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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_d97f9de7-f4de-5059-b4f8-52cf7f674fa5">STANZAS TO ——

       APPEAL.

       HONOUR'S MARTYR.

       THE STUDENT'S SERENADE.

       APOSTASY.

       STANZAS.

       THE CAPTIVE DOVE.

       WINTER STORES.

       MY 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.

       СКАЧАТЬ