Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes

by Bronte Sisters

  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

&
nbsp; 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.

  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!

  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, tow
ards 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.

  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!

  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;