 about Emily and Anne Bronte by Charlotte Bronte by a graphical notice of Ellis and Acton Bell by Cara Bell read for LibriVox.org by Ellie Christoff September the 19th, 1850 It has been thought that all the works published under the names of Cara, Ellis and Acton Bell were, in reality, the production of one person. This mistake I endeavored to rectify by a few words of disclaimer, prefixed to the third edition of Jane Eyre. These two, it appears, failed to gain general credence, and now, on the occasion of a reprint of Ordering Heights and Agnes Gray, I am advised distinctly to state how the case really stands. Indeed, I feel myself that it is time the obscurity attending those two names, Ellis and Acton, was done away. The little mystery which formally yielded some harmless pleasure has lost its interest. Circumstances are changed. It becomes, then, my duty to explain briefly the origin and authorship of the books written by Cara, Ellis and Acton Bell. About five years ago, my two sisters and myself, after a somewhat prolonged period of separation, found ourselves reunited and at home. Resident in a remote district where education had made little progress, and where consequently there was no inducement to seek social intercourse beyond our own domestic circle. We were wholly dependent on ourselves and each other, on books and study, for the enjoyments and occupations of life. The highest stimulus, as well as the liveliest pleasure we had known from childhood upwards, lay in attempts at literary composition. Formerly we used to show each other what we wrote, but of late years this habit of communication and consultation had been discontinued. Hence it ensued, that we were mutually ignorant of the progress we might respectively have made. One day, in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a manuscript volume of verse in my sister Emily's handwriting. Of course, I was not surprised, knowing that she could and did write verse. I looked it over and something more than surprise seized me. A deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music, wild, melancholy and elevating. My sister Emily was not a person of demonstrative character, no one on the recesses of whose mind and feelings even those nearest and dearest to her could, with impunity intrude and licensed. It took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I had made, and days to persuade her that such poems merited publication. I knew, however, that a mind like hers could not be without some latent spark of honorable ambition, and refused to be discouraged in my attempts to fan that spark to flame. Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own compositions, intimating that, since Emily's had given me pleasure, I might like to look at hers. I could not but be a partial judge, yet I thought that these verses, too, had a sweet, sincere pathos of their own. We had very early cherished the dream of one day becoming authors. This dream never relinquished even when distance divided and absorbing tasks occupied us, now suddenly a quiet strength and consistency. It took the character of a resolve. We agreed to arrange a small selection of our poems, and, if possible, to get them printed. Averse to personal publicity, we veiled our own names under those of Cara, Alice, and Acton Bell. The ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming Christian names positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, because, without at that time suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called feminine, we had a vague impression that authorises are liable to be looked on with prejudice. We had noticed how critics sometimes use for their justizement the weapon of personality, and for their reward, a flattery which is not true praise. The bringing out of our little book was hard work. As was to be expected, neither we nor our poems were at all wanted, but for this we had been prepared at the outset. Though inexperienced ourselves, we had read the experience of others. The great puzzle lay in the difficulty of getting answers of any kind, from the publishers to whom we applied. Being greatly harassed by this obstacle, I ventured to apply to the Messer's chambers of Edinburgh for a word of advice. They may have forgotten the circumstance, but I have not, for from them I received a brief and business-like but civil and sensible reply on which we acted and at last made away. The book was printed. It is scarcely known, and all of it that merits to be known are the poems of Ellis Bell. The fixed conviction I held and hold of the worth of these poems has not indeed received the confirmation of much favourable criticism, but I must retain it notwithstanding. Ill success failed to crush us. The mere effort to succeed had given a wonderful zest to existence. It must be pursued. We each set to work on a prose tale. Ellis Bell produced Wuthering Heights, Acton Bell, Agnes Grey, and Carabelle also wrote a narrative in one volume. These manuscripts were perseveringly obtruded upon various publishers for the space of a year and a half. Usually, their fate was an ignominious and abrupt dismissal. At last, Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey were accepted on terms somewhat impoverishing to the two authors. Carabelle's book found acceptance nowhere, nor any acknowledgement of merit, so that something like the chill of despair began to invade her heart. As a forlorn hope, she tried one publishing house more, Messer, Smith, Elder and Co. Air long, in a much shorter space than that on which experience had taught her to calculate. There came a letter, which she opened in the dreary expectation of finding two hard, hopeless lines, intimating that Messer, Smith, Elder and Co. were not disposed to publish the manuscript, and, instead, she took out of the envelope a letter of two pages. She read it trembling. It declined, indeed, to publish that tale for business reasons, but it discussed its merits and demerits so courteously, so considerably, in a spirit so rational, with a discrimination so enlightened, that this very refusal cheered the author better than a vulgarly expressed acceptance would have done. It was added that her work in three volumes would meet with careful attention. I was then just completing Jane Eyre, at which I had been working while the one volume tale was plodding its weary round in London. In three weeks I sent it off, friendly and skillful hands took it in. This was in the commencement of September, 1847. It came out before the close of October following, while Wuthering Heights and Agnes Gray, my sister's works, which had already been in the press for months, still lingered under a different management. They appeared at last. Critics failed to do them justice. The immature but very real powers revealed in Wuthering Heights was scarcely recognized. Its import and nature were misunderstood. The identity of its author was misrepresented. It was said that this was an earlier and rudder attempt of the same pen which had produced Jane Eyre. Unjust and grievous error. We laughed at it at first, but I deeply lament it now. Hence, I fear, arose a prejudice against the book. That writer, who could attempt to palm off an inferior and immature production under cover of one's successful effort, must indeed be unduly eager after the secondary and sordid result of authorship, and pitably indifferent to its true and honorable mead. If reviewers and the public truly believe this, no wonder that they looked darkly on the cheat. Yet I must not be understood to make these things subject for reproach or complaint. I dare not do so. Respect for my sister's memory forbids me. By her any such quarrelous manifestation would have been regarded as an unworthy and offensive weakness. It is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to acknowledge one exception to the general rule of criticism. One writer, endowed with the keen vision and fine sympathies of genius, has discerned the real nature of weathering heights, and has, with equal accuracy, noted its beauties and touched on its faults. To often do reviewers' reminders of the mob of astrologers, caldeans and soothsayers gathered before the writing on the wall, and unable to read the characters or make known the interpretation. We have a right to rejoice when a true seer comes at last, some man in whom is an excellent spirit, to whom have been given light, wisdom, and understanding, who can accurately read the mini-mini tekeloper sin of an original mind, however unripe, however inefficiently cultured and partially expanded that mind may be, and who can say with confidence, this is the interpretation thereof. Yet even the writer to whom I allude shares the mistake about the authorship, it does me the injustice to suppose that there was equivoke in my former rejection of this honour, as an honour I regarded. May I assure him that I would scorn in this and in every other case to deal in equivoke. I believe language to have been given us to make our meaning clear, and not to wrap it in dishonest doubt. The tenet of Wildfell Hall, by Acton Bell, had likewise an unfavourable reception, at this I cannot wonder. The choice of subject was an entire mistake, nothing less congruous with the writer's nature could be conceived. The motives which dictated this choice were pure, but I think slightly morbid. She had in the course of her life been called on to contemplate near at hand, and for a long time the terrible effects of talents misused and faculties abused. Hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved and dejected nature. What she saw sank very deeply into her mind. It did her harm. She brooded over it till she believed it to be a duty to reproduce every detail, of course with fictitious characters, incidents and situations, as a warning to others. She hated her work, but would pursue it. When reasoned with on the subject, she regarded such reasonings as a temptation to self-indulgence. She must be honest. She must not vanish, soften nor conceal. This well meant resolution brought on her misconstruction and some abuse, which she bore, as it was her custom to bear whatever was unpleasant with mild, steady patience. She was a very sincere and practical Christian, but the tinge of religious melancholy communicated a sad shade to her brief, blameless life. Neither Alice nor Acton allowed herself for one moment to sink under want of encouragement. Energy nerfed the one, and endurance upheld the other. They were both prepared to try again. I would faint think that hope and the sense of power were yet strong within them, but a great change approached. Affliction came in that shape, which to anticipate is dread, to look back on, grieve. In the very heat and burden of the day, the laborers failed over their work. My sister Emily first declined. The details of her illness are deep branded in my memory, but to dwell on them, either in thought or narrative, is not in my power. Never in all her life had she lingered over any task that lay before her, and she did not linger now. She sank rapidly. She made haste to leave us. Yet, while physically she perished, mentally she grew stronger than we had yet known her. Day by day, when I saw with what a front she met suffering, I looked on her with an anguish of wonder and love. I have seen nothing like it, but indeed I have never seen her parallel in anything. Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature stood alone. The awful point was, that while full of Ruth for others, on herself she had no pity. The spirit was inexorable to the flesh. From the trembling hand, the unnerved limbs, the faded eyes, the same service was exacted as they had rendered in health. To stand by and witness this, and not dare to remonstrate, was a pain no words can render. Two cruel months of hope and fear passed painfully by, and the day came at last when the terrors and pains of death were to be undergone by this treasure, which had grown dearer and dearer to our hearts as it wasted before our eyes. Towards the decline of that day, we had nothing of Emily, but her mortal remains as consumption left them. She died on December the 19th, 1848. We thought this enough, but we were utterly and presumptuously wrong. She was not buried ere Anne fell ill. She had not been committed to the grave of Fortnight before we received distinct intimation that it was necessary to prepare our minds to see the younger sister go after the elder. Accordingly, she followed in the same path with slower step, and with the patience that equaled the other's fortitude. I have said that she was religious, and it was by leaning on those Christian doctrines, in which she firmly believed, that she found support through her most painful journey. I witnessed their efficacy in her latest hour and greatest trial, and must bear my testimony to the calm triumph with which they brought her through. She died May the 28th, 1849. What more shall I say about them? I cannot and need not say much more. In externals, they were two unobtrusive women. A perfectly secluded life gave them retiring manners and habits. In Emily's nature, the extremes of vigor and simplicity seemed to meet. Under an unsophisticated culture, in artificial tastes, and an unpretending outside, lay a secret power and fire that might have informed the brain and kindled the veins of a hero. But she had no worldly wisdom. Her powers were unadapted to the practical business of life. She would fall to defend her most manifest rights, to consult her most legitimate advantage. An interpreter ought always to have stood between her and the world. Her will was not very flexible, and it generally opposed her interest. Her temper was magnanimous, but warm and sudden. Her spirit altogether unbending. Anne's character was milder and more subdued. She wanted the power, the fire, the originality of her sister, but was well endowed with quiet virtues of her own. Long suffering, self-denying, reflective and intelligent, a constitutional reserve and taciturnity placed and kept her in the shade, and covered her mind, and especially her feelings, with a sort of none-like veil, which was rarely lifted. Neither Emily nor Anne was learned. They had no thought of filling their pictures at the wellspring of other minds. They always wrote from the impulse of nature, the dictates of intuition, and from such stores of observation as their limited experience had enabled them to amass. I may sum up all by saying that for strangers they were nothing, the superficial observers less than nothing, but for those who had known them all their lives in the intimacy of close relationship. They were genuinely good and truly great. This notice has been written because I felt it a sacred duty to wipe the dust off their gravestones and leave their dear names free from soil. End of introduction. This recording is in the public domain by Let's Wives Dream. RedVilibriVox.org by Ellie Christophe. I've quenched my lamp. I strike it in that start, which every limb convulsed. I heard it fall. The crash blend 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 sunk, and I am wrapped 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-shell on the mountaintops be spread? I'd call my women, but to break their sleep, because my own is broken, were unjust. They've roared all day, and well earned 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 tranquilize my nerves, my pulses more than effort can. I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies. These trembling stars at a dead of night look wan, wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear, than this my couch shared by nameless fear. All black, one great cloud drawn from east to west, conceals the heavens, but there are lights below. Tortures burn in Jerusalem and cast only on the stony mount a lurid glow. I see men stationed 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 upright, and fixed 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 dues a prayer, while Romans watch, and when the dawn shall shine, Pilate to judge the victim will appear. Past 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 sore, 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 and 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 who motives, fears yet abject urge, Rome's servile slave and Judas tyrant's courage. How can I love or mourn or pity him? I, who so long my fettered hands have wronged. I, who for grief have wept my eyesight dim, because while life for me was bright and young, he robbed my youth, he quenched my life's fair ray. He crushed 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 cutie life, lest for I know his household privacy. I see him as he is without a screen, and by the gods my soul appaws his mean. Has he not sought my presence, died in blood? Innocent righteous blood shed shamelessly. And have I not his red salute withstood? I, when, as erst, he blanched all galley in dark bereavement, in affliction saw, 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 man such woe, trembled with ire. I did not fear to show. And now the envious Jewish priests have brought Jesus, whom they in mockery 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 his pilot's heart to fear, all men's 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? E'er while the characters were clear, graved on my brain, at once some unknown cause has dimmed and raised the thoughts, which now appear like a vague remnant of some bypassed scene. Not what will be, but what long since has been. I suffered many things, I heard foretold, a dreadful doom for pilot, lingering woes, in far barbarian climes where mountains called, built up a solitude of trackless snows, there he and grizzly wolves, proud side by side, there he lived famished, there me thought he died. But not of hunger, nor by malady. I saw the snow around him stained with gore, I said I had no tears for such as he, and lo, my cheek is wet, mine eyes run awry. I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt, I weep the impious deed, the blood self-split. More I recall not, yet the vision spread into a world remote, an age to come, and still the illumined name of Jesus shed a light, a clearness, through the unfolding gloom. And still I saw that sign which now I see, that cross on yonder brow of Calvary. What is this Hebrew Christ? To me unknown, his lineage, doctrine, mission, yet how clear is God-like goodness in his actions shown? How straight and stainless is his life's career? The ray of deity that rests on him, in my eyes makes Olympian glory dim. The world advances, Greek or Roman write, suffices not the inquiring mind to stay, the surging soul demands a purer light, to guide it on its upward, onward way. Ashamed of sculptured gods, religion turns to where the unseen Jehovah's order burns. Our faith is rotten, all our rites defiled, our temples solid, and me thinks, this man, with his new ordinance so wise and mild, is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan, and sever from the wheat. But will his faith survive the terrors of tomorrow's death? I feel a firmer trust, a higher hope, rise in my soul, it dawns with dawning day. Low, on the temple's roof, on Moriah's slope, appears that length that clear and crimson ray, which I so wished for when shut in by night, O opening skies, I hail, I bless your light. Part clouds and shadows, glorious sun appear, part mental gloom, come inside from on high, dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear, the longing soul doth still uncertain sigh. O, to behold the truth, that sun divine, how doth my bosom panned my spirit pine. This day, time travails with a mighty birth, this day truth stoops from heaven and visits earth. Air night descends, I shall more surely know what guide to follow, in what path to go. I wait in hope, I wait in solemn fear, the oracle of God, the so true God to hear. Kara End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Faith and despondency. Read for LibriVox, by Ellis Christoff. The winter wind is loud and wild, come close to me, my darling child. Pursake thy books and mate-less play, and while the night is gathering gray, we'll talk its pensive hours away. Here nay, round our sheltered hall, November's gusts and heated call, not one faint breath can enter here, enough to wave my daughter's hair, and I am glad to watch the blaze glance from her eyes with mimic rays, to feel her cheek so softly pressed in happy quiet on my breast. But yet, even this tranquility brings bitter, restless thoughts in me, and in the red fire's cheerful glow I think of deep glents blocked with snow, I dream of moor and misty hill, where evening closes dark and chill, for lone among the mountains called like those that I have loved of old, and my heart aches in hopeless pain, exhausted with repining's vein that I shall greet them near again. Father, in early infancy, when you were far beyond the sea, such thoughts were tyrants over me, I often sat for hours together, through the long nights of angry weather, raised on my pillow to describe the dim moon struggling in the sky, or with strained ear to catch the shock of rock with wave and wave with rock, so would I fearful vigil keep, and all for listening never sleep, but this world's life has matched to dread, not so, my father, with the dead. Oh, not for them should we despair, the grave is drear, but they're not there, their dust is mingled with the sword, their happy souls are gone to God. You told me this, and yet you sigh, and murmur that your friends must die. Oh, my dear father, tell me why? For if your former words were true, how useless would such sorrow be, as wise to mourn the seed which grew and noticed on its parent tree, because it fell in fertile earth, and sprang up to a glorious birth, struck deep its root, and lifted high its green boughs in the breezy sky. But I'll not fear, I will not weep, for those whose body is rest in sleep, I know there is a blessed shore opening its ports for me and mine, and gazing times wide waters o'er, I weary for that land divine, where we were born, where you and I shall meet our dearest when we die, from suffering and corruption free, restored into the deity. Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child, and wiser than thy sire, and worldly tempests raging wild shall strengthen thy desire, thy fervent hope through storm and foam, through wind and oceans raw, to reach at last the eternal home, the steadfast, changeless shore. Alice. This recording is in the public domain. A reminiscence. Read for LibriVox.org by Alice Christof. Yes, thou art gone, and nevermore thy sunny smile shall gladden me, but I may pass the old church door and pace the floor that covers thee. May stand upon the cold, damp stone, and think that frozen lies below the lightest heart that I have known, the kindest I shall ever know. Yet, though I cannot see thee more, it is still a comfort to have seen, and though thy transient life is o'er, it is sweet to think that thou hast been, to think a soul so near divine within a form so angel-fair, united to a heart like thine, as gladdened once our humble sphere. Acton. This recording is in the public domain. Mementos. Read for LibriVox.org by Alice Christof. Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves of cabinets shut up for years. What a strange task we've set ourselves. How still the lonely room appears. How strange this mass of ancient treasures. Mementos of past pains and pleasures. These volumes clasped with costly stone, with print all faded, gilding gone. These fans of leaves from Indian trees. These crimson shelves from Indian seas. These tiny portraits set in rings. Once doubtless deemed such precious things. Keep sakes bestowed by love on faith, and worn till the receiver's death. Now stored with cameos, china, shells, in this old closet's dusty cells. I scarcely think for ten long years a hand has touched these relics old, and coating each slow-formed appears, the growth of green and antique mould. All in this house is mossing over, all is in used, and dim, and damp. Nor light nor warmth, the rooms discover, bereft for years of fire and lump. The sun, sometimes in summer, enters. The casements with reviving ray. But the long rains of many winters, moulder the very walls away. And outside all is ivy, clinging to chimney lattice gable grey. Scarcely one little red rose springing through the green moss can force its way. Unscared, the door and starling nestle, where the tall turret rises high, and winds alone come near to rustle the thick leaves where their cradles lie. I sometimes think, when late at even, I climb the stair reluctantly, some shape that should be well in heaven or real elsewhere will pass by me. I fear to see the very faces familiar thirty years ago, even in the older customed places, which look so cold and gloomy now. I've come to close the window hither, at twilight, when the sun was down, and fear, my very soul would wither lest something should be dimly shown. Too much the buried form resembling of her once was mistress here. Lest doubtful shade or moon-beam trembling might take her aspect one so dear. Hers was this chamber. In her time it seemed to me a pleasant room, for then no cloud of grief or crime had cursed it with a settled gloom. I had not seen death's image laid in shroud and sheet on yonder bed, before she married. She was blessed, blessed in her youth, blessed in her worth. Her mind was calm, its sunny rest shone in her eyes more clear than mirth. And when a tired in rich array, light, lastrous hair about her brow, she under-sad, a kind of day lit up what seemed so gloomy now. These grim oak walls, even then were grim, that old carved chair was then antique. But what a round-look dusk and dim served as a foil to her fresh cheek. Her neck and arms of hue so fair, eyes of unclouded smiling light, her soft and curled and floating hair, gems and attire as rainbow bright. Reclined in yonder deep recess, oft times she would at evening lie, watching the sun. She seemed to bless with happy glance the glorious sky. She loved such scenes, and as she gazed her face evinced her spirit's mood. Beauty or grandeur ever raised in her a deep-felt gratitude. But of all lovely things she loved a cloudless moon on summer night. Full oft have I impatience proved to see how long her still delight would find a theme in reverie, out on the lawn, or where the trees let in the luster fitfully as their boughs parted momently to the soft languid summer breeze. Alas, that she should ere have flung those pure, though lonely joys away. Deceived by false and guileful tongue, she gave her hand, then suffered wrong. Oppressed, ill-used, she faded young, and died of grief by slow decay. Open that casket, look how bright those jewels flash upon the sight. The brilliance have not lost array of luster since her wedding day. But see, upon that burly chain, how dim lies time's discolouring stain. I've seen that by her daughter worn, for ere she died a child was born. A child at nair its mother knew, that lone and almost friendless grew. For, ever, when it stepped through an eye, a word it was the father's eye, and then a life impure and wild made him a stranger to his child, absorbed in vice he little cared on what she did, or how she fared. The love withheld she never sought, she grew uncherished, learned and taught. To her the inward life of thought full soon was open laid. I know not if her friendlessness did sometimes on her spirit press, but plain she never made. The bookshelves were her darling treasure, she rarely seemed the time to measure, while she could read alone, and she too loved the twilight wood, and often in her mother's mood away to yonder hillwood high, like her to watch the setting sun or see the stars born one by one out of the darkening sky. Nor would she leave that hill till night, trembled from pole to pole with light, even then upon her homeward way, long, long her wandering steps delayed, to quit the somber forest shade through which her eerie pathway lay. You ask if she had beauty's grace? I know not, but a nobler face my eyes have seldom seen, a keen and fine intelligence, and better still the truest sense were in her speaking mean. But Blume or Laster was there none, only at moments fitful shone an ardour in her eye, that kindled on her cheek of blush, warm as a red sky's passing blush, and quick with energy. Her speech too was not common speech, no wish to shine or aim to teach, was in her words displayed. She still began with quiet sense, but oft the force of eloquence came to her lips in aid. Language and voice unconscious changed, and thoughts in other words arranged, her fervid soul transfused into the hearts of those who heard, and transient strength and ardour stirred in minds to strengthen used. Yet in gay crowd or festal glare, grave and retiring was her air. To a seldom save with me alone, that fire of feeling freely shone, she loved not oars, nor wonders gaze, nor even exaggerated praise, nor even notice if too keen the curious gaze asserted her mean. Nature's own green expanse revealed, the world, the pleasures she could prize. On free hillside, in sunny field, in quiet spots by woods concealed, grew wild and fresh her chosen joys. Yet nature's feelings deeply lay in that endowed and youthful frame. Shrind in her heart and hid from day, they burned and seen with silent flame, in youth's first search for mental light, she lived but to reflect and learn. But soon her mind's mature might, for stronger task did pant and yearn, and stronger task did fate assign, task that a giant strength might strain, to suffer long and ne'er repine, be calm and frenzy, smile at pain. Pale with the secret war of feeling, sustained with courage, mute, yet high, the wounds at which she bled revealing only by altered cheek and eye. She bore in silence, but when passion surged in her soul with ceaseless foam, the storm at last brought desolation and drove her exiled from her home. And silent still, she straight assembled, the wrecks of strength her soul retained. For though the wasted body trembled, the unconquered mind to quail disdained. She crossed the sea, now alone she wanders, by zines or rinds or anus flow, feign would I know if distance renders relief or comfort to her woe. Feign would I know if henceforth ever, these eyes shall read in hers again, that light of love which faded never, though dimmed so long with secret pain. She will return, but cold and altered, like all whose hopes too soon depart, like all on whom have beat and sheltered, the bitter blasts that blight the heart. No more shall I behold her lying, calm on a pillow, smoothed by me. No more that spirit, worn with sighing, will know the rest of infancy. If still the paths of lore she follow, it will be with tide and goaded will, she'll only toil, the aching hollow, the joyless blank of life to fill. And oh, full oft quite spent and weary, her hand will pause, her head decline, that labour seems so hard and dreary, on which no ray of hope may shine. Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow will shade with gray her soft dark hair. Then comes the day that knows no morrow, and death succeeds to long despair. So speaks experience, sage and hoary. I see it plainly, know it well, like one who having read a story, each incident therein can tell. Touch not that ring, towards his, the sire, of that forsaken child, and not his relics can inspire save memories sin-defiled. I, who sat by his wife's deathbed, I, who his daughter loved, could almost curse the guilty dead, or woes the guiltless proved. And heaven did curse, they found him laid, when crime for wrath was writhe, cold, with the suicidal blade clutched in his desperate gripe. It was near that long deserted hut, which in the wood decays. Death's axe, self-wielded, struck his root, and lopped his desperate days. You know the spot, where three black trees lift up their branches fell, and moaning, ceaseless as the seas, still seem in every passing breeze the deed of blood to tell. They named him mad, and laid his bones where holy rashes lie, yet doubt not that his spirit groans in hell's eternity. But lo, night-closing o'er the earth infects our thoughts with gloom. Come, let us strive to rally, moth, where glows a clear and tranquil hearth in some more cheerful room. Kara, this recording is in the public domain, stars. Read for LibriVox.org, by Ellis Christoff. Why, because the dazzling sun restored our earth to joy, have you departed, everyone, and left the desert sky? All through the night, your glorious eyes were gazing down in mine, and with a full heart's thankful size I blessed that watch divine. I was at peace, and drank your beams as they were life to me, and drevelled in my changeful dreams, like petrol on the sea. Thought followed thought, star followed star, through boundless regions on, while one sweet influence near and far, thrilled through and proved as one. Why did the morning dawn to break so great, so pure a spell, and scorch with fire the tranquil cheek, where your cool radiance fell? Blood red, he rose, and arrow straight, his fierce beam struck my brow, the soul of nature sprang elade, but mine sank sad and low. My lids closed down, yet through their veil I saw him blazing still, and steep in gold the misty dale, and flash upon the hill. I turned me to the pillow then, to call back night and sea, your worlds of solemn light again, throb with my heart and me. It would not do, the pillow glowed, and glowed both roof and floor, and birds sang loudly in the wood, and fresh winds shook the door. The curtains waved, the vacant flies were murmuring round my room, imprisoned there till I should rise and give them leave to Rome. Oh stars and dreams and gentle night, oh night and stars return, and hide me from the hostile light that does not warm but burn, that drains the blood of suffering men, drinks tears instead of dew. Let me sleep through his blinding rain, and only awake with you. Alice. This recording is in the public domain. The Philosopher. Read for LibriVox.org by Alice Christoff. Enough of thought, Philosopher. Too long has thou been dreaming, enlightened in this chamber drear, while summer sun is beaming. Space sweeping soul, what sad refrain concludes thy musings once again. Oh, for the time when I shall sleep without identity, and never care how rain may steep, or snow may cover me. No promised heaven, these wild desires could all or half fulfill. No threatened hell with quenchless fires subdue this quenchless will. So said I, and still say the same. Still, to my death will say, three gods within this little frame are warring night and day. Heaven could not hold them all, and yet they all are held in me. And must be mine till I forget my present entity. Oh, for the time when in my breast their struggles will be o'er. Oh, for the day when I shall rest and never suffer more. I saw a spirit standing, man, where thou dost stand an hour ago, and round his feet three rivers ran, of equal depth and equal flow. A golden stream, and one like blood, and one like sapphire seemed to be, but where they joined their triple flood, it tumbled in an inky sea. The spirit sent his dazzling gaze down through that ocean's gloomy night, then kindling all with sudden blaze, the glad deep sparkled wide and bright, white as the sun far, far more fair than its divided sources were. And even for that spirit sear, I've watched and sought my lifetime long, sought him in heaven, hell, earth, and air, an endless search and always wrong. Had I but seen his glorious eye once light the clouds that wilder me, I ne'er had raised this coward cry to cease to think and cease to be. I ne'er had cold oblivion blessed, nor stretching eager hands to death. Implored to change for senseless rest this sentient soul, this living breath. Oh, let me die, that power and will their cruel strife may close, and conquered good, and conquering ill be lost in one repose. Alice. This recording is in the public domain, The Arbor. Red for LibriVox.org by Alice Christoff. I'll rest me in this sheltered bower, and look upon the clear blue sky, that smiles upon me through the trees, which stand so thickly clustering by, and view their green and glossy leaves, all glistening in the sunshine fair, and list the rustling of their boughs, so softly whispering through the air. And while my ear drinks in the sound, my winged soul shall fly away, reviewing long-departed ears, as one mild, beaming autumn day, and soaring on to future scenes, like hills and woods and valleys green, all basking in the summer's sun, but distant still, and dimly seen. Oh, list, it is summer's very breath that gently shakes the rustling trees, but look, the snow is on the ground, how can I think of scenes like these? It is but the frost that clears the air, and gives the sky that lovely blue, there smiling in a winter's sun, those evergreens of somber hue, and winter's chill is on my heart. How can I dream a future bliss? How can my spirit soar away, confined by such a chain as this? Acton. This recording is in the public domain. Home. Read for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christoff. How brightly glistening in the sun the woodland ivy plays, while yonder beaches from their barks reflect his silver rays. That sun surveys a lovely scene from softly smiling skies, and wildly, through unnumbered trees, the wind of winter sighs. Now loud, it sanders o'er my head, and now in distance dies. But give me back my barren hills where colder breezes rise, where scarce the scattered-standard trees can yield an answering swell, but where a wilderness of heath returns the sound as well. For yonder garden, fair and wide, with groves of evergreen, long-winding walks and border stream and velvet lawns between. Restore to me that little spot with grey wolves compassed round, where knotted grass neglected lies, and weeds usurp the crown. Though all around this mansion high invites the food to roam, and though its halls are fair within, oh, give me back my home. Acton. This recording is in the public domain. The Wives Will. Read for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christoff. Sit still, a word, a breath may break, as light air stir a sleeping lake, the glassy calm that soothes my woes, the sweet, the deep, the full repose. Oh, leave me not, for ever be thus more than life itself to me. Yes, close beside thee, let me kneel, give me thy hand that I may feel the friend so true, so tried, so dear. My heart's own chosen indeed is near, and check me not, this our divine belongs to me, is fully mine. Does thy own hearth thou sits beside, after long absence wondering wide? Does thy own wife reads in thine eyes a promise clear of stormless skies, for faith and true love light the rays which shine responsive to her gaze. I will, that single tear may fall, ten thousand might mine eyes recall, which from their lids ran blinding fast, in hours of grief yet scarcely past. Will maist thou speak of love to me, for oh, most truly, I love thee. Yet smile, for we are happy now, whence, then, that sadness on thy brow. What says thou? We must once again ere long be severed by the main. I knew not this, I deemed no more, thy step would err from Britain's shore. Duty commands, it is true, it is just, thy slightest word I wholly trust, nor by request, nor faintest sigh, would I to turn thy purpose try. But William, hear my solemn vow, hear and confirm, with thee I go. Distance and suffering, didst thou say? Danger by night and toil by day. Oh, idle words and vain are these, hear me, I cross with thee the seas, such risk as thou must meet and dare, I, thy true wife, will duly share. Passive at home I will not pine, thy toils, thy perils shall be mine. Grant this, and be hereafter paid, by a warm heart's devoted aid. Disgranted, with that yielding kiss, entered my soul and mingled bliss. Thanks, William, thanks, thy love has joy, pure, undefiled with basaloi, it is not a passion, false and blind, inspires and chains absorbs my mind. Worthy I feel art thou to be loved with my perfect energy. This evening now shall sweetly flow, lit by our clear fire's happy glow, and parting space in bittering fear, is warned our hearts to come not near. For fate admits my soul's decree, in bliss or bale, to go with thee. Cara This recording is in the public domain. Remembrance Read for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christoff. Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee. Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave, have I forgot my only love to love thee, severed at last by time's all-severing wave. Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover over the mountains on that northern shore, resting their wings where heath and fern leaves cover, thy noble heart forever, evermore. Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild December's, from those brown hills have melted into spring, faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers, after such years of change and suffering. Sweet love of youth, forgive if I forget thee, while the world's tide is bearing me along, other desires and other hopes beset me, hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong. No later light has lightened up my heaven, no second mourn has ever shone for me. All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, all my life's bliss is in the grave. But when the days of golden dreams had perished, and even despair was powerless to destroy, then did I learn how existence could be cherished, strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. Then did I check the tears of useless passion, weaned my young soul from yearning after thine, sternly denied its burning wish to hasten down to that tomb, already more than mine. And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, dare not indulge in memories rapturous pain, once drinking deep of that divinest anguish. How could I seek the empty world again? This recording is in the public domain. Read for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christophe. In all we do, and here and see, is restless toil and vanity. While yet the rolling earth abides, men come and go like ocean tides, and ere one generation dies, another in its place shall rise, that, sinking soon into the grave, others succeed, like wave on wave. And as they rise, they pass away. The sun arises every day, and hastening onward to the west, he nightly sinks, but not to rest. Returning to the eastern skies, again to light as he must rise, and still the restless wind comes forth, now blowing keenly from the north, now from the south, the east, the west, forever changing, near at rest. The fountains, gushing from the hills, supply the ever-running rills. The thirsty rivers drink their store, and bear it rolling to the shore, but still the ocean craves for more. It is endless labour everywhere. Sound cannot satisfy the ear, light cannot fill the craving eye, nor reaches half our one supply. Pleasure but doubles future pain, and joy brings sorrow in her train. Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth. What does she in this weary earth? Should wealth or fame our life employ, death comes, our labour to destroy, to snatch the untasted cup away, for which we toiled so many a day. What then remains for wretched man? To use life's comforts while he can. Enjoy the blessings heaven bestows, assist his friends, forgive his foes, trust God, and keep his statutes still, upright and firm, through good and ill. Thankful for all that God has given, fixing his firmest hopes on heaven, knowing that earthly joys decay, but hoping through the darkest day. Acton This recording is in the public domain. The Wood Read for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christoff, but two miles more, and then we rest. Well, there is still an hour of day, and long the brightness of the west will light us on our devious way. Sit then a while here in this wood, so total is the solitude we safely may delay. These massive roots of water seed, which seems for weary travel has made. There rest. The air is soft and sweet in this sequestered forest glade, and there are a sense of flowers around. The evening dew draws from the ground, how soothingly they spread. Yes, I was tired, but not at heart. No, that beats full of sweet content, for now I have my natural part of action with adventure blend. Cast forth on the wide world with thee, and all my one's waste energy to weighty purpose bent. Yet, says thou, spies around us, Rome, our aims are termed conspiracy. Happily, no more our English home an anchorage for us may be, that there is risk our mutual blood may redden in some lonely wood the knife of treachery. Says thou, that where we lodge each night, in each lone farm or lonely a hall, of norm and peer, ere morning light suspicion musters duly fall, as day returns, such vigilance presides and watches over France, such rigor governs all. I fear not, William. Does thou fear? So that the knife does not divide, it may be ever hovering near, I could not tremble at thy side, and strenuous love, like mine for thee, is buckler strong, gains treachery and turns its tab aside. I am resolved that thou shalt learn to trust my strength as I trust thine. I am resolved our souls shall burn with equal, steady, mingling shine. Part of the field is conquered now, our lives in the same channel flow, along the self-same line. And while no groaning storm is heard, thou seems'd contend it should be so, but soon as comes a warning word of danger, straight thine anxious brow bends over me a mournful shade, as doubting if my powers are made to ford the floods of woe. No, then it is my spirit swells, and drinks with eager joy the air of freedom, where at last it dwells, chartered a common task to share with thee, and then it stirs alert, and ponds to learn what menest hurt demands for thee its care. Remember, I have crossed the deep, and stood with thee on deck to gaze on waves that rose in threatening heap, while stagnant layer heavy haze, dimly confusing sea with sky, and baffling even the pilot's eye intend to thread the maze. Of rocks on Bretang's dangerous coast, and find a way to steer our band to the one point obscure, which lost, blung us as victims on the strand, all elsewhere gleamed the gallic sword, and not a wary could be moored along the guarded land. I feared not, then. I fear not now. The interest of each stirring scene wakes a new sense, a welcome glow in every nerve and bounding vein, a like on turbid channel sea, or in stillwood of Normandy I feel as born again. The rain descended that wild mourn, when anchoring in the covert last, our band, all weary and forlorn, a shore like wave-worn sailor's cast, sought for a sheltering roof in vain, and scarce could scanty food obtain to break their mourning fast. Thou didst thy crust with me divide, Thou didst thy cloak around me fold, and sitting silent by thy side I add the bread in peace and told, given kindly from thy hand to a sweet, as costly fare or princely treat on royal plate of gold. Sharp blew the sleet upon my face, and rising wild the gusty wind drove on those thandering waves apace our crew so late had left behind. But spite a frozen shower and storm, so close to thee my heart beat warm, and tranquil slept my mind. So now, no food saw nor oppressed, with walking all this august day, I taste the heaven in this brief rest, this gypsy hold beside the way. England's wild flowers are fair to view, like balm in England's summer dew, like gold her sunset ray. But the white violets, growing here, are sweeter than I yet have seen, and near did dew so pure and clear distill on forest mosses green, as now, cold forth by summer heat, perfumes are cool and fresh retreat, these fragrant limes between. That sunset, look beneath the boughs, over the cobs beyond the hills. How soft yet deep and warm it glows, and heaven with rich suffusion fills, with hues where still the opals tend, its gleam of prison fires blend, where flame through azure thrills. Depart we now, for fast will fade, that solemn splendour of decline, and deep must be the aftershade, as stars alone tonight will shine. No moon is destined, pale to gaze, on such a day's vast phoenix blaze, a day in fires decayed. There, hand in hand, we tread again the mazes of this varying wood, and soon, amid a cultured plain, gird in with fertile solitude, we shall our resting place this cry, marked by one roof-tree towering high above a farmstead rude. Refreshed, ere long, with rustic fare, will seek a couch of dreamless ease. Courage will guard thy heart from fear, and love give mine divinest peace. Tomorrow brings more dangerous toil, and through its conflict and turmoil, will pass, as God shall please. Cara. The preceding composition refers, doubtless, to the scenes acted in France during the last year of the consulate. This recording is in the public domain. A death scene. RedVolibriVox.org by Ellis Christoff. O day, it cannot die when thou so fair art shining. O sun, in such a glorious sky, so tranquilly declining. It cannot leave thee now, while fresh west winds are blowing, and all around his youthful brow, thy cheerful light is glowing. Edward, awake, awake! The golden evening gleams, warm and bright on Arden's lake, around thee from thy dreams. Beside thee on my knee, my dearest friend, I pray that thou, to cross the eternal sea, wouldst yet one hour delay. I hear its billows roar, I see them foaming high, but no glimpse of a further shore has blessed my straining eye. Believe not what they urge of Eden Isles beyond, turn back from that tempestuous surge to thy own native land. It is not death but pain that struggles in thy breast. May rally Edward, rouse again! I cannot let thee rest. One long look that saw reproved me, for the woe I could not bear. One mewed look of suffering moved me, to repent my useless prayer. And, with sudden check, the heaving of distraction passed away. Not a sign of further grieving stirred my soul that awful day. Bailed at length the sweet sun setting, sung to peace the twilight breeze. Some adduce fell softly, wetting glen and glade and silent trees. Then his eyes began to weary, weighed beneath a mortal sleep. And their orbs grew strangely dreary, clouded even as they would weep. But they wept not, but they changed not, never moved and never closed. Troubled still and still they ranged not, wandered not, nor yet reposed. So I knew that he was dying, stooped and raised his languid head. Felt no breath and heard no sighing. So I knew that he was dead, Alice. This recording is in the public domain. Song. Red for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christoppe. The linnet in the rocky dels, the moor lark in the air, the bee among the heavier bells that hide my ladyfair. The wild deer browse above her breast, the wild birds raise their brood, and they, her smiles of love caressed, have left her solitude. I wean that when the grave's dark wall did first her form retain, they thought their hearts could never recall the light of joy again. They thought the tide of grief would flow unchecked through future years. But where is all their anguish now, and where are all their tears? Well, let them fight for honor's breath, or pleasure's shade pursue. The tweler in the land of death is changed and careless, too. And if their eyes should watch and weep, till sorrow's sores were dry, she would not, in her tranquil sleep, return a single sigh. Blow west wind by lonely mound, and murmur summer streams. There is no need of other sound to soothe my lady's dreams. Alice. This recording is in the public domain, the penitent. Read fully Prevox.org by Alice Christoff, and with thee, and yet rejoice, that thou should sorrow's sore, with angels' choirs I join my voice to bless the sinner's woe. Though friends and kindred turn away, and laugh thy grief to scorn, I hear the great Redeemer say, blessed are ye that mourn. Hold on thy cause, nor deem it strange, that earthly chords are riven. Man may lament the wondrous change, but there is joy in heaven. Acton. This recording is in the public domain. Music on Christmas morning. Read fully Prevox.org by Alice Christoff. Music I love, but never strain, could kindle raptures so divine, so grief assuage, so conquer pain, and rouse dispensive heart of mine, as that we hear on Christmas morn, upon the wintry breezes borne. Though darkness still her empire keep, and hours must pass air-morning break, from troubled dreams or slumbers deep, that music kindly bids us wake, it calls us with an angel's voice to wake, and worship, and rejoice. To greet with joy the glorious morn, which angels welcomed long ago, when our redeeming Lord was born, to bring the light of heaven below, the powers of darkness to dispel, and rescue earth from death and hell. While listening to that sacred strain, my raptured spirit soars on high, I seem to hear those songs again resounding through the open sky, that kindled such divine delight in those who watched their flocks by night. With them I celebrate his birth, glory to God in highest heaven, goodwill to men and peace on earth, to us a Saviour King is given, our God is come to claim his own, and Satan's power is overthrown. A sinless God, for sinful men descends to suffer and to bleed, hell must renounce its empire then, the price is paid, the world is freed, and Satan's self must now confess, that Christ has earned a right to bless. Now holy peace may smile from heaven, and heavenly truth from earth shall spring, the captives' golling bonds are riven, for our Redeemer is our King, and he that gave his blood for men will lead us home to God again. Acton. This recording is in the public domain. Francis. Read for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christoff. She will not sleep for fear of dreams, but rising quits her restless bed, and walks where some beclouded beams of moonlight through the hollow shed. Obedient to the gold of grief, her steps now fast, now lingering slow, in varying motion seek relief from the humanities of woe, ringing her hands at intervals, but long as mute as phantom dim, she glides along the dusky walls, under the black oak rafters grim. The close air of the great tower stifles a heart that's scarce can beat, and though so late and low in the hour, forth pass her wandering, faltering feet, and on the pavement spread before the long front of the mansion gray, her steps imprint the night frost-hoar, which pale on grass and granite lay. Not long she stayed where misty moon and shimmering stars could on her look, but through the garden archway soon, her strange and gloomy path she took. Some furs, co-evil with the tower, their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head, unseen beneath the sable power rustled her dress and rapid tread. There was an alcove in that shade, screening a rustic seed and stand, weary she sat her down and laid, a hot brow on her burning hand. To solitude and to the night, some words she now in murmurs said, and trickling through her fingers wide, some tears of misery she shed. God help me in my grievous need, God help me in my inward pain, which cannot ask for pity's mead, which has no license to complain, which must be borne, yet who can bear hours long, days long a constant weight, a yoke of absolute despair, a suffering holy desolate? Who can forever crush the heart, restrain its throbbing curb its life, disemble truth with ceaseless art, with outward calm, mask-inwards drive? She waited, as for some reply, the still and cloudy night gave none, ere long with deep-drawn trembling sigh, her heavy plant again begun. Unloved I love, unwept I weep, grief I restrain, hope I repress, vain is this anguish, fixed and deep, vainer desires and dreams of bliss, my lover wakes no love again, my tears collect and fall and felt, my sorrow touches none with pain, my humble hopes to nothing melt. For me the universe is dumb, stone-death and blank and wholly blind, life I must bound, existence some, in the straight limits of one mind, that mind my own. Oh, narrow cell, dark, imageless, a living tomb, there must I sleep, their wake and dwell, content with pulsy pain and gloom. Again she paused, a moan of pain, a stifled sob alone was heard, long silence followed, then again her voice the stagnant midnight stirred. Must it be so? Is this my fate? Can I nor struggle nor contend, and am I doomed for years to wait, watching death's lingering acts descend? And when it falls, and when I die, what follows, vacant nothingness, a blank of lost identity, erasure both of pain and bliss? I've heard of heaven, I would believe, for if this earth indeed be all, who longest lives, may deepest grieve, most blessed, whom sorrows soonest call. Oh, leaving disappointment here, will man find hope on yonder coast, hope, which on earth shines never clear, and often clouds is wholly lost. Will he hope source of light behold, fruition spring, where doubts expire, and drink in waves of living gold, contentment full for long desire? Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed, rest, which was veer in his own earth, knowledge, which if all life it beamed, served but to prove it void of worth? Will he find love without last's leaven, love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, to all with equal bounty given, in all unthamed, unfailing, sure? Will he, from penal sufferings free, released from shroud and wormy clod, all calm and glorious rise and sea, creation's sire, existence God? Then, glancing back on time's brief woes, will he behold them, fading, fly, swept from eternity's repose, like sullying cloud from pure blue sky? If so, endure my weary frame, and when thy anguish strikes too deep, and when all troubled burns life's flame, think of the quiet, final sleep. Think of the glorious waking hour, which will not dawn on grief and tears, but on a ransomed spirit's power, certain and free from mortal fears. Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, then from thy chamber, calm, descend, with mind nor tossed nor anguish torn, but tranquil, fixed, to wait the end. And when thy opening eyes shall see mementos on the chamber wall, of one who has forgotten thee, shed not the tear of acrid gall, the tear, which, welling from the heart, burns, where its drop corrosive falls, and makes each nerve in torture start at feelings it too well recalls. When the sweet hope of being loved, through Eden's sunshine on life's way, with every sense and feeling proved expectancy of brightest day, when the hand trembled to receive a thrilling clasp which seemed so near, and the heart ventured to believe, another heart esteemed it dear, when words half-love, all tenderness, were hourly heard as hourly spoken, when the long sunny days of bliss, only by moonlight nights were broken. Till drop by drop, the cup of joy, filled fool, with purple light was glowing, and faith, which watched it, sparkling high, still never dreamt the overflowing. It fell not with a sudden crashing, it poured not out like open sluice. No, sparkling still, and redly flashing drained, drop by drop, the generous juice. I saw it sink and strove to taste it, my eagle lips approached the brim, the movement only seemed to waste it, it sank to dregs, all harsh and dim. These I have drank, and they forever have poisoned life and love for me. A draft from Sodom's lake could never more fiery salt and bitter be. Oh, love was all a thin illusion, joy but the desert's flying stream, and glancing back on long delusion my memory grasps a hollow dream. Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling I never knew and cannot learn, nor why my lover's eye congealing grew cold and clouded, proud and stern. Nor, wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting, he careless left and cool withdrew, nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting, nor even one glance of comfort through, and neither word nor token sending of kindness since the parting day, his cause for distant region spending went self-contained and calm away. Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation which will not weaken, cannot die, hasten thy work of desolation and let my tortured spirit fly, vain as the passing gale, my crying. Though lightning struck, I must live on. I know at heart there is no dying of love and ruined hope alone. Still strong and young and warm with vigor, though scathed, I long shall greenly grow, and many a storm of wildest rigor shall yet break o'er my shivered bow. Rebellious now to blank inertia, my unused strength demands a task. Travel and toil and full exertion are the last, only boon, I ask. Once then, this vain and barren dreaming of death and dubious life to come, I see near a beacon gleaming, over dejection's sea of gloom. The very wildness of my sorrow tells me I yet have innate force, my track of life has been too narrow, effort shall trace a broader cause. The world is not in yonder tower, earth is not present in that room, mid whose dark panels hour by hour I have sat, the slave and prey of gloom. One feeling, turned to utter anguish, is not my being's only aim. When lawn and loveless, life will languish, but courage can revive the flame. He, when he left me, went eroving, to sunny climbs beyond the sea, and I, the weight of world removing, am free and fetterless as he. New scenes, new language, skies less clouded, may once more wake the wish to live. Strange, foreign towns are stir and crowded, new pictures to the mind may give. New forms and faces passing ever, may hide the one I still retain, defined and fixed and fading never, stamped deep on vision, heart and brain. And we might meet, time may have changed him, chance may reveal the mystery, the secret influence which estranged him, love may restore him yet to me. False thought, false hope, in scorn be banished. I am not loved, nor loved have been. Recall not, then, the dream scares vanished, traitors, mislead me not again. To words like yours I bid defiance, to such my mental wreck have made. Of God alone, in self-reliance I ask for solace, hope for aid. Morn comes, and ere meridian glory, for these my natal woods shall smile. Both lonely wood and mansion hoary, I leave behind, full many a mile, cara. This recording is in the public domain. Anticipation. Read for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christop. How beautiful the earth is still, to thee, how full of happiness, how little fraught with real ill, or unreal phantoms of distress. How spring can bring thee glory yet, and some are windy to forget December's sullen time. Why does thou hold the treasures fast, of youth's delight, when youth is past, and thou art near thy prime? When those who were thy own compares, equals in fortune and in years, have seen their mourning melt in tears, to cloud it, smile his day. Blessed had they died and tried and young, before their hearts went wandering wrong, poor slaves, subdued by passion strong, a weak and helpless prey. Because I hoped while they enjoyed, and by fulfilment hope destroyed, as children hope with trustful breast, I waited bliss and cherished rest. A thoughtful spirit taught me soon, that we must long till life be done, that every face of earthly joy must always fade, and always cloy. This I foresaw, and would not chase, the fleeting treacheries, but with firm food and tranquil face, held backward from that tempting race, gazed all the sands the waves efface to the enduring seas. There cast my anchor of desire, deep in unknown eternity, nor ever let my spirit tire, with looking for what is to be. It is hope's spell that glorifies, like youth, to my mature arise, all nature's million mysteries, the fearful and the fair. Hope soothes me in the griefs I know, she lulls my pain for others' woe, and makes me strong to undergo what I am born to bear. Glat comforter, will I not brave anord the darkness of the grave? Nay, smile to hear death's billows rave, sustained my guide by thee. The more unjust seems present fate, the more my spirit swells elate, strong in my strength to anticipate rewarding destiny. ELLIS This recording is in the public domain. Stanzas. Readfullybrewvox.org by Ellis Christoff. O weep not, love, each tear that springs in those dear eyes of thine, to me a keen a suffering brings, than if they float from mine, and do not droop, however drear the fate awaiting thee, for my sake combat pain and care, and cherish life for me. I do not fear thy love will fail, thy faith is true I know, but oh my love, thy strength is frail for such a life of woe. Word not for this, I well could trace, though banished long from thee, life's ragged path and boldly face, the storms that threatened me. Fear not for me, I've steeled my mind, sorrow and strife to greet, joy with my love I leave behind, care with my friends I meet. A mother's sad reproachful eye, a father's scowling brow, but he may frown and she may sigh, I will not break my vow. I love my mother, I revere my sire, but fear not me, believe that death alone can tear this faithful heart from thee. Acton This recording is in the public domain. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org by Ellis Christoff Part 1 The Garden Above the city hung the moon, right o'er a plot of ground, where flowers and orchard trees were fenced with lofty walls around. It was Gilbert's garden, there, tonight, a while he walked alone, and, tired with sedentary toil, mused where the moonlight shone. This garden, in a city heart, lay still as houseless wild, though many windowed mansion fronts were around it closely piled. But thick their walls, and those within, lived lives by noise and sturd, like wafting of an angel's wing, times flight by them was heard. Some soft piano notes alone, were sweet as faintly given, where ladies doubtless cheered the hearth with song, that winter even. The city's many mingled sounds rose like the hum of ocean. They rather lulled the hearth and roused its pulse to faster motion. Gilbert has paced the single walk an hour, yet is not weary, and, though it be a winter night, he feels nor cold nor dreary. The prime of life is in his veins, and sends his blood-fast flowing, and fancy's fervour warms the thoughts, now in his bosom glowing. Those thoughts recur to early love, or what he love would name, though happily Gilbert's secret deeds might other title 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 ground at last some rare caress, to feel the fever of that hand my fingers deigned to press. To a sweet to see her strive to hide what every glance revealed, endowed the while with desperate 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 newborn and fresh, it was these with God had sanctified my sensual frame of flesh. Yet, like a God did I descend at last to meet her love, and like a God I then withdrew to my own heaven above. And nevermore 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 passion's anguish to create in her young breast again. Bright was the luster 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 methods to unloose are not 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 past. He hurries up the garden alley in strangely sudden haste. With shaking hand he lifts the latchet, steps over 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. To a sink-like stone in placid pool, and calm, close, smoothly oh. Part two. 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 elume their aspects bright. The parents from their fireside place behold that pleasant scene, and joys on the mother's face, pride in the father's mean. 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 lisp 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 dress curled soft around her face. The beauty that in youth he would, his beauty still unfaded, the brow of ever placid mood, nor 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 send in every new cashead. The very silken spaniel seems of quiet ease to tell, as near its mistress-feated 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 mean. 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 wizards touch the present prospect flies. A tumult vague, a viewless strife, his futile struggles crush. Twixed him and his, an unknown life and unknown feelings rush. He sees, but scarce can language paint the tissue fancy weaves, for words often give but echo faint of thoughts the mind conceives. Noise, tumult strange and darkness dim, a face both light and quiet. No shape is in those shadows grim, no voice in that wild riot. Sustained 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 Jonas doomed, gulfed in the depths of ocean? Streaking the air, the nameless vision, fast driven deep sounding flows. Oh, whence it soars 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 slowly it rolls, its furious race sinks to a solemn gliding. The stunning roar, the wind's wild chase, to stillness are subsiding. And slowly born along a form the shapeless chaos varies, poised in the eddy to the storm before the eyed terrors. A woman drowned, sunk in the deep, on a long wave reclining. The circling waters crystal sweep, like glass, 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 vanish. 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, upper-born by air or below, 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 raise the trace of suffering's deep-worn furrow. All moved, a strong returning blast, the mass of waters raising. Boar wave and passive carcass passed, while Gilbert yet was gazing. Deep in herile 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 seaweed in the turbid wreck uptorn when 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, coarse, below's, tempest, wreck, three children close to Gilbert pressed, and clung around his neck. Good night, good night, the bradlass said, and kissed their father's cheek. It was 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. Yet pitying God abridged the time of anguish, now his fate. Though happily great has been his crime, they mercy too is great. Gilbert at length uplifts his head, bent for some moments low, and there is neither grief nor dread upon his subtle brow. For well can he his feelings task, and well his looks command, his features well his heart can mask, with smiles and smoothness bland. Gilbert has reasoned with his mind, he says it was all a dream. He strives his inward sight to blind, against truth's inward beam. He pitted not that shadowy thing, when it was flesh and blood. Nor now can pity's barmy spring refresh his arid mood. And if that dream has spoken truth, thus musingly he says, If Elinor be dead in sooth, such chance the chockery pays. And it was woven round my feet, I scarce could further go. Ere shame had forced a fast retreat, this honour brought me low. Conceal her then deep, silent sea, give her a secret grave. She sleeps in peace, and I am free, no longer terror's slave. And homage still, from all the world, shall greet my spotless name, since surges break and waves are curled, above its threatened shame. Part three. The welcome home. Above the city hangs the moon, some clouds are boating rain. Gilbert, air-wild on journey gone, tonight comes home again. Ten years have passed above his head, Ten years have passed above his head, each ear has brought him gain. His prosperous life has smoothly sped, without or tear or stain. To somewhat late, the city clocks twelve deep vibrations tall, as Gilbert at the portal knocks, which is his journey's call. The street is still and desolate, the moon hid by a cloud. Gilbert, impatient, will not wait, his second knock peels loud. The clocks are hushed, there's not a light in any window nigh, and not a single planet bright looks from the cloud its sky. The air is raw, the rain descends, a bitter north wind blows, his cloak the traveller scares defends, will not the door unclose. He knocks the third time, and the last, his summons now they hear. Within, a footstep hurrying fast is heard approaching near. The bolt is drawn, the clanking chain falls to the floor of stone, and Gilbert to his heart will strain his wife and children soon. The hand that lifts the latchet holds a candle to his side, and Gilbert on the step beholds a woman clad in white. Low, water from her dripping dress, rands on the streaming floor, from every dark and clinging tress that drops incessant pour. There's none but her to welcome him, she holds the candle high, and motionless in form and limb stands cold and silent nigh. There's sand and seaweed on her robe, her hollow eyes are blind, no pulse in such a frame can throb, no life is there defined. Gilbert turned ashy white, but still his lips vouchsaved no cry. His bird his strength and master will to pass the figure by, but moving slow, it faced him straight, it would not flinch nor quail. Then first did Gilbert's strength abate his stony firmness quail. He sank upon his knees and prayed the shape stood rigid there. He called aloud for human aid. No human aid was near. An accent strange did thus repeat, heaven's turn but just degree. The measure thou to herd its meat, to thee shall measured be. Gilbert sprang from his bended knees, by the pale spectre pushed, and, wild as one whom demons seize, up the whole staircase rushed, entered his chamber, near the bed, sheathed steel and firearms hung. Impaled by maniac purpose dread, he chose those stores among. Across his throat, a keen edged knife, with vigorous hand he drew. The wound was wide, his outraged life rushed rash and redly through. And thus died, by a shameful death, a wise and worldly man, who never drew but selfish breath since first his life began.