Poems(勃朗特姆姐妹诗集)

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POEMS

CURRER, ELLIS, AND ACTON BELL.

POEMS

POEMS BY CURRER BELL,

PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM.

I've quench'd 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 sank, 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; They've wrought all day, and well-earn'd 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 tranquillize 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 station'd 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 uprear'd--and, fix'd 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 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.

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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 fetter'd

hands have wrung; I, who for grief have wept my eyesight dim ; Because,

while life for me was bright and young, He robb'd my youth--he quench'd

my life's fair ray-- He crush'd 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? Ay,

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 clang'd 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 mock'ry call their king-- 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

POEMS

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 dimm'd and razed 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 suffer'd 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 prowl'd side by

side, There he lived famish'd--there, methought, he died;

But not of hunger, nor by malady; I saw the snow around him, stain'd

with gore; 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 shown, 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 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

POEMS

length that clear and crimson ray Which I so wished for when shut in by

night; Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless pour 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.

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; 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.

POEMS

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.

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;

But what around looked dusk and dim Served as a foil to her fresh cheek;

Her neck and arms, of hue so fair, Eyes of unclouded, smiling light; Her

soft, and curled, and floating hair, Gems and attire, as rainbow bright.

Reclined in yonder deep recess, Ofttimes she would, at evening, lie

Watching the sun; she seemed to bless With happy glance the glorious sky.

She loved such scenes, and as she gazed, Her face evinced her spirit's

mood; Beauty or grandeur ever raised In her, a deep-felt gratitude. But of

all lovely things, she loved A cloudless moon, on summer night, Full oft

have I impatience proved To see how long her still delight Would find a

theme in reverie, Out on the lawn, or where the trees Let in the lustre

fitfully, As their boughs parted momently, To the soft, languid, summer

breeze. Alas! that she should e'er have flung Those pure, though lonely

POEMS

joys away-- Deceived by false and guileful tongue, She gave her hand,

then suffered wrong; Oppressed, ill-used, she faded young, And died of

grief by slow decay.

Open that casket-look how bright Those jewels flash upon the sight;

The brilliants have not lost a ray Of lustre, since her wedding day. But see-

-upon that pearly chain-- How dim lies Time's discolouring stain! I've seen

that by her daughter worn: For, ere she died, a child was born;-- A child

that ne'er its mother knew, That lone, and almost friendless grew; For, ever,

when its step drew nigh, Averted was the father's eye; And then, a life

impure and wild Made him a stranger to his child: Absorbed in vice, he

little cared On what she did, or how she fared. The love withheld she

never sought, She grew uncherished--learnt untaught; To her the inward

life of thought Full soon was open laid. I know not if her friendlessness

Did sometimes on her spirit press, But plaint she never made. The book-

shelves were her darling treasure, She rarely seemed the time to measure

While she could read alone. And she too loved the twilight wood And

often, in her mother's mood, Away to yonder hill would hie, Like her, to

watch the setting sun, Or see the stars born, one by one, Out of the

darkening sky. Nor would she leave that hill till night Trembled from pole

to pole with light; Even then, upon her homeward way, Long--long her

wandering steps delayed To quit the sombre forest shade, Through which

her eerie pathway lay. You ask if she had beauty's grace? I know not--but a

nobler face My eyes have seldom seen; A keen and fine intelligence, And,

better still, the truest sense Were in her speaking mien. But bloom or lustre

was there none, Only at moments, fitful shone An ardour in her eye, That

kindled on her cheek a flush, Warm as a red sky's passing blush And quick

with energy. Her speech, too, was not common speech, No wish to shine,

or aim to teach, Was in her words displayed: She still began with quiet

sense, But oft the force of eloquence Came to her lips in aid; Language

and voice unconscious changed, And thoughts, in other words arranged,

Her fervid soul transfused Into the hearts of those who heard, And

transient strength and ardour stirred, In minds to strength unused, Yet in

gay crowd or festal glare, Grave and retiring was her air; 'Twas seldom,

save with me alone, That fire of feeling freely shone; She loved not awe's

POEMS

nor wonder's gaze, Nor even exaggerated praise, Nor even notice, if too

keen The curious gazer searched her mien. Nature's own green expanse

revealed The world, the pleasures, she could prize; On free hill-side, in

sunny field, In quiet spots by woods concealed, Grew wild and fresh her

chosen joys, Yet Nature's feelings deeply lay In that endowed and youthful

frame; Shrined in her heart and hid from day, They burned unseen with

silent flame. In youth's first search for mental light, She lived but to reflect

and learn, But soon her mind's maturer might For stronger task did pant

and yearn; And stronger task did fate assign, Task that a giant's strength

might strain; To suffer long and ne'er repine, Be calm in frenzy, smile at

pain.

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

POEMS

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.

THE WIFE'S WILL.

Sit still--a word--a breath may break (As light airs stir a sleeping lake)

The glassy calm that soothes my woes-- The sweet, the deep, the full

repose. O leave me not! for ever be Thus, more than life itself to me!

Yes, close beside thee let me kneel-- Give me thy hand, that I may feel

The friend so true--so tried--so dear, My heart's own chosen--indeed is

near; And check me not--this hour divine Belongs to me--is fully mine.

'Tis thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside, After long absence--wandering

wide; 'Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes A promise clear of stormless

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skies; For faith and true love light the rays Which shine responsive to her

gaze.

Ay,--well that single tear may fall; Ten thousand might mine eyes

recall, Which from their lids ran blinding fast, In hours of grief, yet

scarcely past; Well mayst thou speak of love to me, For, oh! most truly--I

love thee!

Yet smile--for we are happy now. Whence, then, that sadness on thy

brow? What sayst thou? "We muse once again, Ere long, be severed by the

main!" I knew not this--I deemed no more Thy step would err from

Britain's shore.

"Duty commands!" 'Tis true--'tis just; Thy slightest word I wholly trust,

Nor by request, nor faintest sigh, Would I to turn thy purpose try; But,

William, hear my solemn vow-- Hear and confirm!--with thee I go.

"Distance and suffering," didst thou say? "Danger by night, and toil by

day?" Oh, idle words and vain are these; Hear me! I cross with thee the

seas. Such risk as thou must meet and dare, I--thy true wife--will duly

share.

Passive, at home, I will not pine; Thy toils, thy perils shall be mine;

Grant this--and be hereafter paid By a warm heart's devoted aid: 'Tis

granted--with that yielding kiss, Entered my soul unmingled bliss.

Thanks, William, thanks! thy love has joy, Pure, undefiled with base

alloy; 'Tis not a passion, false and blind, Inspires, enchains, absorbs my

mind; Worthy, I feel, art thou to be Loved with my perfect energy.

This evening now shall sweetly flow, Lit by our clear fire's happy glow;

And parting's peace-embittering fear, Is warned our hearts to come not

near; For fate admits my soul's decree, In bliss or bale--to go with thee!

THE WOOD.

But two miles more, and then we rest! Well, there is still an hour of

day, And long the brightness of the West Will light us on our devious way;

Sit then, awhile, here in this wood-- So total is the solitude, We safely may

delay.

These massive roots afford a seat, Which seems for weary travellers

made. There rest. The air is soft and sweet In this sequestered forest glade,

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POEMS1POEMSCURRER,ELLIS,ANDACTONBELL.POEMS2POEMSBYCURRERBELL,PILATE'SWIFE'SDREAM.I'vequench'dmylamp,IstruckitinthatstartWhicheverylimbconvulsed,Ihearditfall--Thecrashblentwithmysleep,IsawdepartItslight,evenasIwoke,onyonderwall;Overagainstmybed,thereshoneagleamStrange,faint,andminglingalsowithmydream...

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