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

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,