Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell . Brontë Charlotte

           Pale with the secret war of feeling,

           Sustained with courage, mute, yet high;

           The wounds at which she bled, revealing

           Only by altered cheek and eye;

           She bore in silence – but when passion

           Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam,

           The storm at last brought desolation,

           And drove her exiled from her home.

           And silent still, she straight assembled

           The wrecks of strength her soul retained;

           For though the wasted body trembled,

           The unconquered mind, to quail, disdained.

           She crossed the sea – now lone she wanders

           By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow;

           Fain would I know if distance renders

           Relief or comfort to her woe.

           Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever,

           These eyes shall read in hers again,

           That light of love which faded never,

           Though dimmed so long with secret pain.

           She will return, but cold and altered,

           Like all whose hopes too soon depart;

           Like all on whom have beat, unsheltered,

           The bitter blasts that blight the heart.

           No more shall I behold her lying

           Calm on a pillow, smoothed by me;

           No more that spirit, worn with sighing,

           Will know the rest of infancy.

           If still the paths of lore she follow,

           'Twill be with tired and goaded will;

           She'll only toil, the aching hollow,

           The joyless blank of life to fill.

           And oh! full oft, quite spent and weary,

           Her hand will pause, her head decline;

           That labour seems so hard and dreary,

           On which no ray of hope may shine.

           Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow

           Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair;

           Then comes the day that knows no morrow,

           And death succeeds to long despair.

           So speaks experience, sage and hoary;

           I see it plainly, know it well,

           Like one who, having read a story,

           Each incident therein can tell.

           Touch not that ring; 'twas his, the sire

           Of that forsaken child;

           And nought his relics can inspire

           Save memories, sin-defiled.

           I, who sat by his wife's death-bed,

           I, who his daughter loved,

           Could almost curse the guilty dead,

           For woes the guiltless proved.

           And heaven did curse – they found him laid,

           When crime for wrath was rife,

           Cold – with the suicidal blade

           Clutched in his desperate gripe.

           'Twas near that long deserted hut,

           Which in the wood decays,

           Death's axe, self-wielded, struck his root,

           And lopped his desperate days.

           You know the spot, where three black trees,

           Lift up their branches fell,

           And moaning, ceaseless as the seas,

           Still seem, in every passing breeze,

           The deed of blood to tell.

           They named him mad, and laid his bones

           Where holier ashes lie;

           Yet doubt not that his spirit groans

           In hell's eternity.

           But, lo! night, closing o'er the earth,

           Infects our thoughts with gloom;

           Come, let us strive to rally mirth

           Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth

           In some more cheerful room.