Средняя из трёх знаменитых сестёр, Эмили Джейн Бронте (30 июля 1818 — 19 декабря 1848) вошла в историю мировой литературы не только как автор бессмертного “Грозового перевала”, но и как поэт, чей голос звучит на удивление пронзительно. Дочь бедного ирландского священника Патрика Бронте и Марии Бренуэлл, будучи пятым ребёнком, она с раннего детства познала горечь утрат. Эмили было всего три года, когда умерла мать, и шесть, когда туберкулёз, принесённый из школы в Кован-Бридж, унёс двух её старших сестер — Марию и Элизабет. Эта ранняя трагедия навсегда определила её замкнутый характер и ту напряжённую внутреннюю жизнь, которая стала истинной стихией писательницы.

С младшей сестрой, Энн, Эмили связывала особая, почти мистическая близость. В детстве они были неразлучны; вместе они сочиняли сагу о вымышленном королевстве Гондал — причудливом мире, который служил для них убежищем от суровой реальности. Однако взросление привело их к выбору разного жизненного пути.

Замкнутая, не ищущая контакта с внешним миром Эмили и деятельная Энн, стремившаяся исправить несовершенства человеческой природы, казалось, смотрели на мир с разных ракурсов восприятия. Если Энн верила, что добрая воля и правильное воспитание способны искоренить зло, то Эмили, чья вера была ближе к фатализму, воспринимала трагическое несовершенство бытия как часть непостижимого божественного замысла. Но, несмотря на разницу мировоззрений, они сохранили ту глубинную душевную связь, что зародилась в детстве, вплоть до самой смерти Эмили.

Мир людей казался ей чуждым и враждебным. Попытки получить систематическое образование — сначала в Роу-Хэд, где тоска по дому и тяжелые воспоминания о рано умерших сёстрах подорвали её здоровье, а затем непродолжительная работа учительницей в Лоу-Хилл с её изнурительным семнадцатичасовым рабочим днем — лишь убедили Эмили в том, что её место — в Хоэрте, в отчем доме. Она охотно взяла на себя обязанности домашней хозяйки, находя в этих повседневных заботах не обузу, но спасительную возможность отдаваться творческим фантазиям.

В 1842 году вместе с Шарлоттой она отправилась в Брюссель, чтобы продолжить образование. В пансионате господина Эже, несмотря на сложный характер и неспособность найти общий язык с наставником, Эмили проявила недюжинный ум, поразивший педагога. Вернувшись домой, сёстры попытались открыть собственную школу, но эта затея не нашла отклика.

С тех пор Эмили лишь однажды покинула Хоэрт — в 1845 году, когда Энн уговорила её совершить поездку по памятным местам. И хотя железнодорожные неурядицы помешали им добраться до Скарборо, сама поездка в Йорк стала для обеих сестер возвращением в мир Гондала: дорогой они разыгрывали сцены с участием его персонажей.

В том же году Шарлотта случайно обнаружила стихи Эмили. Эта находка вызвала короткую, но болезненную ссору: младшие сёстры давно знали о поэтических опытах друг друга и даже вели совместный дневник, но от Шарлотты, старшей и более практичной, Эмили предпочитала свои творения утаивать. Однако обида уступила место пониманию.

В 1846 году сёстры выпустили совместный сборник стихотворений. Следуя обычаям времени, когда женское литературное творчество вызывало предубеждение, они выступили под мужскими псевдонимами: Шарлотта, Эмили и Энн Бронте превратились в Каррера, Эллиса и Эктона Беллов соответственно.

Следующий год принёс Эмили известность, но не славу. Вышедший “Грозовой перевал” был встречен критиками с недоумением. Мощь воображения автора признавали, но герои казались читателям слишком мрачными и непривлекательными. Спустя год после публикации своего единственного романа Эмили Бронте умерла от туберкулёза — той же болезни, что погубила её сестер.

После её смерти Шарлотта, сама ставшая знаменитой, скажет о “Грозовом перевале” с глубокой горечью: её сестра “не знала, что делала, когда создавала героев этого романа”. Тем не менее, в отличие от книг Энн, Шарлотта не стала препятствовать переизданию романа, назвав его “проявлением творческого дара”, пусть и лишённого, по её мнению, сознательной работы автора.

Прошли десятилетия, прежде чем “Грозовой перевал” занял свое законное место среди величайших произведений мировой литературы. Сегодня мы видим в нём не только плод творчества одинокого гения, но и поэтическую квинтэссенцию той самой мятежной, страстной натуры, чей голос звучал и в стихах.

Что касается переводов поэзии Эмили Бронте на русский язык, то стихотворения средней из сестер Бронте переводились, хотя и не слишком часто.

Первый относительно крупный корпос её стихотворений был опубликован в 1990 году в сборнике “Грозовой перевал. Стихотворения” (Москва, издательство “Художественная литература”) в переводе Татьяны Гутиной.

Впоследствии отдельные стихотворения выходили в переводах Григория Кружкова, Александра Лукьянова, Людмилы Володарской и Татьяны Стамовой в составе различных антологий английской поэзии.

Однако попыток издать собрание стихотворений Эмили Бронте, хотя бы примерно повторяющее состав сборника 1990 года, не предпринималось вплоть до 2026-го, когда в издательстве “Азбука” вышел новый сборник “Грозовой перевал. Стихотворения”. Над переводами стихотворений для этой книги работали Наталья Бухтоярова, Евгения Копенкова, Александра Глебовская, Екатерина Зудова, Елена Рукомойникова, Софья Микушина, Анна Скворцова, Елена Богданова и Татьяна Иванова-Шеленгер.

Во время работы над составлением данного сборника были использованы следующие издания:

1. “Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell” (1846, Лондон, издательство “Smith, Elder & Co.”)

2. “The Complete Poems of Emily Brontё” (1908, Лондон — Нью-Йорк — Торонто, издательство “Hodder And Stoughton”)

3. “Brontё poems. Selection from the poetry of Charlotte, Emily, Anne and Branwell Brontё” (1915, Нью-Йорк — Лондон, издательство “G.P. Putnam’s Sons”)

В настоящем сборнике собраны все стихотворения Эмили Бронте, расположенные в хронологическом порядке. При наличии их публикаций на русском языке в сносках указаны имена переводчиков, а также названия изданий, где они были опубликованы.

В. Щербаков

Poems by Emily Jane Brontё

***

I know not how it falls on me,

This summer evening hushed and lone;

Yet the faint wind comes soothingly

With something of an olden tone.

Forgive me if I’ve shunned so long

Your gentle greeting, earth and air!

But sorrow withers e’en the strong,

And who can fight against despair?

The busy day has glided by,

And hearts greet kindred hearts once more;

And swift the evening hour should fly,

But what turns every gleaming eye

So often to the unopened door?

1831

***

What winter floods, what streams of spring

Have drenched the grass by night and day,

And yet beneath that speeding ring

Unmoved and undiscovered lay.

Mute remembrance of crime,

Long lost, concealed, forgot for years,

It comes at last to cancel time,

And waken unavailing tears.

1832

***

O God of heaven! The dream of horror,

The frightful dream is over now;

The sickened heart, the blasting sorrow,

The ghastly night, the ghastlier morrow,

The aching sense of utter woe.

The burning tears that would keep welling,

The groan that mocked at every tear,

That burst from out their dreary dwelling,

As if each gasp were life expelling,

But life was nourished by despair.

The tossing and the anguished pining,

The grinding teeth and starting eye;

The agony of still repining,

When not a spark of hope was shining

From gloomy fate’s relentless sky.

The impatient rage, the useless shrinking

From thoughts that yet could not be borne;

The soul that was for ever thinking,

Till nature maddened, tortured, sinking,

At last refused to mourn.

It’s over now — and I am free,

And the ocean wind is caressing me,

The wild wind from that wavy main

I never thought to see again.

Bless thee, bright Sea, and glorious dome,

And my own world, my spirit’s home;

Bless thee, bless all — I cannot speak;

My voice is choked, but not with grief,

And salt drops from my haggard cheek

Descend like rain upon the heath.

How long they ‘ve wet a dungeon floor,

Falling on flagstones damp and grey:

I used to weep even in my sleep;

The night was dreadful like the day.

I used to weep when winter’s snow

Whirled through the grating stormily;

But then it was a calmer woe,

For everything was drear to me.

The bitterest time, the worst of all,

Was that in which the summer sheen

Cast a green lustre on the wall

That told of fields of lovelier green.

Often I’ve sat down on the ground,

Gazing up to the flush scarce seen,

Till, heedless of the darkness round,

My soul has sought a land serene.

It sought the arch of heaven divine,

The pure blue heaven with clouds of gold;

It sought thy father’s home and mine

As I remembered it of old.

Oh, even now too horribly

Come back the feelings that would swell,

When with my face hid on my knee,

I strove the bursting groans to quell.

I flung myself upon the stone;

I howled, and tore my tangled hair;

And then, when the first gust had flown,

Lay in unspeakable despair.

Sometims a curse, sometimes a prayer,

Would quiver on my parched tongue;

But both without a murmur there

Died in the breast from whence they sprung.

And so the day would fade on high,

And darkness quench that lonely beam,

And slumber mould my misery

Into some strange and spectral dream,

Whose phantom horrors made me know

The worst extent of human woe.

But this is past, and why return

O’er such a path to brood and mourn?

Shake off the fetters, break the chain,

And live and love and smile again.

The waste of youth, the waste of years,

Departed in that dungeon thrall;

The gnawing grief, the hopeless tears,

Forget them — oh, forget them all!

1834

Song

Lord of Elbe, on Elbe hill

The mist is thick and the wind is chill;

And the heart of thy friend from the dawning of day

Has sighed for sorrow that thou wert away.

Lord of Elbe, how pleasant to me

The sound of thy blithesome step would be,

Rustling the heath that only now

Moans as the night gusts over it blow.

Bright are the fires in thy noble home;

I see them far off, and it deepens the gloom;

Shining like stars through the high forest boughs,

Gladder they glow in the park’s repose.

O Alexander! when I return,

Warm as those hearths thy heart would burn;

Light as thine own my step would fall,

If I might hear thy voice in the hall.

But thou art now on the desolate sea,

Thinking of Gondal and grieving for me;

Longing to be in sweet Elbe again,

Thinking and grieving and longing in vain.

1834

***

Cold, clear, and blue the morning heaven

Expands its arch on high;

Cold, clear, and blue Lake Werna’s water

Reflects that winter sky:

The moon has set, but Venus shines,

A silent, silvery star.

Will the day be bright or cloudy?

Sweetly has its dawn begun;

But the heaven may shake with thunder

Ere the setting of the sun.

Lady, watch Apollo’s journey;

Thus thy first hour’s course shall be:

If his beams through summer vapours

Warm the earth all placidly,

Her days shall pass like a pleasant dream in sweet tranquility.

If it darken, if a shadow

Quench his rays and summon rain,

Flowers may open, buds may blossom,

Bud and flower alike are vain;

Her days shall pass like a mournful story in care and tears and pain.

If the wind be fresh and free,

The wide skies clear and cloudless blue,

The woods and fields and golden flowers

Sparkling in sunshine and in dew,

Her days shall pass in Glory’s light the world’s drear desert through.

1836

***

The evening sun was sinking down

On low green hills and clustered trees;

It was a scene as fair and lone

As ever felt the soothing breeze

That cools the grass when day is gone,

And gives the waves a brighter blue,

And marks the soft white clouds sail on

Like spirits of ethereal dew;

Which all the morn had hovere o’er

The azure flowers where they were nursed,

And now return to Heaven once more,

Where their bright glories shone at first.

1836

***

Loud without the wind was roaring

Through the wan autumnal sky;

Drenching wet the cold rain pouring,

Spoke of stormy winter nigh.

All too like that dreary eve

Sighed without repining grief,

Sighed at first, but sighed not long;

Sweet, how softly sweet it came —

Wild words of an ancient song,

Undefined, without a name.

1836

***

High waving heather ‘neath stormy blasts bending,

Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars;

Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,

Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending;

Man’s spirit away from the drear dungeon sending,

Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.

All down the mountain-sides wild forests lending

The mighty voice to the life-givingt wind;

Rivers their banks in the jubilee bending,

Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending,

Wilder and deeper their waters extending,

Leaving a desolate desert behind.

Shining and lowering, and swelling and dying,

Changing for ever from midnight to noon;

Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,

Shadows on shadows advancing and flying;

Lightning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying,

Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.

Woods, you need not frown on me;

Spectral trees, that so dolefully

Shake your heads in the dreary sky,

You need not mock so bitterly.

1836

***

The night of storms has past;

The sunshine bright and clear

Gives glory to the verdant waste,

And warms the breezy air.

And I would leave my bed,

Its cheering smile to see,

To chase the visions from my head,

Whose forms have troubled me.

In all the hours of gloom

My soul was rapt away;

I stood by a marble tomb

Where royal corpses lay.

It was just the time of eve,

When parted ghosts might come,

Above their prisoned dust to grieve

And wail their woeful doom.

And truly at my side

I saw a shadowy thing,

Most dim, and yet its presence there

Curdled my blood with ghastly fear

And ghastlier wondering.

My breath I could not draw,

The air seemed uncanny;

But still my eyes with maddening gaze

Were fixed upon its fearful face,

And its were fixed on me.

I fell down on the stone,

But could [not] turn away;

My words died in a voiceless moan

When I began to pray.

And still it bent above,

Its features full in view;

It seemed close by and yet more far

Than this world from the farthest star

That tracks the boundless blue.

Indeed ‘twas not the space

Of earth or time between,

But the sea of deep eternity,

The gulf o’er which mortality

Has never, never been.

Oh, bring not back again

The horror of that hour!

When its lips opened and a sound

Awoke the stillness reigning round,

Faint as a dream, but the earth shrank,

And heaven’s lights shivered ‘neath its power.

Woe for the day! Regina’s pride,

Regina’s hope is in the grave;

And who shall rule my land beside,

And who shall save?

Woe for the day! with gory tears

My countless sons this day shall rue;

Woe for the day! a thousand years

Cannot repair what one shall do.

Woe for the day! ‘twixt rain and wind

That sad lament was ringing;

It almost broke my heart to hear

Such dreamy, dreary singing.

1837

To a Wreath of Snow

O transient voyager of heaven!

O silent sign of winter skies!

What adverse wind thy sail has driven

To dungeons where a prisoner lies?

Methinks the hands that shut the sun

So sternly from this morning’s brow

Might still their rebel task have done

And checked a thing so frail as thou.

They would have done it had they known

The talisman that dwelt in thee,

For all the suns that ever shone

Have never been so kind to me!

For many a week and many a day

My heart was weighted with sinking gloom

When morning rose in mourning grey

And faintly lit my prison room.

But angel like, when I awoke,

Thy silvery form, so soft and fair,

Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke

Of cloudly skies and mountains bare;

The dearest to a mountaineer

Who all life long has loved the snow

That crowned his native summits drear,

Better than greenest plains below.

And voiceless, soulless, messenger,

Thy presence waked a thrilling tone

That comforts me while thou art here,

And will sustain when thou art gone.

1837

***

The old church tower and garden wall

Are black with autumn rain,

And dreary winds foreboding call

The darkness down again.

I watched how evening took the place

Of glad and glorious day;

I watched a deeper gloom efface

The evening’s lingering ray;

And as I gazed on the cheerless sky,

Sad thoughts rose in my mind.

1837

***

Redbreast, early in the morning,

Dark and cold and cloudy grey,

Wildly tender is thy music,

Chasing angry thought away.

My heart is not enraptured now,

My eyes are full of tears,

And constant sorrow on my brow

Has done the work of years.

It was not hope that wrecked at once

The spirit’s calm in storm,

But a long life of solitude,

Hopes quenched, and rising thoughts subdued,

A bleak November’s calm.

What woke it then? A little child

Strayed from its father’s cottage door,

And in the hour of moonlight wild

Laid lonely on the desert moor.

I heard it then, you heard it too,

And seraph sweet it sang to you;

But like the shriek of misery

That wild, wild music wailed to me.

1837

***

I saw thee, child, one summer day

Suddenly leave thy cheerful play,

And in the green grass lowly lying

I listened to thy mournful sighing.

I knew the wish that waked that wail,

I knew the source whence sprung those tears;

You longed for fate to raise the veil

That darkened over coming years.

The anxious prayer was heard, and power

Was given me in that silent hour

To open to an infant’s eye

The portals of futurity.

But, child of dust, the fragrant flowers,

The bright blue flowers and velvet sod,

Were strange conductors to the bowers

Thy daring footsteps must have trod.

I watched my time, and summer passed,

And autumn waning fleeted by,

And doleful winter nights at last

In cloudy morning clothed the sky.

And now it’s come. This evening fell

Not stormily, but stilly drear;

A sound sweeps o’er thee like a knell

To banish joy and welcome care.

A fluttering blast that shakes the leaves

And whistles round the gloomy wall,

And lingering long, and thinking grieves,

For ‘tis the spectre’s call.

He hears me: what a sudden start

Sent the blood icy to the heart;

He wakens, and how ghastly white

That face looks in the dim lamp-light.

Those tiny hands in vain essay

To brush the shadowy fiend away;

There is a horror on his brow,

An anguish in his bosom now;

A fearful anguish in his eyes,

Fixed strainedly on the vacant air;

Hoarsely bursts in long-drawn sighs,

His panting breath enchained by fear.

Poor child! if spirits such as I

Could weep o’er human misery,

A tear might flow, ay, many a tear,

To see the head that lies before,

To see the sunshine disappear;

And hear the stormy waters roar,

Breaking upon a desolate shore,

Cut off from hope in early day,

From earth and glory cut away.

But it is doomed, and Morning’s light

Must image forth the scowl of night,

And childhood’s flower must waste its bloom

Beneath the shadow of the tomb.

1837

***

The battle had passed from the height,

And still did evening fall;

While heaven with its restful night

Gloriously canopied all.

The dead around were sleeping

On heath and granite grey,

And the dying their last watch were keeping

In the closing of the day.

*****

How golden bright from earth and heaven

The summer day declines!

How gloriously o’er land and sea

The parting sunbeam shines!

There is a voice in the wind that waves

Those bright rejoicing trees.

******

Not a vapour had stained the breezeless blue,

Not a cloud had dimmed the sun,

From the time of morning’s earliest dew

Till the summer day was done.

And all as pure and all as bright

The sun of evening died,

And purer still its parting light

Shone on Lake Elnor’s tide.

Waveless and calm lies that silent deep

In its wilderness of moors,

Solemn and soft the moonbeams sleep

Upon its heathy shores.

The deer are gathered to their rest,

The wild sheep seek the fold.

*****

Only some spires of bright green grass

Transparently in sunshine quivering.

The sun has set, and the long grass now

Waves dreamily in the evening wind;

And the wild bird has flown from that old grey stone,

In some warm nook a couch to find.

In all the lonely landscape round

I see no light and hear no sound,

Except the wind that far away

Comes sighing o’er the heathy sea.

Lady, in thy palace hall,

Once perchance thy face was seen;

Can no memory now recall

Thought again to what has been?

1837

***

Alone I sat; the summer day

Had died in smiling light away;

I saw it die, I watched it fade

From the misty hill and breezeless glade.

And thoughts in my soul were rushing,

And my heart bowed beneath their power;

And tears within my eyes were gushing

Because I could not speak the feeling,

The solemn joy around me stealing,

In that divine, untroubled hour.

I asked myself, O why has Heaven

Denied the precious gift to me,

The glorious gift to many given,

To speak their thoughts in poetry?

Dreams have encircled me, I said,

From careless childhood’s sunny time;

Visions by ardent fancy fed

Since life was in its morning prime.

But now, when I had hoped to sing,

My fingers strike a tuneless string;

And still the burden of the strain —

I strive no more, ‘tis all in vain.

1837

Spellbound

The night is darkening round me,

The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me,

And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow,

And the storm is fast descending,

And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me

Wastes beyond wastes below;

But nothing dread can move me —

I will not, cannot go.

1837

***

I’ll come when thou art saddest,

Bring light to the darkened room,

When the rude day’s mirth has vanished,

And the smile of joy is banished

From evening’s chilly gloom.

I’ll come when the heart’s worst feeling

Has entire, unbiased sway,

And my influence o’er thee stealing,

Grief deepening, joy congealing,

Shall bear thy soul away.

Listen! ‘tis just the hour,

The awful time for thee.

Dost thou not feel upon thy soul

A flood of strange sensations roll,

Forerunners of a sterner power,

Heralds of me?

1837

***

I would have touched the heavenly key

That spoke alike of bliss and thee;

I would have woke the evening song,

But its words died upon my tongue.

But then I knew that he stood free,

Would never speak of joy again,

And then I felt…

1837

***

Now trust a heart that trusts in you,

And firmly say the word adieu;

Be sure, wherever I may roam,

My heart is with your heart at home;

Unless there be no truth on earth,

And vows most true are nothing worth,

And mortal man have no control

Over his own unhappy soul;

Unless I change in every thought,

And memory will restore me nought,

And all I have of virtue die

Beneath far Gondal’s foreign sky.

The mountain peasant loves the heath

Better than richest plains beneath;

He would not give one moorland wild

For all the fields that ever smiled.

And whiter brows than yours may be,

And rosier cheeks my eyes may see,

And lightning looks from orbs divine

About my pathway burn and shine.

But that pure light, changeless and strong,

Cherished and watched and nursed so long;

That love that first its glory gave,

Shall be my pole-star to the grave.

1837

***

Sleep brings no joy to me,

Remembrance never dies,

My soul is given to mystery,

And lives in sighs.

Sleep brings no rest to me;

The shadows of the dead,

My wakening eyes may never see,

Surround my bed.

Sleep brings no hope to me,

In soundest sleep they come,

And with their doleful imag’ry

Deepen the gloom.

Sleep brings no strength to me,

No power renewed to brave;

I only sail a wilder sea,

A darker wave.

Sleep brings no friend to me

To soothe and aid to bear;

They all gaze on how scornfully,

And I despair.

Sleep brings no wish to fret

My harassed heart beneath;

My only wish is to forget

In endless sleep of death.

1837

***

Strong I stand, though I have borne

Anger, hate, and bitter scorn;

Strong I stand, and laugh to see

How mankind have fought with me.

Shade of history, I condemn

All the puny ways of men;

Free my heart, my spirit free,

Beckon, and I’ll follow thee.

False and foolish mortal know,

If you scorn the world’s disdain,

Your mean soul is far below

Other worms, however vain.

Thing of Dust, with boundless pride,

Dare you ask me for a guide?

With the humble I will be;

Haughty men are naught to me.

1837

***

O Mother! I am not regretting

To leave this wretched world below,

If there be nothing but forgetting

In that dark land to which I go.

Yet though ‘tis wretched now to languish,

Deceived and tired and hopeless here,

No heart can quite repress the anguish

Of leaving things that once were dear.

Twice twelve short years and all is over,

And day and night to rise no more,

And never more to be a rover

Along the fields, the woods, the shore.

And never more at early dawning

To watch the stars of midnight wane,

To breathe the breath of summer morning,

And see its sunshine ne’er again.

I hear the abbey bells are ringing;

Methinks their chime sounds faint and drear,

Or else the wind is adverse winging,

And wafts its music from my ear.

The wind the winter night is speaking

Of thoughts and things that should not stay:

Mother, come near, my heart is breaking;

I cannot bear to go away.

And I must go whence no returning

To soothe your grief or calm your care;

Nay, do not weep; that bitter mourning

Tortures my soul with wild despair.

No; tell me that when I am lying

In the old church beneath the stone,

You’ll dry your tears and check your sighing,

And soon forget the spirit gone.

You’ve asked me long to tell what sorrow

Has blanched my cheek and quenched my eye;

And we shall never cry to-morrow,

So I’ll confess before I die.

Ten years ago in last September

Fernando left his home and you,

And still I think you must remember

The anguish of that last adieu.

And well you know how wildly pining

I longed to see his face again,

Through all the Autumn drear deceiving

Its stormy nights and days of rain.

Down on the skirts of Areon’s Forest

There lies a lone and lovely glade,

And there the hearts together nourished,

Their first, their fatal parting made.

The afternoon in softened glory

Bathed each green swell and waving tree,

And the broad park spread before me

Stretched towards the boundless sea.

And there I stood when he had left me,

With ashy cheek and tearless eye,

Watching the ship whose sail bereft me

Of life and hope, and love and joy.

It past: that night I sought a pillow

Of sleepless woe and grieving lone;

My soul still bounded o’er the billow,

And mourned a love for ever flown.

Yet smiling bright in recollection

One blissful hour returns to me;

The letter told of firm affection,

Of safe deliverance from the sea.

But not another: fearing, hoping,

Spring, winter, harvest glided o’er;

And time at length brought power for coping

With thoughts I could not once endure.

And I would seek in summer evening

The place that saw our last farewell,

And there a chain of visions weaving,

I’d linger till the curflew bell.

1837

Song by Julius Angora

Awake, awake! how loud the stormy morning

Calls up to life the nation’s resting round;

Arise, arise! it is the voice of mourning

That breaks our slumber with so wild a sound.

The voice of mourning; listen to its pealing;

That shout of triumph drowns the sigh of woe;

Each tortured heart forgets its wonted feeling,

Each faded cheek resumes its long lost glow.

Our souls are full of gladness; God has griven

Our arms to victory, our foes to death;

The crimson ensign waves its sheet in heaven,

The sea-green standard lies in dust beneath.

Patriots, the stain is on your country’s glory;

Soldiers, preserve that glory bright and free;

Let Almedore in peace and battle gory

Be still another name for victory.

1837

***

The organ swells, the trumpets sound,

The lamps in triumph glow,

And none of all those thousand round

Regard who sleeps below.

Those haughty eyes that tears should fill

Glance clearly, cloudlessly;

Those bounding breasts that grief should thrill

From thought of grief are free.

His subjects and his soldiers there

They blessed his rising bloom,

But none a single sigh can spare

To breathe above his tomb.

Comrades in arms, I’ve looked to mark

One shade of feeling swell,

As your feet stood above the dark

Recesses of his cell.

1837

***

A sudden chasm of ghastly light

Yawned in the city’s reeling wall,

And a long thundering through the night

Proclaimed our triumph — Tyrdarum’s fall.

The shrieking wind sank mute and mild,

The smothering snow-clouds rolled away;

And cold — how cold! wan moonlight smiled

Where those black ruins smouldering lay.

“Twas over — all the battle’s madness,

The bursting fires, the cannon’s roar,

The yells, the groans, the frenzied gladness,

The death the danger warmed no more.

In plundered churches piled with dead

The heavy charger neighed for food,

The wounded soldier laid his head

“Neath roofless chambers splashed with blood.

I could not sleep through that wild siege,

My heart had fiercely burned and bounded;

The outward tumult seemed to assuage

The inward tempest it surrounded.

*****

But dreams like this I cannot bear,

And silence whets the flag of pain;

I felt the full flood of despair

Returning to my breast again.

My couch lay in a ruined Hall,

Whose windows looked on the minster-yard,

Where chill, chill whiteness covered all,

Both stone and urn and withered sward.

The shattered glass let in the air

And with it came a wandering moan,

A sound unutterably drear,

That made me shrink to be alone.

One black yew-tree grew just below —

I thought its boughs so sad might wail;

Their ghostly fingers flecked with snow,

Rattled against an old vault’s rail.

I listened — no; ‘twas life that still

Lingered in some deserted heart:

O God! what caused the shuddering shrill,

That anguished, agonizing start?

An undefined, an awful dream,

A dream of what had been before;

A memory whose blighting beam

Was flitting o’er me evermore.

A frightful feeling frenzy born —

I hurried down the dark oak stair;

I reached the door whose hinges torn

Flung streaks of moonshine here and there.

I pondered not, I drew the bar,

An icy glory caught mine eye,

From that wide heaven where every star

Stared like a dying memory.

And there the great Cathedral rose,

Discrowned but most majestic so,

It looked down in serene repose

On its own realm of buried woe.

“Tis evening now, the sun descends

In golden glory down the sky;

The city’s murmur softly blends

With zephyrs breathing gently by.

And yet it seems a dreary moor,

A dark, October moor to me;

And black the piles of rain-clouds lour

Athwart heaven’s stormy canopy.

1837

Lines

I die, but when the grave shall press

The heart so long endeared to thee,

When earthly cares no more distress

And earthly joys are nought to me,

Weep not, but think that I have passed

Before thee o’er a sea of gloom,

Have anchored safe, and rest at last

Where tears and mourning cannot come.

“Tis I should weep to leave thee here

On that dark ocean sailing drear,

With storms around and fears before,

And no kind light to point the shore.

But long or short though life may be,

“Tis nothing to eternity:

We part below to meet on high,

Where blissful ages never die.

1837

***

Sleep not, dream not; this bright day

Will not, cannot last for aye;

Bliss like thine is bought by years

Dark with torment and with tears.

Sweeter far than placid pleasure

Purer higher beyond measure

Yet, alas! the sooner turning

Into hopeless, endless mourning.

I love thee, boy, for all divine,

All full of God thy features shine.

Darling enthusiast, holy child,

Too good for this world’s warring wild;

Too heavenly now, but doomed to be,

Hell-like in heart and misery.

And what shall change that angel brow,

And quench that spirit’s glorious glow?

Relentless laws that disallow

True virtue and true joy below.

I too depart, I too decline,

And make thy path no longer mine.

“Tis thus that human minds will turn,

All doomed alike to sin and mourn;

Yet all with long gaze fixed afar,

Adoring virtue’s distant star.

1837

Lines

Far away is the land of rest —

Thousand miles are stretched between,

Many a mountain’s stormy crest,

Many a desert void of green.

Wasted, worn is the traveler,

Dark his heart and dim his eye;

Without hope or comforter,

Faltering, faint, and ready to die.

Often he looks to the ruthless sky,

Often he looks o’er his dreary road,

Often he wishes down to lie

And render up life’s tiresome load.

But yet faint not, mournful man;

Leagues on leagues are left behind

Since your endless course began;

Then go on, to toil resigned.

If you still despair, control,

Hush its whispers in your breast;

You shall reach the final goal,

You shall win the land of rest.

1837

***

Why do I hate that lone green dell?

Buried in moors and mountains wild,

That is a spot I had loved too well,

Had I but seen it when a child.

There are bones whitening there in the summer heat;

But it is not for that, and none can tell,

None but one can the secret repeat,

Why I hate that lone green dell.

Noble foe, I pardon thee

All thy cold and scornful pride,

For thou wast a priceless friend to me

When my sad heart had none beside.

And leaning on thy generous arm,

A breath of old times over me came;

The earth shone round with a long-lost charm:

Alas! I forgot I was not the same.

Before a day, an hour, passed by,

My spirit knew itself once more;

I saw the gilded visions fly

And leave me as I was before.

1838

***

Weaned from life and flown away

In the morning of the day,

Bound in everlasting gloom,

Buried in a hapless tomb.

Yet upon thy bended knee

Thank the power that banished thee;

Chain and bar and dungeon wall

Saved thee from a deadlier thrall.

Thank the power that made thee part

Ere that parting broke thy heart.

Wildly rushed the mountain spring

From its source of fern and ling;

How invincible its roar,

Had its waters worn the shore.

1838

***

There swept adown that dreary glen

A wider sound than mountain wind —

The thrilling shouts of fighting men,

With something sadder far behind.

The thrilling shouts they died away

Before the night came greyly down,

But closed not with the closing day

The choking sob, the tortured moan.

Down in a hollow sunk in shade,

Where dark forms waved in secret gloom,

A ruined, bleeding form was laid,

Waiting the death that was to come.

1838

***

None of my kindred now can tell

The features once beloved so well

Those dark brown locks that used to deck

A snowy brow in ringlets small,

Now wildly shade my sunburnt neck,

And streaming down my shoulders fall.

The pure, bright red of noble birth

Has deepened to a gipsy glow,

And care is quenched the smile of mirth,

And tuned my heart to welcome woe.

Yet you must know in infancy

Full many an eye watched over me,

Sweet voices to my slumber sung,

My downy couch with silk was hung.

And music soothed me when I cried,

And when I laughed they all replied;

And “rosy Blanche,” how oft was heard

In hall and bower that well-known word.

Through gathering summers still caress’d,

In kingly courts a favourite guest,

A Monarch’s hand would pour for me

The richest gifts of royalty.

But clouds will come: too soon they came;

For not through age, and not through crime,

Is Blanche a now forgotten name;

True heart and brow unmarked by time,

These treasured blessings still are mine.

1838

***

Darkness was overtraced on every face,

Around clouded with storm and ominous gloom;

In hut or hall smiled out no resting-place;

There was no resting-place but one — the tomb!

All our hearths were the mansions of distress,

And no one laughed, and none seemed free from care;

Our children felt their fathers’ wretchedness;

Our homes, one, all were shadowed with despair:

It was not fear that made the land so sad.

1838

***

O wander not so far away!

O love, forgive this selfish tear;

It may be sad for thee to stay,

But how can I live lonely here?

The still May morn is warm and bright,

Young flowers are fresh, and grass is green,

And in the haze of glorious light

Our long low hills are scarcely seen.

Our woods — e’en now their young leaves hide

Where blackbird and the throstle dwell;

And high in heaven so blue and wide

A thousand strains of Music swell.

He looks on all with eyes that speak

So deep, so drear a woe to me!

There is a faint red on his cheek

Unlike the bloom I like to see.

Call Death — yes Death he is mine own,

The grave must close those limbs around,

And hush, for ever hush the tone,

I loved above all earthly sound.

Well! I pass away with the other flowers;

Too dark for them, too dark for thee

Are the hours to come, the joyless hours,

That time is treasuring up for me.

If thou hast sinned in this world of woe,

“Twas but the dust of thy drear abode;

Thy soul was pure when it entered here

And pure it will go again to God.

1838

Gleneden’s Dream

Tell me, whether is it winter?

Say how long my sleep has been?

Have the woods, I left so lovely,

Lost their robes of tender green?

Is the morning slow in coming?

Is the night-time loth to go?

Tell me, are the dreary mountains

Drearier still with drifted snow?

“Captive, since thou sawest the frost,

All its leaves have died away;

And another March has woven

Garlands for another May.

“Ice has barred the Arctic waters,

Soft southern winds have set it free;

And once more to deep green valley

Golden flowers might welcome thee.”

Watching in this lonely prison,

Shut from joy and kindly air,

Heaven, descending in a vision,

Taught my soul to do and bear.

It was night, a night of winter;

I lay on the dungeon floor,

And all other sounds were silent,

All, except the river’s roar.

Over Death, and Desolation,

Fireless hearths, and lifeless homes;

Over orphans’ heartstick sorrows,

Patriot fathers’ bloody tombs;

Over friends, that my arms never

Might embrace in love again;

Memory pondered until madness

Struck its poniard in my brain.

Deepest slumbers followed raving,

Yet, methought, I brooded still;

Still I saw my country bleeding,

Dying for a tyrant’s will.

Not because my bliss was blasted,

Burned within the avenging flame;

Not because my scattered kindred

Died in woe, or lived in shame.

God doth know I would have given

Every bosom dear to me,

Could that sacrifice have purchased

Tortured Gondal’s liberty!

But that at Ambition’s bidding,

All her cherished hopes should wane,

That her noblest sons should muster,

Strive and fight and fall in vain;

Hut and castle, hall and cottage,

Roofless, crumbling to the ground;

Mighty heaven, a glad avenger

Thy eternal Justice found!

Yes, the arm that once would shudder,

Even to grieve a wounded deer,

I beheld it, unrelenting,

Clothe in blood its sovereign’s prayer.

Glorious Dream! I saw the city,

Blazing in imperial shine;

And among adoring thousands

Stood a man of form divine.

None need point the princely victim,

Now he smiles with royal pride!

Now his glance is bright as lightning,

Now the knife is in his side!

Ha! I saw how death could darken,

Darken that triumphant eye!

His red heart’s blood drenched my dagger;

My ear drank his dying sigh.

Shadows came! what means this midnight?

O my God, I know it all!

Know the fever-dream is over,

Unavenged, the Avenger’s fall!

1838

***

It’s over now; I’ve known it all;

I’ll hide it in my heart no more,

But back again that night recall,

And think the fearful vision o’er.

The evening sun in cloudless shine

Has passed from summer’s heaven divine,

And dark the shades of twilight grew,

And stars were in the depth of blue,

And in the heath or mountain far

From human eye and human care,

With thoughtful thought and tearful eye,

I sadly watched that solemn sky.

*****

The wide cathedral Isles are lone,

The vast crowds vanished every one;

There can be naught beneath that dome

But the cold tenants of the tomb.

O look again, for still on high

The lamps are burning gloriously;

And look again, for still beneath

A thousand thousand live and breathe.

All mute as death beyond the shrine

That gleams in lustre so divine

Were Gondal’s monarchs bending low,

After the hour of silent prayer,

Take in heaven’s sight their awful vow,

And never-dying union swear.

King Julius lifts his impious eye

From the dark marble to the sky,

Blasts with that oath his perjured soul,

And changeless is his cheek the while,

Though burning thoughts that spurn control,

Kindle a short and bitter smile,

As face to face the King’s men stand,

His false hand clasped in Gerald’s hand.

1838

Song

This shall be thy lullaby,

Rocking on the stormy sea;

Though it roar in thunder wild,

Sleep, stilly sleep, thou bright-haired child.

When our shuddering boat was crossing

Eldern’s lake so rudely tossing,

Then ‘twas first my nursling smiled;

Sleep, softly sleep, my fair-browed child.

Waves above thy cradle break,

Foamy tears are on thy cheek,

Yet the ocean’s self grows mild

When it bears my slumbering child.

1838

***

“Twas one of those dark, cloudy days

That sometimes come in summer blaze,

When heaven drops not, when earth is still,

And deeper green is on the hill.

Lonely at her window sitting

While the evening steals away,

Fitful winds foreboding, flitting

Through a sky of cloudy grey.

There are two trees in a lonely field,

They breathe a spell to me;

A dreary thought their dark boughs yield,

All waving solemnly.

*****

What is that smoke that ever still

Comes rolling down the dark brown hill?

Still as she spoke the ebon clouds

Would part and sunlight shone between,

But dreary, strange, and pale and cold.

*****

Away, away, resign thee now

To scenes of gloom and thoughts of fear;

I trace the figure on thy brow,

Welcome at last, though once so drear.

It will not shine again,

Its sad course is done;

I have seen the last ray wane

Of the cold, bright sun.

None but me behind him dying,

Parting with the parting day;

Wind of evening, sadly sighing,

Bore his soul from earth away.

Coldly, bleakly, dreamily

Evening died on Elbe’s shore;

Winds were in the cloudy sky,

Sighing, mourning ever more.

Old hall of Elbe, ruined, lonely now,

Home to which the voice of life shall never more return;

Chambers roofless, desolate, where weeds and ivy grow;

Windows through whose broken panes the night-winds coldly mourn —

Home of the departed, the long-departed dead.

1838

Douglas Ride

Well, narrower draw the circle round,

And hush that music’s solemn sound,

And quench the lamp and stir the fire,

To rouse its flickering radiance higher;

Toss up the window’s velvet veil,

That we may hear the night-wind wail,

For wild those gusts, and well their chimes

Blend with a song of troubled times.

1838

Song

Geraldine, the moon is shining

With so soft, so bright a ray;

Seems it not that eve’s declining

Ushered in a fairer day?

While the wind is whispering only,

Fair across the water borne;

Let us in this silence lonely

Sit beneath the ancient thorn.

Wild the road, and rough and dreary;

Barren all the moorland round;

Rude the couch that rests us weary;

Mossy stone and heathy ground.

But when winter storms were meeting

In the moonless midnight dome,

Did we heed the tempests beating,

Howling round our spirits’ home?

No; that tree with branches riven

Whitening in the whirl of snow,

As it tossed against the heaven,

Sheltered happy hearts below.

And at Autumn’s mild returning

Shall our feet forget the way?

And in Cynthia’s silvan morning,

Geraldine, wilt thou delay?

1838

***

Where were ye all? and where wert thou?

I saw an eye that shone like thine,

But dark curls waved around his brow,

And his star-glance was strange to mine.

And yet a dreamlike comfort came

Into my heart and anxious eye,

And trembling yet to hear his name,

I bent to listen watchfully.

This voice, though never heard before,

Still spoke to me of years gone by;

It seemed a vision to restore,

That brought the hot tears to my eye.

******

I paused on the threshold, I turned to the sky;

I looked to the heaven and the dark mountains round;

The full moon sailed bright through that ocean on high,

And the wind murmured past with a wild eerie sound.

And I entered the walls of my dark prison-house;

Mysterious it rose from the billowy moor.

*****

O come with me, thus ran the song,

The moon is bright in Autumn’s sky,

And thou hast toiled and labored long,

With aching head and weary eye.

1838

***

Light up thy halls! “Tis closing day;

I’m drear and lone and far away.

Cold blows on my breast the Northwind’s bitter sigh,

And, oh! my couch is bleak, beneath the rainy sky!

Light up thy halls! think not of me;

Absent is that face which thou hast hated so to see;

Bright be thine eyes, undimmed their dazzling shine,

For never, never more shall they encounter mine!

The desert moor is dark, there is tempest in the air;

I have breathed my only wish in one last, one burning prayer;

A prayer that would come forth altho’ it lingered long;

That set on fire my heart, but froze upon my tongue.

And now, it shall be done before the morning rise;

I will not watch the sun arise in yonder skies.

One task alone remains — thy pictured face to view,

And then I go to prove if God, at least, be true!

Do I not see thee now? Thy black resplendent hair;

The glory-beaming brow; and smile how heavenly fair!

Thine eyes are turned away — those eyes I would not see;

Their dark, their deadly ray would more than madden me.

Then, go, deceiver, go! My hair is streaming wet;

My heart’s blood flows to buy the blessing — to forget!

Oh! could that heart give back — give back again to thine,

One tenth part of the pain that clouds my dark decline.

Oh! could I see thy lids weighed down in cheerless woe;

Too full to hide their tears, too stern to overflow;

Oh! could I know thy soul with equal grief was torn,

This fate might be endured — this anguish might be borne.

How gloomy grows the night! “Tis Gondal’s wind that blows;

I shall not tread again the deep glens where it rose.

I feel it on my face — Where, wild blast! dost thou roam?

What do we, wanderer! here, so far away from home?

I do not need thy breath to cool my death-cold brow;

But go to that far land, where she is shining now;

Tell her my latest wish, tell her my dreary doom;

Say that my pangs are past, but hers are yet to come.

Vain words, vain, frenzied thoughts! No ear can hear my call.

Lost in the desert air my frantic curses fall.

And could she see me now, perchance her lip would smile,

Would smile in careless pride and utter scorn the while!

But yet for all her hate, each parting glance would tell

A stronger passion breathed, burned in this last farewell —

Unconquered in my soul the Tyrant rules me still:

Life bows to my control, but Love I cannot kill!

1838

***

O dream, where art thou now?

Long years have passed away

Since cast from off thine angel brow

I saw the light decay.

Alas! alas for me!

Thou wert so bright and fair,

I could not think thy memory

Would yield me nought but care!

The moonbeam and the storm,

The summer eve divine,

The silent night of solemn calm,

The full moon’s cloudless shine,

Were once entwined with thee,

But now with weary pain.

Lost vision! ‘tis enough for me

Thou canst not shine again.

1838

***

How still, how happy! These are words

That once would scarce agree together;

I loved the splashing of the surge,

The changing heaven, the breezy weather,

More than smooth seas and cloudless skies

And solemn, soothing, softened airs,

That in the forest woke no sighs

And from the green spray shook no tears.

How still, how happy! now I feel

Where silence dwells is sweeter far

Than laughing mirth with joyous swell,

However pure its raptures are.

Come, sit down on this sunny stone;

“Tis wintry light o’er flowless moors;

But sit, for we are all alone,

And clear expand heaven’s breathless shores.

I could think in the withered grass

Spring’s budding wreaths we might discern;

The violet’s eye might shyly flash,

And young leaves shoot among the fern.

It is but thought — full many a night

The snow shall clothe these hills afar,

And storms shall add a drearier blight

And winds shall wage a wilder war,

Before the lark may herald in

Fresh foliage twined with blossoms fair,

And summer days again begin

Their glory-haloed crown to wear.

Yet my heart loves December’s smile

As much as July’s golden gleam!

Then let me sit and watch the while

The blue ice curdling on the stream.

1838

***

The night was dark, yet winter breathed

With softened sighs on Gondal’s shore;

And though its wind repining grieved,

It chained the snow-swollen streams no more.

How deep into the wilderness

My horse had strayed, I cannot say;

But neither morsel nor caress

Would urge him farther on the way.

So loosening from his neck the rein,

I set my worn companion free,

And billowy hill and boundless plain

Full soon divided him from me.

The sullen clouds lay all unbroken

And blackening round the horizon drear,

But still they gave no certain token

Of heavy rain or tempest near.

I paused, confounded and distracted,

Down in the heath my limbs I threw;

But wilder as I longed for rest,

More wakeful heart and eyelids grew.

It was about the middle night

And under such a starless dome,

When gliding from the mountains height,

I saw a shadowy spirit come.

Her wavy hair on her shoulders bare,

It shone like soft clouds round the moon;

Her noiseless feet, like melting sleet,

Gleamed white a moment, then were gone.

“What seek you now on this bleak moor brow,

Where wanders that form from heaven descending?”

It was thus I said as her graceful head

The spirit above my couch was bending.

“This is my home where whirlwinds blow,

Where snowdrifts round my path are swelling;

“Tis many a year, ‘tis long ago,

Since I beheld another dwelling.

“When thick and fast the smothering blast

I’ve welcomed the winter on the plain,

If my cheek grew pale in its loudest gale,

May I never tread the hills again.

“The shepherd had died on the mountain-side,

But my ready aid was near him then;

I led him back o’er the hidden track

And gave him to his native glen.

“When tempests roar on the lonely shore

I light my beacon with seaweeds dry,

And it flings its fire through the darkness dire

And gladdens the sailor’s hopeless eye.

“And the sea-birds noisy I love to keep,

Their timid forms to guard from harm;

I have a spell, and they know it well,

And I save them with a powerful charm.

“Thy own good steed on his friendless bed

A few hours since you left to die;

But I knelt by his side and the saddle untied,

And life returned to his glazing eye.

“To a silent home thy feet may come,

And years may follow of toilsome pain;

But yet I swear by that burning tear,

The loved shall meet on its hearth again.”

1839

Song

King Julius left the south country,

His banners all bravely flying;

His followers went out with Jubilee,

But they shall return with sighing.

Loud arose the triumphal hymn,

The drums were loudly rolling;

Yet you might have heard in distant din

How a passing bell was tolling.

The sward so bright from battles won,

With unseen rust is fretting;

The evening comes before the noon,

The scarce risen sun is setting.

While princes hang upon his breath

And nations round are fearing,

Close by his side a daggered death

With sheathless point stands sneering.

That Death he took a certain aim,

For Death is stony-hearted;

And in the zenith of his fame

Both power and life departed.

1839

Lines by Claudia

I did not sleep; ‘twas noon of day;

I saw the burning sunshine fall,

The long grass bending where I lay,

The blue sky brooding over all.

I heard the mellow hum of bees,

And singing birds and sighing trees,

And far away in woody dell

The music of the Sabbath bell.

I did not dream remembrance still

Clasped round my heart its fetter chill;

But I am sure the soul is free

To leave its clay a little while,

Or how in exile misery

Could I have seen my country smile?

In English fields my limbs were laid,

With English turf beneath my head;

My spirit wandered o’er that shore

Where nought but it may wander more.

Yet if the soul can thus return,

I need not, and I will not mourn;

And vainly did you drive me far

With leagues of ocean stretched between:

My mortal flesh you might debar,

But not the eternal fire within.

My monarch died to rule for ever

A heart that can forget him never,

And dear to me, aye doubly dear,

Thoughts shut within the silent tomb,

His name shall be for whoso bear

This long sustained and hopeless doom.

And brighter in the hour of woe

Than in the blaze of victory’s pride

That glory-shedding star shall glow

For which we fought and bled and died.

1839

Lines

The soft unclouded blue of air,

The earth as golden, green, and fair,

And bright as Eden’s used to be,

That air and earth have rested me,

Laid on the grass I lapsed away,

Sank back again to childhood’s day;

All harsh thoughts perished, memory mild

Subdued both grief and passion wild.

But did the sunshine even now

That bathed his stern and swarthy brow,

Oh did it wake — I long to know —

One whisper, one sweet dream in him,

One lingering joy that years ago

Had faded — lost in distance dim?

That iron man was born like me,

And he was once an ardent boy;

He must have felt in infancy

The glory of a summer sky.

Though storms untold his mind has tossed,

He cannot utterly have lost

Remembrance of his early home —

So lost that not a gleam may come.

No vision of his mother’s face

When she so fondly mild set free

Her darling child from her embrace

To roam till eve at liberty.

Nor of his haunts, nor of the flowers,

His tiny hand would grateful bear,

Returning from the darkening bowers,

To weave into her glossy hair.

I saw the light breeze kiss his cheek,

His fingers ‘mid the roses twined;

I watched to mark one transient streak

Of pensive softness shade his mind.

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