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Charlotte Brontë - Poems
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POEMS BY CURRER BELL
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GILBERT
I. THE GARDEN.
Above the city hung the moon,
Right o'er a plot of ground
Where flowers and orchard-trees
were fenced
With lofty walls around:
'Twas Gilbert's garden--there
to-night
Awhile he walked alone;
And, tired with sedentary
toil,
Mused where the moonlight
shone.
This garden, in a city-heart,
Lay still as houseless wild,
Though many-windowed mansion
fronts
Were round it; closely piled;
But thick their walls, and
those within
Lived lives by noise unstirred
;
Like wafting of an angel's
wing,
Time's flight by them was
heard.
Some soft piano-notes alone
Were sweet as faintly given,
Where ladies, doubtless,
cheered the hearth
With song that winter-even.
The city's many-mingled
sounds
Rose like the hum of ocean;
They rather lulled the heart
than roused
Its pulse to faster motion.
Gilbert has paced the single
walk
An hour, yet is not weary;
And, though it be a winter
night
He feels nor cold nor dreary.
The prime of life is in
his veins,
And sends his blood fast
flowing,
And Fancy's fervour warms
the thoughts
Now in his bosom glowing.
Those thoughts recur to early
love,
Or what he love would name,
Though haply Gilbert's secret
deeds
Might other title claim.
Such theme not oft his mind
absorbs,
He to the world clings fast,
And too much for the present
lives,
To linger o'er the past.
But now the evening's deep
repose
Has glided to his soul;
That moonlight falls on
Memory,
And shows her fading scroll.
One name appears in every
line
The gentle rays shine o'er,
And still he smiles and
still repeats
That one name--Elinor.
There is no sorrow in his
smile,
No kindness in his tone;
The triumph of a selfish
heart
Speaks coldly there alone;
He says: "She loved me more
than life;
And truly it was sweet
To see so fair a woman kneel,
In bondage, at my feet.
"There was a sort of quiet
bliss
To be so deeply loved,
To gaze on trembling eagerness
And sit myself unmoved.
And when it pleased my pride
to grant
At last some rare caress,
To feel the fever of that
hand
My fingers deigned to press.
"'Twas sweet to see her strive
to hide
What every glance revealed;
Endowed, the while, with
despot-might
Her destiny to wield.
I knew myself no perfect
man,
Nor, as she deemed, divine;
I knew that I was glorious--but
By her reflected shine;
"Her youth, her native energy,
Her powers new-born and
fresh,
'Twas these with Godhead
sanctified
My sensual frame of flesh.
Yet, like a god did I descend
At last, to meet her love;
And, like a god, I then
withdrew
To my own heaven above.
"And never more could she
invoke
My presence to her sphere;
No prayer, no plaint, no
cry of hers
Could win my awful ear.
I knew her blinded constancy
Would ne'er my deeds betray,
And, calm in conscience,
whole in heart.
I went my tranquil way.
"Yet, sometimes, I still
feel a wish,
The fond and flattering
pain
Of passion's anguish to
create
In her young breast again.
Bright was the lustre of
her eyes,
When they caught fire from
mine;
If I had power--this very
hour,
Again I'd light their shine.
"But where she is, or how
she lives,
I have no clue to know;
I've heard she long my absence
pined,
And left her home in woe.
But busied, then, in gathering
gold,
As I am busied now,
I could not turn from such
pursuit,
To weep a broken vow.
"Nor could I give to fatal
risk
The fame I ever prized;
Even now, I fear, that precious
fame
Is too much compromised."
An inward trouble dims his
eye,
Some riddle he would solve;
Some method to unloose a
knot,
His anxious thoughts revolve.
He, pensive, leans against
a tree,
A leafy evergreen,
The boughs, the moonlight,
intercept,
And hide him like a screen
He starts--the tree shakes
with his tremor,
Yet nothing near him pass'd;
He hurries up the garden
alley,
In strangely sudden haste.
With shaking hand, he lifts
the latchet,
Steps o'er the threshold
stone;
The heavy door slips from
his fingers--
It shuts, and he is gone.
What touched, transfixed,
appalled, his soul?--
A nervous thought, no more;
'Twill sink like stone in
placid pool,
And calm close smoothly
o'er.
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II. THE PARLOUR.
Warm is the parlour atmosphere,
Serene the lamp's soft light;
The vivid embers, red and
clear,
Proclaim a frosty night.
Books, varied, on the table
lie,
Three children o'er them
bend,
And all, with curious, eager
eye,
The turning leaf attend.
Picture and tale alternately
Their simple hearts delight,
And interest deep, and tempered
glee,
Illume their aspects bright.
The parents, from their
fireside place,
Behold that pleasant scene,
And joy is on the mother's
face,
Pride in the father's mien.
As Gilbert sees his blooming
wife,
Beholds his children fair,
No thought has he of transient
strife,
Or past, though piercing
fear.
The voice of happy infancy
Lisps sweetly in his ear,
His wife, with pleased and
peaceful eye,
Sits, kindly smiling, near.
The fire glows on her silken
dress,
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
Above its threatened shame."
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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.
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