Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell . Brontë Charlotte

           And when attired in rich array,

           Light, lustrous hair about her brow,

           She yonder sat, a kind of day

           Lit up what seems so gloomy now.

           These grim oak walls even then were grim;

           That old carved chair was then antique;

           But what around looked dusk and dim

           Served as a foil to her fresh cheek;

           Her neck and arms, of hue so fair,

           Eyes of unclouded, smiling light;

           Her soft, and curled, and floating hair,

           Gems and attire, as rainbow bright.

           Reclined in yonder deep recess,

           Ofttimes she would, at evening, lie

           Watching the sun; she seemed to bless

           With happy glance the glorious sky.

           She loved such scenes, and as she gazed,

           Her face evinced her spirit's mood;

           Beauty or grandeur ever raised

           In her, a deep-felt gratitude.

           But of all lovely things, she loved

           A cloudless moon, on summer night,

           Full oft have I impatience proved

           To see how long her still delight

           Would find a theme in reverie,

           Out on the lawn, or where the trees

           Let in the lustre fitfully,

           As their boughs parted momently,

           To the soft, languid, summer breeze.

           Alas! that she should e'er have flung

           Those pure, though lonely joys away —

           Deceived by false and guileful tongue,

           She gave her hand, then suffered wrong;

           Oppressed, ill-used, she faded young,

           And died of grief by slow decay.

           Open that casket-look how bright

           Those jewels flash upon the sight;

           The brilliants have not lost a ray

           Of lustre, since her wedding day.

           But see – upon that pearly chain —

           How dim lies Time's discolouring stain!

           I've seen that by her daughter worn:

           For, ere she died, a child was born; —

           A child that ne'er its mother knew,

           That lone, and almost friendless grew;

           For, ever, when its step drew nigh,

           Averted was the father's eye;

           And then, a life impure and wild

           Made him a stranger to his child:

           Absorbed in vice, he little cared

           On what she did, or how she fared.

           The love withheld she never sought,

           She grew uncherished – learnt untaught;

           To her the inward life of thought

           Full soon was open laid.

           I know not if her friendlessness

           Did sometimes on her spirit press,

           But plaint she never made.

           The book-shelves were her darling treasure,

           She rarely seemed the time to measure

           While she could read alone.

           And she too loved the twilight wood

           And often, in her mother's mood,

           Away to yonder hill would hie,

           Like her, to watch the setting sun,

           Or see the stars born, one by one,

           Out of the darkening sky.

           Nor would she leave that hill till night

           Trembled from pole to pole with light;

           Even then, upon her homeward way,

           Long – long her wandering steps delayed

           To quit the sombre forest shade,

           Through which her eerie pathway lay.

           You ask if she had beauty's grace?

           I know not – but a nobler face

           My eyes have seldom seen;

           A keen and fine intelligence,

           And, better still, the truest sense

           Were in her speaking mien.

           But bloom or lustre was there none,

           Only at moments, fitful shone

           An ardour in her eye,

           That kindled on her cheek a flush,

           Warm as a red sky's passing blush

           And quick with energy.

           Her speech, too, was not common speech,

           No wish to shine, or aim to teach,

           Was in her words displayed:

           She still began with quiet sense,

           But oft the force of eloquence

           Came to her lips in aid;

           Language and voice unconscious changed,

           And thoughts, in other words arranged,

           Her fervid soul transfused

           Into the hearts of those who heard,

           And transient strength and ardour stirred,

           In minds to strength unused,

           Yet in gay crowd or festal glare,

           Grave and retiring was her air;

           'Twas seldom, save with me alone,

           That fire of feeling freely shone;

           She loved not awe's nor wonder's gaze,

           Nor even exaggerated praise,

           Nor even notice, if too keen

           The curious gazer searched her mien.