Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell Part 4

Those thoughts recur to early love, Or what he love would name, Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds Might other t.i.tle claim.

Such theme not oft his mind absorbs, He to the world clings fast, And too much for the present lives, To linger o'er the past.

But now the evening's deep repose Has glided to his soul; That moonlight falls on Memory, And shows her fading scroll.

One name appears in every line The gentle rays shine o'er, And still he smiles and still repeats That one name--Elinor.

There is no sorrow in his smile, No kindness in his tone; The triumph of a selfish heart Speaks coldly there alone; He says: "She loved me more than life; And truly it was sweet To see so fair a woman kneel, In bondage, at my feet.

"There was a sort of quiet bliss To be so deeply loved, To gaze on trembling eagerness And sit myself unmoved.

And when it pleased my pride to grant At last some rare caress, To feel the fever of that hand My fingers deigned to press.

"'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide What every glance revealed; Endowed, the while, with despot-might Her destiny to wield.

I knew myself no perfect man, Nor, as she deemed, divine; I knew that I was glorious--but By her reflected shine;

"Her youth, her native energy, Her powers new-born and fresh, 'Twas these with G.o.dhead sanctified My sensual frame of flesh.

Yet, like a G.o.d did I descend At last, to meet her love; And, like a G.o.d, I then withdrew To my own heaven above.

"And never more could she invoke My presence to her sphere; No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers Could win my awful ear.

I knew her blinded constancy Would ne'er my deeds betray, And, calm in conscience, whole in heart.

I went my tranquil way.

"Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish, The fond and flattering pain Of pa.s.sion's anguish to create In her young breast again.

Bright was the l.u.s.tre of her eyes, When they caught fire from mine; If I had power--this very hour, Again I'd light their shine.

"But where she is, or how she lives, I have no clue to know; I've heard she long my absence pined, And left her home in woe.

But busied, then, in gathering gold, As I am busied now, I could not turn from such pursuit, To weep a broken vow.

"Nor could I give to fatal risk The fame I ever prized; Even now, I fear, that precious fame Is too much compromised."

An inward trouble dims his eye, Some riddle he would solve; Some method to unloose a knot, His anxious thoughts revolve.

He, pensive, leans against a tree, A leafy evergreen, The boughs, the moonlight, intercept, And hide him like a screen He starts--the tree shakes with his tremor, Yet nothing near him pa.s.s'd; He hurries up the garden alley, In strangely sudden haste.

With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet, Steps o'er the threshold stone; The heavy door slips from his fingers-- It shuts, and he is gone.

What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul?-- A nervous thought, no more; 'Twill sink like stone in placid pool, And calm close smoothly o'er.

II. THE PARLOUR.

Warm is the parlour atmosphere, Serene the lamp's soft light; The vivid embers, red and clear, Proclaim a frosty night.

Books, varied, on the table lie, Three children o'er them bend, And all, with curious, eager eye, The turning leaf attend.

Picture and tale alternately Their simple hearts delight, And interest deep, and tempered glee, Illume their aspects bright.

The parents, from their fireside place, Behold that pleasant scene, And joy is on the mother's face, Pride in the father's mien.

As Gilbert sees his blooming wife, Beholds his children fair, No thought has he of transient strife, Or past, though piercing fear.

The voice of happy infancy Lisps sweetly in his ear, His wife, with pleased and peaceful eye, Sits, kindly smiling, near.

The fire glows on her silken dress, And shows its ample grace, And warmly tints each hazel tress, Curled soft around her face.

The beauty that in youth he wooed, Is beauty still, unfaded; The brow of ever placid mood No churlish grief has shaded.

Prosperity, in Gilbert's home, Abides the guest of years; There Want or Discord never come, And seldom Toil or Tears.

The carpets bear the peaceful print Of comfort's velvet tread, And golden gleams, from plenty sent, In every nook are shed.

The very silken spaniel seems Of quiet ease to tell, As near its mistress' feet it dreams, Sunk in a cushion's swell And smiles seem native to the eyes Of those sweet children, three; They have but looked on tranquil skies, And know not misery.

Alas! that Misery should come In such an hour as this; Why could she not so calm a home A little longer miss?

But she is now within the door, Her steps advancing glide; Her sullen shade has crossed the floor, She stands at Gilbert's side.

She lays her hand upon his heart, It bounds with agony; His fireside chair shakes with the start That shook the garden tree.

His wife towards the children looks, She does not mark his mien; The children, bending o'er their books, His terror have not seen.

In his own home, by his own hearth, He sits in solitude, And circled round with light and mirth, Cold horror chills his blood.

His mind would hold with desperate clutch The scene that round him lies; No--changed, as by some wizard's touch, The present prospect flies.

A tumult vague--a viewless strife His futile struggles crush; 'Twixt him and his an unknown life And unknown feelings rush.

He sees--but scarce can language paint The tissue fancy weaves; For words oft give but echo faint Of thoughts the mind conceives.

Noise, tumult strange, and darkness dim, Efface both light and quiet; No shape is in those shadows grim, No voice in that wild riot.

Sustain'd and strong, a wondrous blast Above and round him blows; A greenish gloom, dense overcast, Each moment denser grows.

He nothing knows--nor clearly sees, Resistance checks his breath, The high, impetuous, ceaseless breeze Blows on him cold as death.

And still the undulating gloom Mocks sight with formless motion: Was such sensation Jonah's doom, Gulphed in the depths of ocean?

Streaking the air, the nameless vision, Fast-driven, deep-sounding, flows; Oh! whence its source, and what its mission?

How will its terrors close?

Long-sweeping, rushing, vast and void, The universe it swallows; And still the dark, devouring tide A typhoon tempest follows.

More slow it rolls; its furious race Sinks to its solemn gliding; The stunning roar, the wind's wild chase, To stillness are subsiding.

And, slowly borne along, a form The shapeless chaos varies; Poised in the eddy to the storm, Before the eye it tarries.

A woman drowned--sunk in the deep, On a long wave reclining; The circling waters' crystal sweep, Like gla.s.s, her shape enshrining.

Her pale dead face, to Gilbert turned, Seems as in sleep reposing; A feeble light, now first discerned, The features well disclosing.

No effort from the haunted air The ghastly scene could banish, That hovering wave, arrested there, Rolled--throbbed--but did not vanish.

If Gilbert upward turned his gaze, He saw the ocean-shadow; If he looked down, the endless seas Lay green as summer meadow.

And straight before, the pale corpse lay, Upborne by air or billow, So near, he could have touched the spray That churned around its pillow.

The hollow anguish of the face Had moved a fiend to sorrow; Not death's fixed calm could rase the trace Of suffering's deep-worn furrow.

All moved; a strong returning blast, The ma.s.s of waters raising, Bore wave and pa.s.sive carcase past, While Gilbert yet was gazing.

Deep in her isle-conceiving womb, It seemed the ocean thundered, And soon, by realms of rushing gloom, Were seer and phantom sundered.

Then swept some timbers from a wreck.

On following surges riding; Then sea-weed, in the turbid rack Uptorn, went slowly gliding.

The horrid shade, by slow degrees, A beam of light defeated, And then the roar of raving seas, Fast, far, and faint, retreated.

And all was gone--gone like a mist, Corse, billows, tempest, wreck; Three children close to Gilbert prest And clung around his neck.

Good night! good night! the prattlers said, And kissed their father's cheek; 'Twas now the hour their quiet bed And placid rest to seek.

The mother with her offspring goes To hear their evening prayer; She nought of Gilbert's vision knows, And nought of his despair.