Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. Anne Bronte

COMFORTER.

       SELF-CONGRATULATION.

       THE MISSIONARY.

       THE OLD STOIC.

       FLUCTUATIONS.

      ​

POEMS.

       Table of Contents

PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM.

       Table of Contents

      I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start

       Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall—­

       The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart

       Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall;

       Over against my bed, there shone a gleam

       Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream.

       It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom;

       How far is night advanced, and when will day

       Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom,

       And fill this void with warm, creative ray?

       Would I could sleep again till, clear and red,

       Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread!

       I'd call my women, but to break their sleep,

       Because my own is broken, were unjust;

       ​They've wrought all day, and well-earned slumbers steep

       Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust;

       Let me my feverish watch with patience bear,

       Thankful that none with me its sufferings share.

       Yet, Oh, for light! one ray would tranquilise

       My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can;

       I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies:

       These trembling stars at dead of night look wan,

       Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear

       Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear.

       All black—­one great cloud, drawn from east to west,

       Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below;

       Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast

       On yonder stony mount a lurid glow.

       I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears;

       A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears.

       Dull, measured, strokes of axe and hammer ring

       From street to street, not loud, but through the night

       Distinctly heard—­and some strange spectral thing

       Is now upreared—­and, fixed against the light

       Of the pale lamps; defined upon that sky,

       It stands up like a column, straight and high.

       I see it all—­I know the dusky sign—­

       A cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear

       ​While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine

       Pilate, to judge the victim will appear,

       Pass sentence—­yield him up to crucify;

       And on that cross the spotless Christ must die.

       Dreams, then, are true—­for thus my vision ran;

       Surely some oracle has been with me,

       The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan,

       To warn an unjust judge of destiny:

       I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know,

       Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe.

       I do not weep for Pilate—­who could prove

       Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway

       No prayer can soften, no appeal can move;

       Who tramples hearts as others trample clay,

       Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread,

       That might stir up reprisal in the dead.

       Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds;

       Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour,

       In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads

       A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power;

       A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge

       Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge.

       How can I love, or mourn, or pity him?

       I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung;

       ​I, who for grief have wept my eye-sight dim;

       Because, while life for me was bright and young,

       He robbed my youth—­he quenched my life's fair ray—

       He crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay.

       And at this hour—­although I be his wife—

       He has no more of tenderness from me

       Than any other wretch of guilty life;

       Less, for I know his household privacy—

       I see him as he is—­without a screen;

       And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien!

       Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood—

       Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly?

       And have I not his red salute withstood?

       Aye,—­when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee

       In dark bereavement—­in affliction sore,

       Mingling their very offerings with their gore.

       Then came he—­in his eyes a serpent-smile,

       Upon his lips some false, endearing word,

       And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the while,

       His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword—

       And I, to see a man cause men such woe,

       Trembled with ire—­I did not fear to show.

       And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought

       Jesus—­whom they in mockery call their king—

       ​To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought;

       By this mean reptile, innocence to sting.

       Oh! could I but the purposed doom avert,

       And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt!

       Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear,

       Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf;

       Could he this night's appalling vision hear,

       This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe,

       Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail,