Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes

by Bronte Sisters

  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!

  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!

  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;

&nb
sp; 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!

  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!

  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.

  STANZAS.

  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.

  PARTING.

  There’s no use in weeping,

  Though we are condemned to part:

  There’s such a thing as keeping

  A remembrance in one’s heart:

  There’s such a thing as dwelling

  On the thought ourselves have nursed,

  And with scorn and courage telling

  The world to do its worst.

  We’ll not let its follies grieve us,

  We’ll just take them as they come;

  And then every day will leave us

  A merry laugh for home.

  When we’ve left each friend and brother,

  When we’re parted wide and far,

  We will think of one another,

  As even better than we are.

  Every glorious sight above us,

  Every pleasant sight beneath,

  We’ll connect with those that love us,

  Whom we truly love till death!

  In the evening, when we’re sitting

  By the fire, perchance alone,

  Then shall heart with warm heart meeting,

  Give responsive tone for tone.

  We can burst the bonds which chain us,

  Which cold human hands have wrought,

  And where none shall dare restrain us

  We can meet again, in thought.

  So there’s no use in weeping,

  Bear a cheerful spirit still;