Read Ebook: Poems by Currer Ellis and Acton Bell by Bront Anne Bront Charlotte Bront Emily

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Ebook has 954 lines and 57142 words, and 20 pages

She will return, but cold and altered, Like all whose hopes too soon depart; Like all on whom have beat, unsheltered, The bitter blasts that blight the heart.

No more shall I behold her lying Calm on a pillow, smoothed by me; No more that spirit, worn with sighing, Will know the rest of infancy.

If still the paths of lore she follow, 'Twill be with tired and goaded will; She'll only toil, the aching hollow, The joyless blank of life to fill.

And oh! full oft, quite spent and weary, Her hand will pause, her head decline; That labour seems so hard and dreary, On which no ray of hope may shine.

Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair; Then comes the day that knows no morrow, And death succeeds to long despair.

So speaks experience, sage and hoary; I see it plainly, know it well, Like one who, having read a story, Each incident therein can tell.

Touch not that ring; 'twas his, the sire Of that forsaken child; And nought his relics can inspire Save memories, sin-defiled.

I, who sat by his wife's death-bed, I, who his daughter loved, Could almost curse the guilty dead, For woes the guiltless proved.

And heaven did curse--they found him laid, When crime for wrath was rife, Cold--with the suicidal blade Clutched in his desperate gripe.

'Twas near that long deserted hut, Which in the wood decays, Death's axe, self-wielded, struck his root, And lopped his desperate days.

You know the spot, where three black trees, Lift up their branches fell, And moaning, ceaseless as the seas, Still seem, in every passing breeze, The deed of blood to tell.

They named him mad, and laid his bones Where holier ashes lie; Yet doubt not that his spirit groans In hell's eternity.

But, lo! night, closing o'er the earth, Infects our thoughts with gloom; Come, let us strive to rally mirth Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth In some more cheerful room.

THE WIFE'S WILL.

Sit still--a word--a breath may break The glassy calm that soothes my woes-- The sweet, the deep, the full repose. O leave me not! for ever be Thus, more than life itself to me!

Yes, close beside thee let me kneel-- Give me thy hand, that I may feel The friend so true--so tried--so dear, My heart's own chosen--indeed is near; And check me not--this hour divine Belongs to me--is fully mine.

'Tis thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside, After long absence--wandering wide; 'Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes A promise clear of stormless skies; For faith and true love light the rays Which shine responsive to her gaze.

Ay,--well that single tear may fall; Ten thousand might mine eyes recall, Which from their lids ran blinding fast, In hours of grief, yet scarcely past; Well mayst thou speak of love to me, For, oh! most truly--I love thee!

Yet smile--for we are happy now. Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow? What sayst thou?" We muse once again, Ere long, be severed by the main!" I knew not this--I deemed no more Thy step would err from Britain's shore.

"Duty commands!" 'Tis true--'tis just; Thy slightest word I wholly trust, Nor by request, nor faintest sigh, Would I to turn thy purpose try; But, William, hear my solemn vow-- Hear and confirm!--with thee I go.

"Distance and suffering," didst thou say? "Danger by night, and toil by day?" Oh, idle words and vain are these; Hear me! I cross with thee the seas. Such risk as thou must meet and dare, I--thy true wife--will duly share.

Thanks, William, thanks! thy love has joy, Pure, undefiled with base alloy; 'Tis not a passion, false and blind, Inspires, enchains, absorbs my mind; Worthy, I feel, art thou to be Loved with my perfect energy.

This evening now shall sweetly flow, Lit by our clear fire's happy glow; And parting's peace-embittering fear, Is warned our hearts to come not near; For fate admits my soul's decree, In bliss or bale--to go with thee!

THE WOOD.

But two miles more, and then we rest! Well, there is still an hour of day, And long the brightness of the West Will light us on our devious way; Sit then, awhile, here in this wood-- So total is the solitude, We safely may delay.

These massive roots afford a seat, Which seems for weary travellers made. There rest. The air is soft and sweet In this sequestered forest glade, And there are scents of flowers around, The evening dew draws from the ground; How soothingly they spread!

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart; No--that beats full of sweet content, For now I have my natural part Of action with adventure blent; Cast forth on the wide world with thee, And all my once waste energy To weighty purpose bent.

Yet--sayst thou, spies around us roam, Our aims are termed conspiracy? Haply, no more our English home An anchorage for us may be? That there is risk our mutual blood May redden in some lonely wood The knife of treachery?

Sayst thou, that where we lodge each night, In each lone farm, or lonelier hall Of Norman Peer--ere morning light Suspicion must as duly fall, As day returns--such vigilance Presides and watches over France, Such rigour governs all?

I fear not, William; dost thou fear? So that the knife does not divide, It may be ever hovering near: I could not tremble at thy side, And strenuous love--like mine for thee-- Is buckler strong 'gainst treachery, And turns its stab aside.

I am resolved that thou shalt learn To trust my strength as I trust thine; I am resolved our souls shall burn With equal, steady, mingling shine; Part of the field is conquered now, Our lives in the same channel flow, Along the self-same line;

And while no groaning storm is heard, Thou seem'st content it should be so, But soon as comes a warning word Of danger--straight thine anxious brow Bends over me a mournful shade, As doubting if my powers are made To ford the floods of woe.

Know, then it is my spirit swells, And drinks, with eager joy, the air Of freedom--where at last it dwells, Chartered, a common task to share With thee, and then it stirs alert, And pants to learn what menaced hurt Demands for thee its care.

Remember, I have crossed the deep, And stood with thee on deck, to gaze On waves that rose in threatening heap, While stagnant lay a heavy haze, Dimly confusing sea with sky, And baffling, even, the pilot's eye, Intent to thread the maze--

Of rocks, on Bretagne's dangerous coast, And find a way to steer our band To the one point obscure, which lost, Flung us, as victims, on the strand;-- All, elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword, And not a wherry could be moored Along the guarded land.

I feared not then--I fear not now; The interest of each stirring scene Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow, In every nerve and bounding vein; Alike on turbid Channel sea, Or in still wood of Normandy, I feel as born again.

The rain descended that wild morn When, anchoring in the cove at last, Our band, all weary and forlorn Ashore, like wave-worn sailors, cast-- Sought for a sheltering roof in vain, And scarce could scanty food obtain To break their morning fast.

Thou didst thy crust with me divide, Thou didst thy cloak around me fold; And, sitting silent by thy side, I ate the bread in peace untold: Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet As costly fare or princely treat On royal plate of gold.

Sharp blew the sleet upon my face, And, rising wild, the gusty wind Drove on those thundering waves apace, Our crew so late had left behind; But, spite of frozen shower and storm, So close to thee, my heart beat warm, And tranquil slept my mind.

So now--nor foot-sore nor opprest With walking all this August day, I taste a heaven in this brief rest, This gipsy-halt beside the way. England's wild flowers are fair to view, Like balm is England's summer dew Like gold her sunset ray.

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.

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.

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