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

the Gallic sword,

           And not a wherry could be moored

           Along the guarded land.

           I feared not then – I fear not now;

           The interest of each stirring scene

           Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow,

           In every nerve and bounding vein;

           Alike on turbid Channel sea,

           Or in still wood of Normandy,

           I feel as born again.

           The rain descended that wild morn

           When, anchoring in the cove at last,

           Our band, all weary and forlorn

           Ashore, like wave-worn sailors, cast —

           Sought for a sheltering roof in vain,

           And scarce could scanty food obtain

           To break their morning fast.

           Thou didst thy crust with me divide,

           Thou didst thy cloak around me fold;

           And, sitting silent by thy side,

           I ate the bread in peace untold:

           Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet

           As costly fare or princely treat

           On royal plate of gold.

           Sharp blew the sleet upon my face,

           And, rising wild, the gusty wind

           Drove on those thundering waves apace,

           Our crew so late had left behind;

           But, spite of frozen shower and storm,

           So close to thee, my heart beat warm,

           And tranquil slept my mind.

           So now – nor foot-sore nor opprest

           With walking all this August day,

           I taste a heaven in this brief rest,

           This gipsy-halt beside the way.

           England's wild flowers are fair to view,

           Like balm is England's summer dew

           Like gold her sunset ray.

           But the white violets, growing here,

           Are sweeter than I yet have seen,

           And ne'er did dew so pure and clear

           Distil on forest mosses green,

           As now, called forth by summer heat,

           Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat —

           These fragrant limes between.

           That sunset! Look beneath the boughs,

           Over the copse – beyond the hills;

           How soft, yet deep and warm it glows,

           And heaven with rich suffusion fills;

           With hues where still the opal's tint,

           Its gleam of prisoned fire is blent,

           Where flame through azure thrills!

           Depart we now – for fast will fade

           That solemn splendour of decline,

           And deep must be the after-shade

           As stars alone to-night will shine;

           No moon is destined – pale – to gaze

           On such a day's vast Phoenix blaze,

           A day in fires decayed!

           There – hand-in-hand we tread again

           The mazes of this varying wood,

           And soon, amid a cultured plain,

           Girt in with fertile solitude,

           We shall our resting-place descry,

           Marked by one roof-tree, towering high

           Above a farmstead rude.

           Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare,

           We'll seek a couch of dreamless ease;

           Courage will guard thy heart from fear,

           And Love give mine divinest peace:

           To-morrow brings more dangerous toil,

           And through its conflict and turmoil

           We'll pass, as God shall please.

           [The preceding composition refers, doubtless, to the scenes

           acted in France during the last year of the Consulate.]

      FRANCES

           She will not sleep, for fear of dreams,

           But, rising, quits her restless bed,

           And walks where some beclouded beams

           Of moonlight through the hall are shed.

           Obedient to the goad of grief,

           Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow,

           In varying motion seek relief

           From the Eumenides of woe.

           Wringing her hands, at intervals —

           But long as mute as phantom dim —

           She glides along the dusky walls,

           Under the black oak rafters grim.

           The close air of the grated tower

           Stifles a heart that scarce can beat,

           And, though so late and lone the hour,

           Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet;

           And on the pavement spread before

           The long front of the mansion grey,

           Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar,

           Which pale on grass and granite lay.

           Not long she stayed where misty moon

           And shimmering stars could on her look,

           But through the garden archway soon

           Her strange and gloomy path she took.

           Some firs, coeval with the tower,

           Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head;

           Unseen, beneath this sable bower,

           Rustled her dress and rapid tread.

           There was an alcove in that shade,

           Screening a rustic seat and stand;

           Weary she sat her down, and laid