Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes

by Bronte Sisters

  That lone, and almost friendless grew;

  For, ever, when its step drew nigh,

  Averted was the father’s eye;

  And then, a life impure and wild

  Made him a stranger to his child:

  Absorbed in vice, he little cared

  On what she did, or how she fared.

  The love withheld she never sought,

  She grew uncherished — learnt untaught;

  To her the inward life of thought

  Full soon was open laid.

  I know not if her friendlessness

  Did sometimes on her spirit press,

  But plaint she never made.

  The book-shelves were her darling treasure,

  She rarely seemed the time to measure

  While she could read alone.

  And she too loved the twilight wood

  And often, in her mother’s mood,

  Away to yonder hill would hie,

  Like her, to watch the setting sun,

  Or see the stars born, one by one,

  Out of the darkening sky.

  Nor would she leave that hill till night

  Trembled from pole to pole with light;

  Even then, upon her homeward way,

  Long — long her wandering steps delayed

  To quit the sombre forest shade,

  Through which her eerie pathway lay.

  You ask if she had beauty’s grace?

  I know not — but a nobler face

  My eyes have seldom seen;

  A keen and fine intelligence,

  And, better still, the truest sense

  Were in her speaking mien.

  But bloom or lustre was there none,

  Only at moments, fitful shone

  An ardour in her eye,

  That kindled on her cheek a flush,

  Warm as a red sky’s passing blush

  And quick with energy.

  Her speech, too, was not common speech,

  No wish to shine, or aim to teach,

  Was in her words displayed:

  She still began with quiet sense,

  But oft the force of eloquence

  Came to her lips in aid;

  Language and voice unconscious changed,

  And thoughts, in other words arranged,

  Her fervid soul transfused

  Into the hearts of those who heard,

  And transient strength and ardour stirred,

  In minds to strength unused,

  Yet in gay crowd or festal glare,

  Grave and retiring was her air;

  ‘Twas seldom, save with me alone,

  That fire of feeling freely shone;

  She loved not awe’s nor wonder’s gaze,

  Nor even exaggerated praise,

  Nor even notice, if too keen

  The curious gazer searched her mien.

  Nature’s own green expanse revealed

  The world, the pleasures, she could prize;

  On free hill-side, in sunny field,

  In quiet spots by woods concealed,

  Grew wild and fresh her chosen joys,

  Yet Nature’s feelings deeply lay

  In that endowed and youthful frame;

  Shrined in her heart and hid from day,

  They burned unseen with silent flame.

  In youth’s first search for mental light,

  She lived but to reflect and learn,

  But soon her mind’s maturer might

  For stronger task did pant and yearn;

  And stronger task did fate assign,

  Task that a giant’s strength might strain;

  To suffer long and ne’er repine,

  Be calm in frenzy, smile at pain.

  Pale with the secret war of feeling,

  Sustained with courage, mute, yet high;

  The wounds at which she bled, revealing

  Only by altered cheek and eye;

  She bore in silence — but when passion

  Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam,

  The storm at last brought desolation,

  And drove her exiled from her home.

  And silent still, she straight assembled

  The wrecks of strength her soul retained;

  For though the wasted body trembled,

  The unconquered mind, to quail, disdained.

  She crossed the sea — now lone she wanders

  By Seine’s, or Rhine’s, or Arno’s flow;

  Fain would I know if distance renders

  Relief or comfort to her woe.

  Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever,

  These eyes shall read in hers again,

  That light of love which faded never,

  Though dimmed so long with secret pain.

  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

  (As light airs stir a sleeping lake)

  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 fu
lly 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.

  Passive, at home, I will not pine;

  Thy toils, thy perils shall be mine;

  Grant this — and be hereafter paid

  By a warm heart’s devoted aid:

  ‘Tis granted — with that yielding kiss,

  Entered my soul unmingled bliss.

  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.

  [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