Brontë Sisters: Complete Poems E-Book

Bronte Sisters

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 122

Beschreibung

CONTENTS Pilate's Wife's Dream. Faith and Despondency. A Reminiscence. Mementos. Stars. The Philosopher. The Arbour. Home. The Wife's Will. Remembrance. Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas. The Wood. A Death-Scene. Song. The Penitent. Music on Christmas Morning. Frances. Anticipation. Stanzas. Gilbert. The Prisoner. If This Be All. Life. Hope. Memory. The Letter. A Day Dream. To Cowper. Regret. To Imagination. The Doubter's Prayer. Presentiment. How Clear She Shines. A Word to the "Elect." The Teacher's Monologue. Sympathy. Past Days. Passion. Preference. Plead for Me. The Consolation. Evening Solace. Self-Interrogation. Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day. Stanzas. Death. Views of Life. Parting. Stanzas to —— Appeal. Honour's Martyr. The Student's Serenade. Apostasy. Stanzas. The Captive Dove. Winter Stores.

Leseprobe

Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë:

Poems

charlotte, emily, and anne brontë

Poems.

by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. 1846

Copyright © 2018 by OPU

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.    

charlotte, emily, and anne brontë

Poems

by CURRER, ELLIS, AND ACTON BELL.

London: Aylott and Jones, 8, Paternoster-Row.

1846

[The text follows the 1848 Smith, Elder, and Co. edition.]

poems.

« ~ « ~ «

Pilate’s Wife’s Dream.[C]

Faith and Despondency.[E]

A Reminiscence.[A]

Mementos.[C]

Stars.[E]

The Philosopher.[E]

The Arbour.[A]

Home.[A]

The Wife’s Will.[C]

Remembrance.[E]

Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas.[A]

The Wood.[C]

A Death-Scene.[E]

Song.[E]

The Penitent.[A]

Music on Christmas Morning.[A]

Frances.[C]

Anticipation.[E]

Stanzas.[A]

Gilbert.[C]

The Prisoner.[E]

If This Be All.[A]

Life.[C]

Hope.[E]

Memory.[A]

The Letter.[C]

A Day Dream.[E]

To Cowper.[A]

Regret.[C]

To Imagination.[E]

The Doubter’s Prayer.[A]

Presentiment.[C]

How Clear She Shines.[E]

A Word to the “Elect.”[A]

The Teacher’s Monologue.[C]

Sympathy.[E]

Past Days.[A]

Passion.[C]

Preference.[C]

Plead for Me.[E]

The Consolation.[A]

Evening Solace.[C]

Self-Interrogation.[E]

Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day.[A]

Stanzas.[C]

Death.[E]

Views of Life.[A]

Parting.[C]

Stanzas to ——[E]

Appeal.[A]

Honour’s Martyr.[E]

The Student’s Serenade.[A]

Apostasy.[C]

Stanzas.[E]

The Captive Dove.[A]

Winter Stores.[C]

My Comforter.[E]

Self-Congratulation.[A]

The Missionary.[C]

The Old Stoic.[E]

Fluctuations.[A]

1 Pilate’s Wife’s Dream.

I’ve quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start

Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall—

The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart

Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall;

Over against my bed, there shone a gleam

Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream.

It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom;

How far is night advanced, and when will day

Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom,

And fill this void with warm, creative ray?

Would I could sleep again till, clear and red,

Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread!

I’d call my women, but to break their sleep,

Because my own is broken, were unjust;

2 They’ve wrought all day, and well-earned slumbers steep

Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust;

Let me my feverish watch with patience bear,

Thankful that none with me its sufferings share.

Yet, Oh, for light! one ray would tranquilise

My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can;

I’ll draw my curtain and consult the skies:

These trembling stars at dead of night look wan,

Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear

Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear.

All black—one great cloud, drawn from east to west,

Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below;

Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast

On yonder stony mount a lurid glow.

I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears;

A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears.

Dull, measured, strokes of axe and hammer ring

From street to street, not loud, but through the night

Distinctly heard—and some strange spectral thing

Is now upreared—and, fixed against the light

Of the pale lamps; defined upon that sky,

It stands up like a column, straight and high.

I see it all—I know the dusky sign—

A cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear

3 While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine

Pilate, to judge the victim will appear,

Pass sentence—yield him up to crucify;

And on that cross the spotless Christ must die.

Dreams, then, are true—for thus my vision ran;

Surely some oracle has been with me,

The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan,

To warn an unjust judge of destiny:

I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know,

Christ’s coming death, and Pilate’s life of woe.

I do not weep for Pilate—who could prove

Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway

No prayer can soften, no appeal can move;

Who tramples hearts as others trample clay,

Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread,

That might stir up reprisal in the dead.

Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds;

Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour,

In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads

A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power;

A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge

Rome’s servile slave, and Judah’s tyrant scourge.

How can I love, or mourn, or pity him?

I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung;

4 I, who for grief have wept my eye-sight dim;

Because, while life for me was bright and young,

He robbed my youth—he quenched my life’s fair ray—

He crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay.

And at this hour—although I be his wife—

He has no more of tenderness from me

Than any other wretch of guilty life;

Less, for I know his household privacy—

I see him as he is—without a screen;

And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien!

Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood—

Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly?

And have I not his red salute withstood?

Aye,—when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee

In dark bereavement—in affliction sore,

Mingling their very offerings with their gore.

Then came he—in his eyes a serpent-smile,

Upon his lips some false, endearing word,

And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the while,

His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword—

And I, to see a man cause men such woe,

Trembled with ire—I did not fear to show.

And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought

Jesus—whom they in mockery call their king—

5 To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought;

By this mean reptile, innocence to sting.

Oh! could I but the purposed doom avert,

And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt!

Accessible is Pilate’s heart to fear,

Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf;

Could he this night’s appalling vision hear,

This just man’s bonds were loosed, his life were safe,

Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail,

And make even terror to their malice quail.

Yet if I tell the dream—but let me pause.

What dream? Erewhile the characters were clear,

Graved on my brain—at once some unknown cause

Has dimmed and rased the thoughts, which now appear,

Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene;—

Not what will be, but what, long since, has been.

I suffered many things, I heard foretold

A dreadful doom for Pilate,—lingering woes,

In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold

Built up a solitude of trackless snows,

There, he and grisly wolves prowled side by side,

There he lived famished—there methought he died;

But not of hunger, nor by malady;

I saw the snow around him, stained with gore;

6 I said I had no tears for such as he,

And, lo! my cheek is wet—mine eyes run o’er;

I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt,

I weep the impious deed—the blood self-spilt.

More I recall not, yet the vision spread

Into a world remote, an age to come—

And still the illumined name of Jesus shed

A light, a clearness, through the unfolding gloom—

And still I saw that sign, which now I see,

That cross on yonder brow of Calvary.

What is this Hebrew Christ? To me unknown,

His lineage—doctrine—mission—yet how clear,

Is God-like goodness, in his actions shewn!

How straight and stainless is his life’s career!

The ray of Deity that rests on him,

In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim.

The world advances, Greek, or Roman rite

Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay;

The searching soul demands a purer light

To guide it on its upward, onward way;

Ashamed of sculptured gods—Religion turns

To where the unseen Jehovah’s altar burns.

Our faith is rotten—all our rites defiled,

Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man,

With his new ordinance, so wise and mild,

Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan

7 And sever from the wheat; but will his faith

Survive the terrors of to-morrow’s death?

* * * * *

I feel a firmer trust—a higher hope

Rise in my soul—it dawns with dawning day;

Lo! on the Temple’s roof—on Moriah’s slope

Appears at length that clear, and crimson ray,

Which I so wished for when shut in by night;

Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless your light!

Part, clouds and shadows! glorious Sun appear!

Part, mental gloom! Come insight from on high!

Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear,

The longing soul, doth still uncertain sigh.

Oh! to behold the truth—that sun divine,

How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine!

This day, time travails with a mighty birth,

This day, Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth,

Ere night descends, I shall more surely know

What guide to follow, in what path to go;

I wait in hope—I wait in solemn fear,

The oracle of God—the sole—true God—to hear.

Currer.

« ~ « ~ «

8 Faith and Despondency.

“The winter wind is loud and wild,

Come close to me, my darling child;

Forsake thy books, and mateless play;

And, while the night is gathering grey,

We’ll talk its pensive hours away;—

“Iernë, round our sheltered hall

November’s gusts unheeded call;

Not one faint breath can enter here

Enough to wave my daughter’s hair,

And I am glad to watch the blaze

Glance from her eyes, with mimic rays;

To feel her cheek, so softly pressed,

In happy quiet on my breast.

“But, yet, even this tranquillity

Brings bitter, restless thoughts to me;

And, in the red fire’s cheerful glow,

I think of deep glens, blocked with snow;

I dream of moor, and misty hill,

Where evening closes dark and chill;

For, lone, among the mountains cold,

Lie those that I have loved of old.

And my heart aches, in hopeless pain

Exhausted with repinings vain,

That I shall greet them ne’er again!”

9 “Father, in early infancy,

When you were far beyond the sea,

Such thoughts were tyrants over me!

I often sat, for hours together,

Through the long nights of angry weather,

Raised on my pillow, to descry

The dim moon struggling in the sky;

Or, with strained ear, to catch the shock,

Of rock with wave, and wave with rock;

So would I fearful vigil keep,

And, all for listening, never sleep.

But this world’s life has much to dread,

Not so, my Father, with the dead.

“Oh! not for them, should we despair,

The grave is drear, but they are not there;

Their dust is mingled with the sod,

Their happy souls are gone to God!

You told me this, and yet you sigh,

And murmur that your friends must die.

Ah! my dear father, tell me why?

For, if your former words were true,

How useless would such sorrow be;

As wise, to mourn the seed which grew

Unnoticed on its parent tree,

Because it fell in fertile earth,

And sprang up to a glorious birth—

Struck deep its root, and lifted high

Its green boughs, in the breezy sky.

10 “But, I’ll not fear, I will not weep

For those whose bodies rest in sleep,—

I know there is a blessed shore,

Opening its ports for me, and mine;

And, gazing Time’s wide waters o’er,

I weary for that land divine,

Where we were born, where you and I

Shall meet our Dearest, when we die;

From suffering and corruption free,

Restored into the Deity.”

“Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child!

And wiser than thy sire;

And worldly tempests, raging wild,

Shall strengthen thy desire—

Thy fervent hope, through storm and foam,

Through wind and ocean’s roar,

To reach, at last, the eternal home,

The steadfast, changeless, shore!”

Ellis.

« ~ « ~ «

10 A Reminiscence.

Yes, thou art gone! and never more

Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;

But I may pass the old church door,

And pace the floor that covers thee,

11 May stand upon the cold, damp stone,

And think that, frozen, lies below

The lightest heart that I have known,

The kindest I shall ever know.

Yet, though I cannot see thee more,

’Tis still a comfort to have seen;

And though thy transient life is o’er,

’Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;

To think a soul so near divine,

Within a form, so angel fair,

United to a heart like thine,

Has gladdened once our humble sphere.

Acton.

« ~ « ~ «

11 Mementos.

Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves

Of cabinets, shut up for years,

What a strange task we’ve set ourselves!

How still the lonely room appears!

How strange this mass of ancient treasures,

Mementos of past pains and pleasures;

12 These volumes, clasped with costly stone,

With print all faded, gilding gone;

These fans of leaves, from Indian trees—

These crimson shells, from Indian seas—

These tiny portraits, set in rings—

Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things;

Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith,

And worn till the receiver’s death,

Now stored with cameos, china, shells,

In this old closet’s dusty cells.

I scarcely think, for ten long years,

A hand has touched these relics old;

And, coating each, slow-formed, appears,

The growth of green and antique mould.

All in this house is mossing over;

All is unused, and dim, and damp;

Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover—

Bereft for years of fire and lamp.

The sun, sometimes in summer, enters

The casements, with reviving ray;

But the long rains of many winters

Moulder the very walls away.

And outside all is ivy, clinging

To chimney, lattice, gable grey;

Scarcely one little red rose springing

Through the green moss can force its way.

13 Unscared, the daw, and starling nestle,

Where the tall turret rises high,

And winds alone come near to rustle

The thick leaves where their cradles lie.

I sometimes think, when late at even

I climb the stair reluctantly,

Some shape that should be well in heaven,

Or ill elsewhere, will pass by me.

I fear to see the very faces,

Familiar thirty years ago,

Even in the old accustomed places

Which look so cold and gloomy now.

I’ve come, to close the window, hither,

At twilight, when the sun was down,

And Fear, my very soul would wither,

Lest something should be dimly shown.

Too much the buried form resembling,

Of her who once was mistress here;

Lest doubtful shade, or moonbeam trembling,

Might take her aspect, once so dear.

Hers was this chamber; in her time

It seemed to me a pleasant room,

For then no cloud of grief or crime

Had cursed it with a settled gloom;

I had not seen death’s image laid

In shroud and sheet, on yonder bed.

14 Before she married, she was blest—

Blest in her youth, blest in her worth;

Her mind was calm, its sunny rest

Shone in her eyes more clear than mirth.

And when attired in rich array,

Light, lustrous hair about her brow,

She yonder sat—a kind of day

Lit up—what seems so gloomy now.

These grim oak walls, even then were grim;

That old carved chair, was then antique;