Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes

by Bronte Sisters

  For what within yon space was once the abode

  Of peace or war to man, and fear of God,

  Is now the daily sport of shower or wind,

  And no acquaintance holds with human kind.

  Some who can be loved, and love can give,

  While brain thinks, pulses beat, and bodies live,

  Must, in death’s helplessness, lie down with those

  Who find, like us, the grave their last repose,

  When Death draws down the veil and Night bids Evening close.

  ‘King Charles, who, fortune falling, would not fall,

  Might glance with saddened eyes on Morley Hall,

  And, while his throne escaped misfortune’s wave,

  Remember Tyldesley died that throne to save.’

  * * *

  Branwell’s next poem of this period is entitled the ‘End of All,’ which is complete, and is one of the most pathetic he ever wrote. It constitutes a true picture of his mood, and illustrates, at this time, the sombre and troubled nature of his thoughts. He pourtrays, in shades of great depth, his reflections on the death of one dear to him, whose loss leaves his soul a blank and desolate void, an evil which nothing can alleviate or remove. But he dreams for a moment that a life of peril in far-off lands, and in battle, strife, and danger, that the ‘stony joys’ of solitary ambition, may shrine the memory of sorrows which cannot be destroyed. Yet, even from this cold dream, this cruel opiate of the heart, he is recalled by the groans of her who is dying, to the consciousness that, with her departure, all will go. The bereaved is Branwell himself, and his ‘Mary’ is doubtless the lady of his misplaced affection, over whose loss he still broods in melancholy and afflicted language, each pathetic chord vibrating with intense mental anguish, as he contemplates the future years of desolation in which he is left to wander tombward unaided and alone. Here, as in his other poems, the rhythmic sweetness of Branwell’s verse flows on in words well chosen to express the idea he intends to convey, which itself is worked out with great suggestiveness of power.

  THE END OF ALL.

  ‘In that unpitying Winter’s night,

  When my own wife — my Mary — died,

  I, by my fire’s declining light,

  Sat comfortless, and silent sighed,

  While burst unchecked grief’s bitter tide,

  As I, methought, when she was gone,

  Not hours, but years, like this must bide,

  And wake, and weep, and watch alone.

  ‘All earthly hope had passed away,

  And each clock-stroke brought Death more nigh

  To the still-chamber where she lay,

  With soul and body calmed to die;

  But mine was not her heavenward eye

  When hot tears scorched me, as her doom

  Made my sick heart throb heavily

  To give impatient anguish room.

  ‘“Oh now,” methought, “a little while,

  And this great house will hold no more

  Her whose fond love the gloom could while

  Of many a long night gone before!”

  Oh! all those happy hours were o’er

  When, seated by our own fireside,

  I’d smile to hear the wild winds roar,

  And turn to clasp my beauteous bride.

  ‘I could not bear the thoughts which rose

  Of what had been, and what must be,

  And still the dark night would disclose

  Its sorrow-pictured prophecy;

  Still saw I — miserable me —

  Long, long nights else, in lonely gloom,

  With time-bleached locks and trembling knee —

  Walk aidless, hopeless, to my tomb.

  ‘Still, still that tomb’s eternal shade

  Oppressed my heart with sickening fear,

  When I could see its shadow spread

  Over each dreary future year,

  Whose vale of tears woke such despair

  That, with the sweat-drops on my brow,

  I wildly raised my hands in prayer

  That Death would come and take me now;

  ‘Then stopped to hear an answer given —

  So much had madness warped my mind —

  When, sudden, through the midnight heaven,

  With long howl woke the Winter’s wind;

  And roused in me, though undefined,

  A rushing thought of tumbling seas

  Whose wild waves wandered unconfined,

  And, far-off, surging, whispered, “Peace.”

  ‘I cannot speak the feeling strange,

  Which showed that vast December sea,

  Nor tell whence came that sudden change

  From aidless, hopeless misery;

  But somehow it revealed to me

  A life — when things I loved were gone —

  Whose solitary liberty

  Might suit me wandering tombward on.

  ‘‘Twas not that I forgot my love —

  That night departing evermore —

  ‘Twas hopeless grief for her that drove

  My soul from all it prized before;

  That misery called me to explore

  A new-born life, whose stony joy

  Might calm the pangs of sorrow o’er,

  Might shrine their memory, not destroy.

  ‘I rose, and drew the curtains back

  To gaze upon the starless waste,

  And image on that midnight wrack

  The path on which I longed to haste,

  From storm to storm continual cast,

  And not one moment given to view;

  O’er mind’s wild winds the memories passed

  Of hearts I loved — of scenes I knew.

  ‘My mind anticipated all

  The things my eyes have seen since then;

  I heard the trumpet’s battle-call,

  I rode o’er ranks of bleeding men,

  I swept the waves of Norway’s main,

  I tracked the sands of Syria’s shore,

  I felt that such strange strife and pain

  Might me from living death restore.

  ‘Ambition I would make my bride,

  And joy to see her robed in red,

  For none through blood so wildly ride

  As those whose hearts before have bled;

  Yes, even though thou should’st long have laid

  Pressed coldly down by churchyard clay,

  And though I knew thee thus decayed,

  I might smile grimly when away;

  ‘Might give an opiate to my breast,

  Might dream: — but oh! that heart-wrung groan

  Forced from me with the thought confessed

  That all would go if she were gone;

  I turned, and wept, and wandered on

  All restlessly — from room to room —

  To that still chamber, where alone

  A sick-light glimmered through the gloom.

  ‘The all-unnoticed time flew o’er me,

  While my breast bent above her bed,

  And that drear life which loomed before me

  Choked up my voice — bowed down my head.

  Sweet holy words to me she said,

  Of that bright heaven which shone so near,

  And oft and fervently she prayed

  That I might some time meet her there;

  ‘But, soon enough, all words were over,

  When this world passed, and Paradise,

  Through deadly darkness, seemed to hover

  O’er her half-dull, half-brightening eyes;

  One last dear glance she gives her lover,

  One last embrace before she dies;

  And then, while he seems bowed above her,

  His Mary sees him from the skies.’

  Another poem of Branwell’s of this date, the last he ever wrote, is entitled ‘Percy Hall,’ which he did not live to complete. The first draft was sent for Leyland’s opinion, with the following letter:

  ‘Hawort
h, Bradford,

  ‘Yorks.

  ‘My dear Sir,

  ‘I enclose the accompanying fragment, which is so soiled that I would have transcribed it, if I had had the heart to exert myself, only in order to get from you an opinion as to whether, when finished, it would be worth sending to some respectable periodical, like “Blackwood’s Magazine.”

  ‘I trust you got safely home from rough Haworth, and am,

  ‘Dear Sir,

  ‘Your most sincerely,

  ‘P. B. Brontë.’

  At the foot of the page on which the letter is written, is drawn, in pen-and-ink, a low, massive, stone cross, inscribed with the word, ‘POBRE!’ standing on the top of a bleak hill, with a wild sky behind; and Branwell says of it below: ‘The best epitaph ever written. It is carved on a rude cross in Spain, over a murdered traveller, and simply means “Poor fellow!”‘ It will be remembered, in connection with this idea of Branwell’s, that Lord Byron, in one of his letters, describes the impression produced upon him by seeing the inscription, ‘Implora pace!’ upon a tomb at Bologna. The poet says: ‘When I die, I should wish that some friend would see these words, and no other, placed above my grave — “Implora pace!”‘ The perusal of this remark induced Mrs. Hemans to write her pathetic little poem which has the Italian epitaph for its title.

  This letter of Branwell’s is particularly interesting, because it shows us that, even in the last year of his life, and when dealing with the last uncompleted poem he ever wrote, he preserved the ambition of appearing in the literary world as a poet; and because he again speaks of ‘Blackwood’s Magazine,’ whose value, it will be remembered, had impressed itself upon the youthful minds of himself and his sisters.

  The fragment, ‘Percy Hall,’ which was enclosed with the letter to Leyland, though still morbid, is one of the most exquisite its author wrote. Here, by a strange and beautiful coincidence — if coincidence it be — we find Branwell, in his latest work, as in his youthful ones, given in the earlier part of this work, occupied with the dread study of a consumptive decline; we find him, in short, tinctured with the shadows of his later career, telling again of the death of that sister, whose memory he cherished with a life-long affection; and perhaps, too, with a deeper insight than the other members of his family possessed, he foretells the end that awaited his sisters Emily and Anne, from that disease, whose poison was working in his own slender frame. The treatment of the subject, indeed, is truly characteristic of Branwell’s feelings at the time, and of his impressions engendered by the mournful malady with which his family was afflicted. This poem, like some of those already noticed in the former pages of the present work, is distinguished by images, scenes, and conceptions, almost invariably animated by the instinctive power and originality of genius. His descriptions of the condition of the lady, of the way in which weakness has schooled her to regard the future — the natural expression doubtless of Branwell at the time — of the influences that ‘forbade her heart to throb, her spirit to despond,’ and of the agonized feelings of the survivor, are all instinct with the living breath of reality; they have the sublime dignity of truth, springing, as they do, from a knowledge far too intimate with the sorrows which inspired the poem. Perhaps, in the gaiety of the affectionate Percy, Branwell depicts, in some sort, his own disposition, though it has never been charged against him that he was beguiled by ‘syren smiles,’ or seduced by the delights of ‘play.’ It seems to me that Branwell’s poetical genius is as much higher than that of his sister Emily as hers was superior to the talents of Charlotte and Anne, in their versified productions. Beautiful, wild, and touching, like strains from the harp of Æolus, as are the emanations of Emily’s poetical inspiration, they lack the force, depth, and breadth of Branwell’s more expansive power of imagination, as displayed in his best productions; though even Branwell’s poetical remains contain rather the evidence of power than the full expression of it.

  PERCY HALL.

  ‘The westering sunbeams smiled on Percy Hall,

  And green leaves glittered o’er the ancient wall

  Where Mary sat, to feel the summer breeze,

  And hear its music mingling ‘mid the trees.

  There she had rested in her quiet bower

  Through June’s long afternoon, while hour on hour

  Stole, sweetly shining past her, till the shades,

  Scarce noticed, lengthened o’er the grassy glades;

  But yet she sat, as if she knew not how

  Her time wore on, with Heaven-directed brow,

  And eyes that only seemed awake, whene’er

  Her face was fanned by summer evening’s air.

  All day her limbs a weariness would feel,

  As if a slumber o’er her frame would steal;

  Nor could she wake her drowsy thoughts to care

  For day, or hour, or what she was, or where:

  Thus — lost in dreams, although debarred from sleep,

  While through her limbs a feverish heat would creep,

  A weariness, a listlessness, that hung

  About her vigour, and Life’s powers unstrung —

  She did not feel the iron gripe of pain,

  But thought felt irksome to her heated brain;

  Sometimes the stately woods would float before her,

  Commingled with the cloud-piles brightening o’er her,

  Then change to scenes for ever lost to view,

  Or mock with phantoms which she never knew:

  Sometimes her soul seemed brooding on to-day,

  And then it wildly wandered far away,

  Snatching short glimpses of her infancy,

  Or lost in day-dreams of what yet might be.

  ‘Yes — through the labyrinth-like course of thought —

  Whate’er might be remembered or forgot,

  Howe’er diseased the dream might be, or dim,

  Still seemed the Future through each change to swim,

  All indefinable, but pointing on

  To what should welcome her when Life was gone;

  She felt as if — to all she knew so well —

  Its voice was whispering her to say “farewell;”

  Was bidding her forget her happy home;

  Was farther fleeting still — still beckoning her to come.

  ‘She felt as one might feel who, laid at rest,

  With cold hands folded on a panting breast,

  Has just received a husband’s last embrace,

  Has kissed a child, and turned a pallid face

  From this world — with its feelings all laid by —

  To one unknown, yet hovering — oh! how nigh!

  ‘And yet — unlike that image of decay —

  There hovered round her, as she silent lay,

  A holy sunlight, an angelic bloom,

  That brightened up the terrors of the tomb,

  And, as it showed Heaven’s glorious world beyond,

  Forbade her heart to throb, her spirit to despond.

  ‘But, who steps forward, o’er the glowing green,

  With silent tread, these stately groves between?

  To watch his fragile flower, who sees him not,

  Yet keeps his image blended with each thought,

  Since but for him stole down that single tear

  From her blue eyes, to think how very near

  Their farewell hour might be!

  ‘With silent tread

  Percy bent o’er his wife his golden head;

  And, while he smiled to see how calm she slept,

  A gentle feeling o’er his spirit crept,

  Which made him turn toward the shining sky

  With heart expanding to its majesty,

  While he bethought him how more blest its glow

  Than that he left one single hour ago,

  Where proud rooms, heated by a feverish light,

  Forced vice and villainy upon his sight;

  Where snared himself, or snaring into crime,

  His soul had dr
owned its hour, and lost its count of time.

  ‘The syren-sighs and smiles were banished now,

  The cares of “play” had vanished from his brow;

  He took his Mary’s hot hand in his own,

  She raised her eyes, and — oh, how soft they shone!

  Kindling to fondness through their mist of tears,

  Wakening afresh the light of fading years! —

  He knew not why she turned those shining eyes

  With such a mute submission to the skies;

  He knew not why her arm embraced him so,

  As if she must depart, yet could not let him go!

  ‘With death-like voice, but angel-smile, she said,

  “My love, they need not care, when I am dead,

  To deck with flowers my capped and coffined head;

  For all the flowers which I should love to see

  Are blooming now, and will have died with me:

  The same sun bids us all revive to-day,

  And the same winds will bid us to decay;

  When Winter comes we all shall be no more —

  Departed into dust — next, covered o’er

  By Spring’s reviving green. See, Percy, now

  How red my cheek — how red my roses blow!

  But come again when blasts of Autumn come;

  Then mark their changing leaves, their blighted bloom;

  Then come to my bedside, then look at me,

  How changed in all — except my love for thee!”

  ‘She spoke, and laid her hot hand on his own;

  But he nought answered, save a heart-wrung groan;

  For oh! too sure, her voice prophetic sounded

  Too clear the proofs that in her face abounded

  Of swift Consumption’s power! Although each day

  He’d seen her airy lightness fail away,

  And gleams unnatural glisten in her eye;

  He had not dared to dream that she could die,

  But only fancied his a causeless fear

  Of losing something which he held so dear;

  Yet — now — when, startled at her prophet-cries,

  To hers he turned his stricken, stone-like eyes,

  And o’er her cheek declined his blighted head.

  He saw Death write on it the fatal red —

  He saw, and straightway sank his spirit’s light

  Into the sunless twilight of the starless night!

  ‘While he sat, shaken by his sudden shock,

  Again — and with an earnestness — she spoke,

  As if the world of her Creator shone

  Through all the cloudy shadows of her own: