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

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,

           And there are scents of flowers around,

           The evening dew draws from the ground;

           How soothingly they spread!

           Yes; I was tired, but not at heart;

           No – that beats full of sweet content,

           For now I have my natural part

           Of action with adventure blent;

           Cast forth on the wide world with thee,

           And all my once waste energy

           To weighty purpose bent.

           Yet – sayst thou, spies around us roam,

           Our aims are termed conspiracy?

           Haply, no more our English home

           An anchorage for us may be?

           That there is risk our mutual blood

           May redden in some lonely wood

           The knife of treachery?

           Sayst thou, that where we lodge each night,

           In each lone farm, or lonelier hall

           Of Norman Peer – ere morning light

           Suspicion must as duly fall,

           As day returns – such vigilance

           Presides and watches over France,

           Such rigour governs all?

           I fear not, William; dost thou fear?

           So that the knife does not divide,

           It may be ever hovering near:

           I could not tremble at thy side,

           And strenuous love – like mine for thee —

           Is buckler strong 'gainst treachery,

           And turns its stab aside.

           I am resolved that thou shalt learn

           To trust my strength as I trust thine;

           I am resolved our souls shall burn

           With equal, steady, mingling shine;

           Part of the field is conquered now,

           Our lives in the same channel flow,

           Along the self-same line;

           And while no groaning storm is heard,

           Thou seem'st content it should be so,

           But soon as comes a warning word

           Of danger – straight thine anxious brow

           Bends over me a mournful shade,

           As doubting if my powers are made

           To ford the floods of woe.

           Know, then it is my spirit swells,

           And drinks, with eager joy, the air

           Of freedom – where at last it dwells,

           Chartered, a common task to share

           With thee, and then it stirs alert,

           And pants to learn what menaced hurt

           Demands for thee its care.

           Remember, I have crossed the deep,

           And stood with thee on deck, to gaze

           On waves that rose in threatening heap,

           While stagnant lay a heavy haze,

           Dimly confusing sea with sky,

           And baffling, even, the pilot's eye,

           Intent