POEMS
by
CURRER, ELLIS, AND ACTON BELL.
(Charlotte, Emily and Anne Bronte)
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;
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 ...
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