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

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СКАЧАТЬ For stronger task did pant and yearn;

       And stronger task did fate assign,

       Task that a giant's strength might strain;

       To suffer long and ne'er repine,

       Be calm in frenzy, smile at pain.

       Pale with the secret war of feeling,

       Sustained with courage, mute, yet high;

       The wounds at which she bled, revealing

       Only by altered cheek and eye;

       She bore in silence—but when passion

       Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam,

       The storm at last brought desolation,

       And drove her exiled from her home.

       And silent still, she straight assembled

       The wrecks of strength her soul retained;

       For though the wasted body trembled,

       The unconquered mind, to quail, disdained.

       She crossed the sea—now lone she wanders

       By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow;

       ​Fain would I know if distance renders

       Relief or comfort to her woe.

       Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever,

       These eyes shall read in hers again,

       That light of love which faded never,

       Though dimmed so long with secret pain.

       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.

       Table of Contents

      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;

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