Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (401 page)
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Authors: CHARLOTTE BRONTE,EMILY BRONTE,ANNE BRONTE,PATRICK BRONTE,ELIZABETH GASKELL
BOOK: Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated)
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But the white violets, growing here,
Are sweeter than I yet have seen,
And ne’er did dew so pure and clear
Distil on forest mosses green,
As now, called forth by summer heat,
Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat —
These fragrant limes between.
That sunset! Look beneath the boughs,
Over the copse — beyond the hills;
How soft, yet deep and warm it glows,
And heaven with rich suffusion fills;
With hues where still the opal’s tint,
Its gleam of prisoned fire is blent,
Where flame through azure thrills!
Depart we now — for fast will fade
That solemn splendour of decline,
And deep must be the after-shade
As stars alone to-night will shine;
No moon is destined — pale — to gaze
On such a day’s vast Phoenix blaze,
A day in fires decayed!
There — hand-in-hand we tread again
The mazes of this varying wood,
And soon, amid a cultured plain,
Girt in with fertile solitude,
We shall our resting-place descry,
Marked by one roof-tree, towering high
Above a farmstead rude.
Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare,
We’ll seek a couch of dreamless ease;
Courage will guard thy heart from fear,
And Love give mine divinest peace:
To-morrow brings more dangerous toil,
And through its conflict and turmoil
We’ll pass, as God shall please.
[The preceding composition refers, doubtless, to the scenes
acted in France during the last year of the Consulate.]
FRANCES.
She will not sleep, for fear of dreams,
But, rising, quits her restless bed,
And walks where some beclouded beams
Of moonlight through the hall are shed.
Obedient to the goad of grief,
Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow,
In varying motion seek relief
From the Eumenides of woe.
Wringing her hands, at intervals —
But long as mute as phantom dim —
She glides along the dusky walls,
Under the black oak rafters grim.
The close air of the grated tower
Stifles a heart that scarce can beat,
And, though so late and lone the hour,
Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet;
And on the pavement spread before
The long front of the mansion grey,
Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar,
Which pale on grass and granite lay.
Not long she stayed where misty moon
And shimmering stars could on her look,
But through the garden archway soon
Her strange and gloomy path she took.
Some firs, coeval with the tower,
Their straight black boughs stretched o’er her head;
Unseen, beneath this sable bower,
Rustled her dress and rapid tread.
There was an alcove in that shade,
Screening a rustic seat and stand;
Weary she sat her down, and laid
Her hot brow on her burning hand.
To solitude and to the night,
Some words she now, in murmurs, said;
And trickling through her fingers white,
Some tears of misery she shed.
“God help me in my grievous need,
God help me in my inward pain;
Which cannot ask for pity’s meed,
Which has no licence to complain,
“Which must be borne; yet who can bear,
Hours long, days long, a constant weight —
The yoke of absolute despair,
A suffering wholly desolate?
“Who can for ever crush the heart,
Restrain its throbbing, curb its life?
Dissemble truth with ceaseless art,
With outward calm mask inward strife?”
She waited — as for some reply;
The still and cloudy night gave none;
Ere long, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh,
Her heavy plaint again begun.
“Unloved — I love; unwept — I weep;
Grief I restrain — hope I repress:
Vain is this anguish — fixed and deep;
Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss.
“My love awakes no love again,
My tears collect, and fall unfelt;
My sorrow touches none with pain,
My humble hopes to nothing melt.
“For me the universe is dumb,
Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind;
Life I must bound, existence sum
In the strait limits of one mind;
“That mind my own. Oh! narrow cell;
Dark — imageless — a living tomb!
There must I sleep, there wake and dwell
Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom.”
Again she paused; a moan of pain,
A stifled sob, alone was heard;
Long silence followed — then again
Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred.
“Must it be so? Is this my fate?
Can I nor struggle, nor contend?
And am I doomed for years to wait,
Watching death’s lingering axe descend?
“And when it falls, and when I die,
What follows? Vacant nothingness?
The blank of lost identity?
Erasure both of pain and bliss?
“I’ve heard of heaven — I would believe;
For if this earth indeed be all,
Who longest lives may deepest grieve;
Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call.
“Oh! leaving disappointment here,
Will man find hope on yonder coast?
Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear,
And oft in clouds is wholly lost.
“Will he hope’s source of light behold,
Fruition’s spring, where doubts expire,
And drink, in waves of living gold,
Contentment, full, for long desire?
“Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed?
Rest, which was weariness on earth?
Knowledge, which, if o’er life it beamed,
Served but to prove it void of worth?
“Will he find love without lust’s leaven,
Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure,
To all with equal bounty given;
In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure?
“Will he, from penal sufferings free,
Released from shroud and wormy clod,
All calm and glorious, rise and see
Creation’s Sire — Existence’ God?
“Then, glancing back on Time’s brief woes,
Will he behold them, fading, fly;
Swept from Eternity’s repose,
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