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

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."

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