Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846) Charlotte, Emily and Anne BRONTE COMPLIMENTS OF WIKISOURCE A DAY DREAM. On a sunny brae, alone I lay One summer afternoon; It was the marriage-time of May With her young lover, June. From her mothers heart, seemed loath to part That queen of bridal charms, But her father smiled on the fairest child He ever held in his arms. The trees did wave their plumy crests, The glad birds caroled clear; And I, of all the wedding guests, Was only sullen there! There was not one, but wished to shun My aspect void of cheer; The very grey rocks, looking on, Asked, What do you do here? And I could utter no reply; In sooth, I did not know Why I had brought a clouded eye To greet the general glow. So, resting on a heathy bank, I took my heart to me; And we together sadly sank Into a reverie. We thought, When winter comes again, Where will these bright things be? All vanished, like a vision vain, An unreal mockery! The birds that now so blithely sing, Through deserts, frozen dry, Poor spectres of the perished spring, In famished troops, will fly. And why should we be glad at all? The leaf is hardly green, Before a token of its fall Is on the surface seen! Now, whether it were really so, I never could be sure; But as in fit of peevish woe, I stretched me on the moor. A thousand thousand gleaming fires Seemed kindling in the air; A thousand thousand silvery lyres Resounded far and near: Methought, the very breath I breathed Was full of sparks divine, And all my heather-couch was wreathed By that celestial shine! And, while the wide earth echoing rung To that strange minstrelsy, The little glittering spirits sung, O seemed to sing, to me: O mortal! mortal! let them die; Let time and tears destroy, That we may overflow the sky With universal joy! Let grief distract the sufferers breast, And night obscure his way; They hasten him to endless rest, And everlasting day. To thee the world is like a tomb, A deserts naked shore; To us, in unimagined bloom, It brightens more and more! And, could we lift the veil, and give One brief glimpse to thine eye, Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live, Because they live to die. The music ceased; the noonday dream, Like dream of night, withdrew; But Fancy, still, will sometimes deem Her fond creation true. 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 ladys chair, From thence, to slopes of mossy 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 suns deepening glow. Why does she not a moment glance Between the clustering flowers, And mark in heaven the radiant dance Of evenings 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 oer 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 oer the piles of porcelain rare, Oer 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, towards 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 oer, Eer read by him to whose loved hand Tis sent from Englands shore. Remote colonial wilds detain Her husband, loved though stern; She, mid that smiling English scene, Weeps for his wished return. TO COWPER. Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard; And oft, in childhoods years, Ive read them oer and oer again, With floods of silent tears. The language of my inmost heart, I traced in every line; My sins, my sorrows, hopes, and fears, Were there—and only mine. All for myself the sigh would swell, The tear of auguish start; I little knew what wilder woe Had filled the Poets heart. I did not know the nights of gloom, The days of misery; The long, long years of dark despair, That crushed and tortured thee. But, they are gone; from earth at length Thy gentle soul is passd, And in the bosom of its God Has found its home at last. It must be so, if God is love, And answers fervent prayer; Then surely thou shalt dwell on high, And I may meet thee there. Is he the source of every good, The spring of purity? Then in thine hours of deepest woe, Thy God was still with thee. How else, when every hope was fled, Couldst thou so fondly cling To holy things and holy men? And how so sweetly sing, Of things that God alone could teach? And whence that purity, That hatred of all sinful ways— That gentle charity? Are these the symptoms of a heart Of heavenly grace bereft: For ever banished from its God, To Satans fury left? Yet, should thy darkest fears be true, If Heaven be so severe, That such a soul as thine is lost,— Oh! how shall I appear?
Posted on: Wed, 06 Nov 2013 15:50:15 +0000
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