FRANCES by: Charlotte BRONTE (1816-1855) HE 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 Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, And, though so late and lone the hour, Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet; And on the pavement spread before The long front of the mansion grey, Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar, Which pale on grass and granite lay. Not long she stayed where misty moon And shimmering stars could on her look, But through the garden archway soon Her strange and gloomy path she took. Some firs, coeval with the tower, Their straight black boughs stretched oer her head; Unseen, beneath this sable bower, Rustled her dress and rapid tread. There was an alcove in that shade, Screening a rustic seat and stand; Weary she sat her down, and laid Her hot brow on her burning hand. To solitude and to the night, Some words she now, in murmurs, said; And trickling through her fingers white, Some tears of misery she shed. God help me in my grievous need, God help me in my inward pain; Which cannot ask for pitys meed, Which has no licence to complain, Which must be borne; yet who can bear, Hours long, days long, a constant weight-- The yoke of absolute despair, A suffering wholly desolate? Who can for ever crush the heart, Restrain its throbbing, curb its life? Dissemble truth with ceaseless art, With outward calm mask inward strife? She waited--as for some reply; The still and cloudy night gave none; Ere long, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, Her heavy plaint again begun. Unloved--I love; unwept--I weep; Grief I restrain--hope I repress: Vain is this anguish--fixed and deep; Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss. My love awakes no love again, My tears collect, and fall unfelt; My sorrow touches none with pain, My humble hopes to nothing melt. For me the universe is dumb, Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; Life I must bound, existence sum In the strait limits of one mind; That mind my own. Oh! narrow cell; Dark--imageless--a living tomb! There must I sleep, there wake and dwell Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom. Again she paused; a moan of pain, A stifled sob, alone was heard; Long silence followed--then again Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred. Must it be so? Is this my fate? Can I nor struggle, nor contend? And am I doomed for years to wait, Watching deaths lingering axe descend? And when it falls, and when I die, What follows? Vacant nothingness? The blank of lost identity? Erasure both of pain and bliss? Ive heard of heaven--I would believe; For if this earth indeed be all, Who longest lives may deepest grieve; Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call. Oh! leaving disappointment here, Will man find hope on yonder coast? Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, And oft in clouds is wholly lost. Will he hopes source of light behold, Fruitions spring, where doubts expire, And drink, in waves of living gold, Contentment, full, for long desire? Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed? Rest, which was weariness on earth? Knowledge, which, if oer life it beamed, Served but to prove it void of worth? Will he find love without lusts leaven, Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, To all with equal bounty given; In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure? Will he, from penal sufferings free, Released from shroud and wormy clod, All calm and glorious, rise and see Creations Sire--Existence God? Then, glancing back on Times brief woes, Will he behold them, fading, fly; Swept from Eternitys repose, Like sullying cloud from pure blue sky? If so, endure, my weary frame; And when thy anguish strikes too deep, And when all troubled burns lifes flame, Think of the quiet, final sleep; Think of the glorious waking-hour, Which will not dawn on grief and tears, But on a ransomed spirits power, Certain, and free from mortal fears. Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, Then from thy chamber, calm, descend, With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn, But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end. And when thy opening eyes shall see Mementos, on the chamber wall, Of one who has forgotten thee, Shed not the tear of acrid gall. The tear which, welling from the heart, Burns where its drop corrosive falls, And makes each nerve, in torture, start, At feelings it too well recalls: When the sweet hope of being loved Threw Eden sunshine on lifes way: When every sense and feeling proved Expectancy of brightest day. When the hand trembled to receive A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near, And the heart ventured to believe Another heart esteemed it dear. When words, half love, all tenderness, Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken, When the long, sunny days of bliss Only by moonlight nights were broken. Till, drop by drop, the cup of joy Filled full, with purple light was glowing, And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high Still never dreamt the overflowing. It fell not with a sudden crashing, It poured not out like open sluice; No, sparkling still, and redly flashing, Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice. I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, My eager lips approached the brim; The movement only seemed to waste it; It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim. These I have drunk, and they for ever Have poisoned life and love for me; A draught from Sodoms lake could never More fiery, salt, and bitter, be. Oh! Love was all a thin illusion Joy, but the deserts flying stream; And glancing back on long delusion, My memory grasps a hollow dream. Yet whence that wondrous change of feeling, I never knew, and cannot learn; Nor why my lovers eye, congealing, Grew cold and clouded, proud and stern. Nor wherefore, friendships forms forgetting, He careless left, and cool withdrew; Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting, Nor evn one glance of comfort threw. And neither word nor token sending, Of kindness, since the parting day, His course, for distant regions bending, Went, self-contained and calm, away. Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, Which will not weaken, cannot die, Hasten thy work of desolation, And let my tortured spirit fly! Vain as the passing gale, my crying; Though lightning-struck, I must live on; I know, at heart, there is no dying Of love, and ruined hope, alone. Still strong and young, and warm with vigour, Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow; And many a storm of wildest rigour Shall yet break oer my shivered bough. Rebellious now to blank inertion, My unused strength demands a task; Travel, and toil, and full exertion, Are the last, only boon I ask. Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming Of death, and dubious life to come? I see a nearer beacon gleaming Over dejections sea of gloom. The very wildness of my sorrow Tells me I yet have innate force; My track of life has been too narrow, Effort shall trace a broader course. The world is not in yonder tower, Earth is not prisoned in that room, Mid whose dark panels, hour by hour, Ive sat, the slave and prey of gloom. One feeling--turned to utter anguish, Is not my beings only aim; When, lorn and loveless, life will languish, But courage can revive the flame. He, when he left me, went a roving To sunny climes, beyond the sea; And I, the weight of woe removing, Am free and fetterless as he. New scenes, new language, skies less clouded, May once more wake the wish to live; Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded, New pictures to the mind may give. New forms and faces, passing ever, May hide the one I still retain, Defined, and fixed, and fading never, Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain. And we might meet--time may have changed him; Chance may reveal the mystery, The secret influence which estranged him; Love may restore him yet to me. False thought--false hope--in scorn be banished! I am not loved--nor loved have been; Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished; Traitors! mislead me not again! To words like yours I bid defiance, Tis such my mental wreck have made; Of God alone, and self-reliance, I ask for solace--hope for aid. Morn comes--and ere meridian glory Oer these, my natal woods, shall smile, Both lonely wood and mansion hoary Ill leave behind, full many a mile. THE LETTER by: Charlotte BRONTE (1816-1855) 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 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 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 thabsorbing 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 thunfinished 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 thexpanse 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 Thimpending 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, Ere 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.
Posted on: Fri, 08 Nov 2013 13:56:15 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015