Poems | Page 3

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 far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold?Built up a solitude of trackless snows,?There he and grisly wolves prowl'd side by side,?There he lived famish'd--there, methought, he died;
But not of hunger, nor by malady;?I saw the snow around him, stain'd with gore;?I said I had no tears for such as he,?And, lo! my cheek is wet--mine eyes run o'er;?I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt,?I weep the impious