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

Rose like the hum of ocean;

           They rather lulled the heart than roused

           Its pulse to faster motion.

           Gilbert has paced the single walk

           An hour, yet is not weary;

           And, though it be a winter night

           He feels nor cold nor dreary.

           The prime of life is in his veins,

           And sends his blood fast flowing,

           And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts

           Now in his bosom glowing.

           Those thoughts recur to early love,

           Or what he love would name,

           Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds

           Might other title claim.

           Such theme not oft his mind absorbs,

           He to the world clings fast,

           And too much for the present lives,

           To linger o'er the past.

           But now the evening's deep repose

           Has glided to his soul;

           That moonlight falls on Memory,

           And shows her fading scroll.

           One name appears in every line

           The gentle rays shine o'er,

           And still he smiles and still repeats

           That one name – Elinor.

           There is no sorrow in his smile,

           No kindness in his tone;

           The triumph of a selfish heart

           Speaks coldly there alone;

           He says: "She loved me more than life;

           And truly it was sweet

           To see so fair a woman kneel,

           In bondage, at my feet.

           "There was a sort of quiet bliss

           To be so deeply loved,

           To gaze on trembling eagerness

           And sit myself unmoved.

           And when it pleased my pride to grant

           At last some rare caress,

           To feel the fever of that hand

           My fingers deigned to press.

           "'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide

           What every glance revealed;

           Endowed, the while, with despot-might

           Her destiny to wield.

           I knew myself no perfect man,

           Nor, as she deemed, divine;

           I knew that I was glorious – but

           By her reflected shine;

           "Her youth, her native energy,

           Her powers new-born and fresh,

           'Twas these with Godhead sanctified

           My sensual frame of flesh.

           Yet, like a god did I descend

           At last, to meet her love;

           And, like a god, I then withdrew

           To my own heaven above.

           "And never more could she invoke

           My presence to her sphere;

           No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers

           Could win my awful ear.

           I knew her blinded constancy

           Would ne'er my deeds betray,

           And, calm in conscience, whole in heart.

           I went my tranquil way.

           "Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish,

           The fond and flattering pain

           Of passion's anguish to create

           In her young breast again.

           Bright was the lustre of her eyes,

           When they caught fire from mine;

           If I had power – this very hour,

           Again I'd light their shine.

           "But where she is, or how she lives,

           I have no clue to know;

           I've heard she long my absence pined,

           And left her home in woe.

           But busied, then, in gathering gold,

           As I am busied now,

           I could not turn from such pursuit,

           To weep a broken vow.

           "Nor could I give to fatal risk

           The fame I ever prized;

           Even now, I fear, that precious fame

           Is too much compromised."

           An inward trouble dims his eye,

           Some riddle he would solve;

           Some method to unloose a knot,

           His anxious thoughts revolve.

           He, pensive, leans against a tree,

           A leafy evergreen,

           The boughs, the moonlight, intercept,

           And hide him like a screen

           He starts – the tree shakes with his tremor,

           Yet nothing near him pass'd;

           He hurries up the garden alley,

           In strangely sudden haste.

           With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet,

           Steps o'er the threshold stone;

           The heavy door slips from his fingers —

           It shuts, and he is gone.

           What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul? —

           A nervous thought, no more;

           'Twill sink like stone in placid pool,

           And calm close smoothly o'er.

II. THE PARLOUR

           Warm is the parlour atmosphere,

           Serene the lamp's soft light;

           The vivid embers, red and clear,

           Proclaim a frosty night.

           Books, varied, on the table lie,

           Three children o'er them bend,