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

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       Because my own is broken, were unjust;

       They've wrought all day, and well-earn'd 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 tranquillize

       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 station'd 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 uprear'd—and, fix'd 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 fetter'd hands have wrung;

       I, who for grief have wept my eyesight dim;

       Because, while life for me was bright and young,

       He robb'd my youth—he quench'd my life's fair ray—

       He crush'd 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?

       Ay, 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 clang'd 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 mock'ry 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,

       And make even terror to their malice quail.

       Yet if I tell the dream—but let me pause.

       What dream? Erewhile the characters were clear,

       Graved on my brain—at once some unknown cause

       Has dimm'd and razed the thoughts, which now appear,

       Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene;—

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