The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë (50 page)

“Life”

by Currer Bell (Charlotte Brontë)

Life, believe, is not a dream

So dark as sages say;

Oft a little morning rain

Foretells a pleasant day.

Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,

But these are transient all;

If the shower will make the roses bloom,

O why lament its fall?

“Parting”

by Currer Bell (Charlotte Brontë)

There’s no use in weeping,

Though we are condemned to part:

There’s such a thing as keeping

A remembrance in one’s heart:

There’s such a thing as dwelling

On the thought ourselves have nurs’d,

And with scorn and courage telling

The world to do its worst…

When we’ve left each friend and brother,

When we’re parted wide and far,

We will think of one another,

As even better than we are.

“Gilbert, Part I: The Garden”

by Currer Bell (Charlotte Brontë a reflection on her Brussels experience)

Above the city hung the moon,

Right o’er a plot of ground

Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced

With lofty walls around:

’Twas Gilbert’s garden—there to-night

Awhile he walked alone;

And, tired with sedentary toil,

Mused where the moonlight shone…

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.”

“Remembrance”

By Ellis Bell (Emily Brontë)

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my Only Love, to love thee,

Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover

Over the mountains on that northern shore;

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover

That noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,

From those brown hills have melted into spring:

Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers

After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee

While the world’s tide is bearing me along;

Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me;

Hopes which obscure but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven;

No second morn has ever shone for me;

All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,

All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,

And even Despair was powerless to destroy;

Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,

Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion—

Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten

Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,

How could I seek the empty world again?

“A Day Dream”

By Ellis Bell (Emily Brontë)

On a sunny brae alone I lay

One summer afternoon;

It was the marriage-time of May,

With her young lover, June…

The trees did wave their plumy crests,

The glad birds carolled clear;

And I, of all the wedding guests,

Was only sullen there!…

There was not one, but wished to shun

My aspect void of cheer;

The very gray rocks, looking on,

Asked, “What do you here?”

And I could utter no reply;

In sooth, I did not know

Why I had brought a clouded eye

To greet the general glow.

So, resting on a heathy bank

I took my heart to me;

And we together sadly sank

Into a reverie.

We thought, “When winter comes again,

Where will these bright things be?

All vanished, like a vision vain,

An unreal mockery!

“The birds that now so blithely sing,

Through deserts, frozen dry,

Poor spectres of the perished spring,

In famished troops will fly.

“And why should we be glad at all?

The leaf is hardly green,

Before a token of its fall

Is on the surface seen!”

Now, whether it were really so,

I never could be sure;

But as in fit of peevish woe,

I stretched me on the moor,

A thousand thousand gleaming fires

Seemed kindling in the air;

A thousand thousand silvery lyres

Resounded far and near;

Methought, the very breath I breathed

Was full of sparks divine,

And all my heather-couch was wreathed

By that celestial shine!

And, while the wide earth echoing rung

To that strange minstrelsy

The little glittering spirits sung,

Or seemed to sing, to me:

“O mortal! mortal! let them die;

Let time and tears destroy,

That we may overflow the sky

With universal joy!

“Let grief distract the sufferer’s breast,

And night obscure his way;

They hasten him to endless rest,

And everlasting day.

“To thee the world is like a tomb,

A desert’s naked shore;

To us, in unimagined bloom,

It brightens more and more!

“And, could we lift the veil, and give

One brief glimpse to thine eye,

Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live,

BECAUSE they live to die.”

“Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day”

By Acton Bell (Anne Brontë)

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring

And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;

For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,

Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,

The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;

The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,

The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing

The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;

I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,

And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!

“Home”

By Acton Bell (Anne Brontë Composed at Thorp Green)

How brightly glistening in the sun,

The woodland ivy plays!

While yonder beeches from their barks

Reflect his silver rays.

That sun surveys a lovely scene

From softly smiling skies;

And wildly through unnumbered trees

The wind of winter sighs:

Now loud, it thunders o’er my head,

And now in distance dies.

But give me back my barren hills

Where colder breezes rise;

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees

Can yield an answering swell,

But where a wilderness of heath

Returns the sound as well…

Restore me to that little spot,

With gray walls compassed round,

Where knotted grass neglected lies,

And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high

Invites the foot to roam,

And though its halls are fair within—

Oh, give me back my HOME!

“Celebrating Mr. Nicholls’s Victory Over the Washerwomen of Haworth”

By Patrick Brontë, November 1847 (Composed with teasing affection for his curate)

In Haworth, a parish of ancient renown,

Some preach in their surplice, and others their gown…

The Parson, an old man, but hotter than cold,

Of late in reforming, has grown very bold,

And in his fierce zeal, as report loudly tells,

Through legal resort, has reformed the bells.

His curate, who follows—with all due regard,

Though foild by the Church, has reformed the Churchyard.

The females all routed have fled with their clothes

To stackyards, and backyards, and where no one knows,

And loudly have sworn by the suds which they swim in,

They’ll wring off his head, for his warring with women.

Whilst their husbands combine and roar out in their fury,

They’ll lynch him at once, without trial by jury.

But saddest of all, the fair maiden declare,

Of marriage or love, he must ever despair.

“I Saw A Picture, Yesterday”

By Branwell Brontë (Unpublished, in draft form; c. 1843, 1844; Written at Thorp Green, after Mrs. Robinson showed Branwell her self-portrait.)

Her effort shews a picture made

To contradict its meaning

Where should be sunshine painting shade,

And smile with sadness screening;

Where God has given a cheerful view

A gloomy vista showing

Where heart and face, are fair and true

A shade of doubt bestowing

Ah Lady if to me you give

The power your sketch to adorn

How little of it shall I leave

Save smiles that shine like morn.

Ide keep the hue of happy light

That shines from summer skies

Ide drive the shades from smiles so bright

And dry such shining eyes

Ide give a calm to one whose heart

Has banished calm from mine

Ide brighten up Gods work of art

Where thou hast dimmed its shine

And all the wages I should ask

For such a happy toil

I’ll name them—far beyond my task—

THY PRESENCE AND THY SMILE.

“Lydia Gisborne”

By Branwell Brontë (Unpublished; composed in July or August 1845, after his dismissal from Thorp Green. Lydia Gisborne was Mrs. Robinson’s maiden name.)

Cannot my soul depart where it will fly?

Asks my tormented heart, willing to die.

When will this restlessness tossing in sleeplessness—

Stranger to happiness—slumbering lie.

Cannot I chase away life in my tomb

Rather than pass away lifetime in gloom,

With sorrows employing their arts in destroying

The power of enjoying the comforts of home?