sigh;

If all be still, then yield thy mind,

Unchecked, to memory.

If thy love were like mine, how blest

That twilight hour would seem,

When, back from the regretted Past,

Returned our early dream!

If thy love were like mine, how wild

Thy longings, even to pain,

For sunset soft, and moonlight mild,

To bring that hour again!

But oft, when in thine arms I lay,

I've seen thy dark eyes shine,

And deeply felt their changeful ray

Spoke other love than mine.

My love is almost anguish now,

It beats so strong and true;

'Twere rapture, could I deem that thou

Such anguish ever knew.

I have been but thy transient flower,

Thou wert my god divine;

Till checked by death's congealing power,

This heart must throb for thine.

And well my dying hour were blest,

If life's expiring breath

Should pass, as thy lips gently prest

My forehead cold in death;

And sound my sleep would be, and sweet,

Beneath the churchyard tree,

If sometimes in thy heart should beat

One pulse, still true to me.

Charlotte Bronte