Poems | Page 3

accepts contributions in
money, time, scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts,
royalty free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution you
can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg Association /
Carnegie-Mellon University".

*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN
ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
POEMS
by
CURRER, ELLIS, AND ACTON BELL.
(Charlotte, Emily and
Anne Bronte)
POEMS BY CURRER BELL,
PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM.
I've quench'd my lamp, I struck it in that start
Which every limb
convulsed, I heard it fall--
The crash blent with my sleep, I saw
depart
Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall;
Over against my
bed, there shone a gleam
Strange, faint, and mingling also with my
dream.
It sank, and I am wrapt in utter gloom;
How far is night advanced,
and when will day
Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom,
And
fill this void with warm, creative ray?
Would I could sleep again till,
clear and red,
Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread!
I'd call my women, but to break their sleep,
Because my own is
broken, were unjust;
They've wrought all day, and well-earn'd
slumbers steep
Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust;
Let me my
feverish watch with patience bear,
Thankful that none with me its
sufferings share.
Yet, oh, for light! one ray would tranquillize
My nerves, my pulses,
more than effort can;
I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies:

These trembling stars at dead of night look wan,
Wild, restless,
strange, yet cannot be more drear
Than this my couch, shared by a
nameless fear.

All black--one great cloud, drawn from east to west,
Conceals the
heavens, but there are lights below;
Torches burn in Jerusalem, and
cast
On yonder stony mount a lurid glow.
I see men station'd there,
and gleaming spears;
A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears.
Dull, measured strokes of axe and hammer ring
>From street to street,
not loud, but through the night
Distinctly heard--and some strange
spectral thing
Is now uprear'd--and, fix'd against the light
Of the
pale lamps, defined upon that sky,
It stands up like a column, straight
and high.
I see it all--I know the dusky sign--
A cross on Calvary, which Jews
uprear
While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine
Pilate,
to judge the victim, will appear--
Pass sentence-yield Him up to
crucify;
And on that cross the spotless Christ must die.
Dreams, then, are true--for thus my vision ran;
Surely some oracle
has been with me,
The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan,
To
warn an unjust judge of destiny:
I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake
I know,
Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe.
I do not weep for Pilate--who could prove
Regret for him whose cold
and crushing sway
No prayer can soften, no appeal can move:
Who
tramples hearts as others trample clay,
Yet with a faltering, an
uncertain tread,
That might stir up reprisal in the dead.
Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds;
Forced to behold that
visage, hour by hour,
In whose gaunt lines the abhorrent gazer reads

A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power;
A soul whom motives
fierce, yet abject, urge--
Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant
scourge.
How can I love, or mourn, or pity him?
I, who so long my fetter'd
hands have wrung;
I, who for grief have wept my eyesight dim ;


Because, while life for me was bright and young,
He robb'd my
youth--he quench'd my life's fair ray--
He crush'd my mind, and did
my freedom slay.
And at this hour-although I be his wife--
He has no more of
tenderness from me
Than any other wretch of guilty life ;
Less, for I
know his household privacy--
I see him as he is--without a screen;

And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien!
Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood--
Innocent, righteous
blood, shed shamelessly?
And have I not his red salute withstood?

Ay, when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee
In dark bereavement--in
affliction sore,
Mingling their very offerings with their gore.
Then came he--in his eyes a serpent-smile,
Upon his lips some false,
endearing word,
And through the streets of Salem clang'd the while

His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword--
And I, to see a man
cause men such woe,
Trembled with ire--I did not fear to show.
And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought
Jesus--whom they
in mock'ry call their king--
To have, by this grim power, their
vengeance wrought;
By this mean reptile, innocence to sting.
Oh!
could I but the purposed doom avert,
And shield the blameless head
from cruel hurt!
Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear,
Omens will shake his soul, like
autumn leaf;
Could he this night's appalling vision hear,
This just
man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe,
Unless that bitter
priesthood should prevail,
And make even terror to their malice quail.
Yet if I tell the dream--but let me pause.
What dream? Erewhile the
characters were clear,
Graved on my brain--at once some unknown
cause
Has dimm'd and razed the thoughts, which now appear,
Like
a vague remnant of some by-past scene;--
Not what will be, but what,
long since, has been.

I suffer'd many things--I heard foretold
A dreadful doom for
Pilate,--lingering woes,
In