Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell Part 2

But two miles more, and then we rest!

Well, there is still an hour of day, And long the brightness of the West Will light us on our devious way; Sit then, awhile, here in this wood-- So total is the solitude, We safely may delay.

These ma.s.sive roots afford a seat, Which seems for weary travellers made.

There rest. The air is soft and sweet In this sequestered forest glade, And there are scents of flowers around, The evening dew draws from the ground; How soothingly they spread!

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart; No--that beats full of sweet content, For now I have my natural part Of action with adventure blent; Cast forth on the wide world with thee, And all my once waste energy To weighty purpose bent.

Yet--sayst thou, spies around us roam, Our aims are termed conspiracy?

Haply, no more our English home An anchorage for us may be?

That there is risk our mutual blood May redden in some lonely wood The knife of treachery?

Sayst thou, that where we lodge each night, In each lone farm, or lonelier hall Of Norman Peer--ere morning light Suspicion must as duly fall, As day returns--such vigilance Presides and watches over France, Such rigour governs all?

I fear not, William; dost thou fear?

So that the knife does not divide, It may be ever hovering near: I could not tremble at thy side, And strenuous love--like mine for thee-- Is buckler strong 'gainst treachery, And turns its stab aside.

I am resolved that thou shalt learn To trust my strength as I trust thine; I am resolved our souls shall burn With equal, steady, mingling shine; Part of the field is conquered now, Our lives in the same channel flow, Along the self-same line;

And while no groaning storm is heard, Thou seem'st content it should be so, But soon as comes a warning word Of danger--straight thine anxious brow Bends over me a mournful shade, As doubting if my powers are made To ford the floods of woe.

Know, then it is my spirit swells, And drinks, with eager joy, the air Of freedom--where at last it dwells, Chartered, a common task to share With thee, and then it stirs alert, And pants to learn what menaced hurt Demands for thee its care.

Remember, I have crossed the deep, And stood with thee on deck, to gaze On waves that rose in threatening heap, While stagnant lay a heavy haze, Dimly confusing sea with sky, And baffling, even, the pilot's eye, Intent to thread the maze--

Of rocks, on Bretagne's dangerous coast, And find a way to steer our band To the one point obscure, which lost, Flung us, as victims, on the strand;-- All, elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword, And not a wherry could be moored Along the guarded land.

I feared not then--I fear not now; The interest of each stirring scene Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow, In every nerve and bounding vein; Alike on turbid Channel sea, Or in still wood of Normandy, I feel as born again.

The rain descended that wild morn When, anchoring in the cove at last, Our band, all weary and forlorn Ash.o.r.e, like wave-worn sailors, cast-- Sought for a sheltering roof in vain, And scarce could scanty food obtain To break their morning fast.

Thou didst thy crust with me divide, Thou didst thy cloak around me fold; And, sitting silent by thy side, I ate the bread in peace untold: Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet As costly fare or princely treat On royal plate of gold.

Sharp blew the sleet upon my face, And, rising wild, the gusty wind Drove on those thundering waves apace, Our crew so late had left behind; But, spite of frozen shower and storm, So close to thee, my heart beat warm, And tranquil slept my mind.

So now--nor foot-sore nor opprest With walking all this August day, I taste a heaven in this brief rest, This gipsy-halt beside the way.

England's wild flowers are fair to view, Like balm is England's summer dew Like gold her sunset ray.

But the white violets, growing here, Are sweeter than I yet have seen, And ne'er did dew so pure and clear Distil on forest mosses green, As now, called forth by summer heat, Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat-- These fragrant limes between.

That sunset! Look beneath the boughs, Over the copse--beyond the hills; How soft, yet deep and warm it glows, And heaven with rich suffusion fills; With hues where still the opal's tint, Its gleam of prisoned fire is blent, Where flame through azure thrills!

Depart we now--for fast will fade That solemn splendour of decline, And deep must be the after-shade As stars alone to-night will shine; No moon is destined--pale--to gaze On such a day's vast Phoenix blaze, A day in fires decayed!

There--hand-in-hand we tread again The mazes of this varying wood, And soon, amid a cultured plain, Girt in with fertile solitude, We shall our resting-place descry, Marked by one roof-tree, towering high Above a farmstead rude.

Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare, We'll seek a couch of dreamless ease; Courage will guard thy heart from fear, And Love give mine divinest peace: To-morrow brings more dangerous toil, And through its conflict and turmoil We'll pa.s.s, as G.o.d shall please.

[The preceding composition refers, doubtless, to the scenes acted in France during the last year of the Consulate.]

FRANCES.

She will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams Of moonlight through the hall are shed.

Obedient to the goad of grief, Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, In varying motion seek relief From the Eumenides of woe.

Wringing her hands, at intervals-- But long as mute as phantom dim-- She glides along the dusky walls, Under the black oak rafters grim.

The close air of the grated tower Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, And, though so late and lone the hour, Forth pa.s.s her wandering, faltering feet;

And on the pavement spread before The long front of the mansion grey, Her steps imprint the night-frost h.o.a.r, Which pale on gra.s.s and granite lay.

Not long she stayed where misty moon And shimmering stars could on her look, But through the garden archway soon Her strange and gloomy path she took.

Some firs, coeval with the tower, Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head; Unseen, beneath this sable bower, Rustled her dress and rapid tread.

There was an alcove in that shade, Screening a rustic seat and stand; Weary she sat her down, and laid Her hot brow on her burning hand.

To solitude and to the night, Some words she now, in murmurs, said; And trickling through her fingers white, Some tears of misery she shed.

"G.o.d help me in my grievous need, G.o.d help me in my inward pain; Which cannot ask for pity's meed, Which has no licence to complain,

"Which must be borne; yet who can bear, Hours long, days long, a constant weight-- The yoke of absolute despair, A suffering wholly desolate?

"Who can for ever crush the heart, Restrain its throbbing, curb its life?

Dissemble truth with ceaseless art, With outward calm mask inward strife?"

She waited--as for some reply; The still and cloudy night gave none; Ere long, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, Her heavy plaint again begun.

"Unloved--I love; unwept--I weep; Grief I restrain--hope I repress: Vain is this anguish--fixed and deep; Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss.

"My love awakes no love again, My tears collect, and fall unfelt; My sorrow touches none with pain, My humble hopes to nothing melt.

"For me the universe is dumb, Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; Life I must bound, existence sum In the strait limits of one mind;

"That mind my own. Oh! narrow cell; Dark--imageless--a living tomb!

There must I sleep, there wake and dwell Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom."

Again she paused; a moan of pain, A stifled sob, alone was heard; Long silence followed--then again Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred.

"Must it be so? Is this my fate?

Can I nor struggle, nor contend?

And am I doomed for years to wait, Watching death's lingering axe descend?

"And when it falls, and when I die, What follows? Vacant nothingness?

The blank of lost ident.i.ty?