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

"God help me in my grievous need,

           God help me in my inward pain;

           Which cannot ask for pity's meed,

           Which has no licence to complain,

           "Which must be borne; yet who can bear,

           Hours long, days long, a constant weight —

           The yoke of absolute despair,

           A suffering wholly desolate?

           "Who can for ever crush the heart,

           Restrain its throbbing, curb its life?

           Dissemble truth with ceaseless art,

           With outward calm mask inward strife?"

           She waited – as for some reply;

           The still and cloudy night gave none;

           Ere long, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh,

           Her heavy plaint again begun.

           "Unloved – I love; unwept – I weep;

           Grief I restrain – hope I repress:

           Vain is this anguish – fixed and deep;

           Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss.

           "My love awakes no love again,

           My tears collect, and fall unfelt;

           My sorrow touches none with pain,

           My humble hopes to nothing melt.

           "For me the universe is dumb,

           Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind;

           Life I must bound, existence sum

           In the strait limits of one mind;

           "That mind my own. Oh! narrow cell;

           Dark – imageless – a living tomb!

           There must I sleep, there wake and dwell

           Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom."

           Again she paused; a moan of pain,

           A stifled sob, alone was heard;

           Long silence followed – then again

           Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred.

           "Must it be so? Is this my fate?

           Can I nor struggle, nor contend?

           And am I doomed for years to wait,

           Watching death's lingering axe descend?

           "And when it falls, and when I die,

           What follows? Vacant nothingness?

           The blank of lost identity?

           Erasure both of pain and bliss?

           "I've heard of heaven – I would believe;

           For if this earth indeed be all,

           Who longest lives may deepest grieve;

           Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call.

           "Oh! leaving disappointment here,

           Will man find hope on yonder coast?

           Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear,

           And oft in clouds is wholly lost.

           "Will he hope's source of light behold,

           Fruition's spring, where doubts expire,

           And drink, in waves of living gold,

           Contentment, full, for long desire?

           "Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed?

           Rest, which was weariness on earth?

           Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed,

           Served but to prove it void of worth?

           "Will he find love without lust's leaven,

           Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure,

           To all with equal bounty given;

           In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure?

           "Will he, from penal sufferings free,

           Released from shroud and wormy clod,

           All calm and glorious, rise and see

           Creation's Sire – Existence' God?

           "Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes,

           Will he behold them, fading, fly;

           Swept from Eternity's repose,

           Like sullying cloud from pure blue sky?

           "If so, endure, my weary frame;

           And when thy anguish strikes too deep,

           And when all troubled burns life's flame,

           Think of the quiet, final sleep;

           "Think of the glorious waking-hour,

           Which will not dawn on grief and tears,

           But on a ransomed spirit's power,

           Certain, and free from mortal fears.

           "Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn,

           Then from thy chamber, calm, descend,

           With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn,

           But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end.

           "And when thy opening eyes shall see

           Mementos, on the chamber wall,

           Of one who has forgotten thee,

           Shed not the tear of acrid gall.

           "The tear which, welling from the heart,

           Burns where its drop corrosive falls,

           And makes each nerve, in torture, start,

           At feelings it too well recalls:

           "When the sweet hope of being loved

           Threw Eden sunshine on life's way:

           When every sense and feeling proved

           Expectancy of brightest day.

           "When the hand trembled to receive

           A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near,

           And the heart ventured to believe

           Another heart esteemed it dear.

           "When words, half love, all tenderness,

           Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken,

           When the long, sunny days of bliss

           Only by moonlight nights were broken.