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

She will return, but cold and altered,

       Like all whose hopes too soon depart;

       Like all on whom have beat, unsheltered,

       The bitter blasts that blight the heart.

       No more shall I behold her lying

       Calm on a pillow, smoothed by me;

       No more that spirit, worn with sighing,

       Will know the rest of infancy.

       If still the paths of lore she follow,

       'Twill be with tired and goaded will;

       She'll only toil, the aching hollow,

       The joyless blank of life to fill.

       And oh! full oft, quite spent and weary,

       Her hand will pause, her head decline;

       That labour seems so hard and dreary,

       On which no ray of hope may shine.

       Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow

       Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair;

       ​Then comes the day that knows no morrow,

       And death succeeds to long despair.

       So speaks experience, sage and hoary;

       I see it plainly, know it well,

       Like one who, having read a story,

       Each incident therein can tell.

       Touch not that ring, 'twas his, the sire

      ⁠Of that forsaken child;

       And nought his relics can inspire

      ⁠Save memories, sin-defiled.

       I, who sat by his wife's death-bed,

      ⁠I, who his daughter loved,

       Could almost curse the guilty dead,

      ⁠For woes, the guiltless proved.

       And heaven did curse—they found him laid,

      ⁠When crime for wrath was rife,

       Cold—with the suicidal blade

      ⁠Clutched in his desperate gripe.

       'Twas near that long deserted hut,

      ⁠Which in the wood decays,

       Death's axe, self-wielded, struck his root,

      ⁠And lopped his desperate days.

       You know the spot, where three black trees,

      ⁠Lift up their branches fell,

       ​And moaning, ceaseless as the seas,

       Still seem, in every passing breeze,

      ⁠The deed of blood to tell.

       They named him mad, and laid his bones

      ⁠Where holier ashes lie;

       Yet doubt not that his spirit groans,

      ⁠In hell's eternity.

       But, lo! night, closing o'er the earth,

      ⁠Infects our thoughts with gloom;

       Come, let us strive to rally mirth,

       Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth

      ⁠In some more cheerful room.

      Currer.

      For other versions of this work, see Stars (Brontë).

      ​

STARS.

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      Ah! why, because the dazzling sun

      ⁠Restored our Earth to joy,

       Have you departed, every one,

      ⁠And left a desert sky?

       All through the night, your glorious eyes

      ⁠Were gazing down in mine,

       And, with a full heart's thankful sighs,

      ⁠I blessed that watch divine.

       ​I was at peace, and drank your beams

      ⁠As they were life to me;

       And revelled in my changeful dreams,

      ⁠Like petrel on the sea.

       Thought followed thought, star followed star,

      ⁠Through boundless regions, on;

       While one sweet influence, near and far,

      ⁠Thrilled through, and proved us one!

       Why did the morning dawn to break

      ⁠So great, so pure, a spell;

       And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek,

      ⁠Where your cool radiance fell?

       Blood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight,

      ⁠His fierce beams struck my brow;

       The soul of nature, sprang, elate,

      ⁠But mine sank sad and low!

       My lids closed down, yet through their veil,

      ⁠I saw him, blazing, still,

       And steep in gold the misty dale,

      ⁠And flash upon the hill.

       I turned me to the pillow, then,

      ⁠To call back night, and see

       Your worlds of solemn light, again,

      ⁠Throb with my heart, and me!

       ​It would not do—the pillow glowed,

      ⁠And glowed both roof and floor;

       And birds sang loudly in the wood,

      ⁠And fresh winds shook the door;

       The curtains waved, the wakened flies

      ⁠Were murmuring round my room,

       Imprisoned there, till I should rise,

      ⁠And give them leave to roam.

       Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;

      ⁠Oh, night and stars return!

       And hide me from the hostile light,

      ⁠That does not warm, but burn;

       That drains the blood of suffering men;

      ⁠Drinks tears, instead of dew;

       Let me sleep through his blinding reign,

      ⁠And only wake with you!

      Ellis.

      For other versions of this work, see The Philosopher.

      ​

THE PHILOSOPHER.

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      "Enough of thought, philosopher!

      ⁠Too long hast thou been dreaming

       Unlightened, in this chamber drear,

      ⁠While summer's sun is beaming!

       Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain

       Concludes thy musings once again?

       ​"Oh, for the time when I shall sleep

       Without identity,

       And never care how rain may