CHAPTER XIV.

POEMS ON 'CAROLINE.'

The Poetical bent of Branwell's Genius--'Caroline's Prayer'--'On Caroline'--'Caroline'--Spirit of these Early Effusions.

While Branwell was occupying his leisure as stated in the last chapter, and otherwise employing himself in a desultory way, he pursued the poetic bent of his genius, and sought the improvement of his diction and verse. Among the earliest of his poetical productions, the following are, perhaps, the best. They are distinguished by a similar train of thought and reflection, and by similar sentiments of piety and devotion, as also by the same gloom and sadness of mood, which pervade the poems of his sisters. Indeed, without knowing they were actually Branwell's, we might easily believe them to be from the pen of Charlotte, Emily, or Anne.

The three following poetical essays are on 'Caroline,' under which name Branwell indicates his sister Maria; and, in two of them, he records his reminiscences of her death and funeral obsequies. The first of the three, which he has framed in the sentiments and words of a child, is entitled:

CAROLINE'S PRAYER,

OR THE CHANGE FROM CHILDHOOD TO WOMANHOOD.

'My Father, and my childhood's guide! If oft I've wandered far from Thee; E'en though Thine only Son has died To save from death a child like me;

'O! still--to Thee when turns my heart In hours of sadness, frequent now-- Be Thou the God that once Thou wert, And calm my breast, and clear my brow.

'I'm now no more a little child O'ershadowed by Thy mighty wing; My very dreams seem now more wild Than those my slumbers used to bring.

'I further see--I deeper feel-- With hope more warm, but heart less mild; And former things new shapes reveal, All strangely brightened or despoiled.

'I'm entering on Life's open tide; So--farewell childhood's shores divine! And, oh, my Father, deign to guide, Through these wide waters, Caroline!'

The second is:

ON CAROLINE.

'The light of thy ancestral hall, Thy Caroline, no longer smiles: She has changed her palace for a pall, Her garden walks for minster aisles: Eternal sleep has stilled her breast Where peace and pleasure made their shrine; Her golden head has sunk to rest-- Oh, would that rest made calmer mine!

'To thee, while watching o'er the bed Where, mute and motionless, she lay, How slow the midnight moments sped! How void of sunlight woke the day! Nor ope'd her eyes to morning's beam, Though all around thee woke to her; Nor broke thy raven-pinioned dream Of coffin, shroud, and sepulchre.

'Why beats thy breast when hers is still? Why linger'st thou when she is gone? Hop'st thou to light on good or ill? To find companionship alone? Perhaps thou think'st the churchyard stone Can hide past smiles and bury sighs: That Memory, with her soul, has flown; That thou canst leave her where she lies.

'No! joy _itself_ is but a shade, So well may its remembrance die; But cares, life's conquerors, never fade, So strong is their reality! Thou may'st forget the day which gave That child of beauty to thy side, But not the moment when the grave Took back again thy borrowed bride.'

Here Branwell, though he has changed the form of expression and the circumstance of the loss, is still occupied with the same theme of family bereavement, with which Charlotte herself was so much impressed.

The following was intended as the first canto of a long poem. It also is entitled, 'Caroline;' and is the soliloquy of one 'Harriet,' who mourns for her sister, the subject of the poem, calling to mind her early recollection of the death and funeral of the departed one. It is extremely probable that Branwell made 'Harriet' a vehicle of expression for Charlotte or Emily, as he had adopted the name of 'Caroline' for Maria.

CAROLINE.

'Calm and clear the day declining, Lends its brightness to the air, With a slanted sunlight shining, Mixed with shadows stretching far: Slow the river pales its glancing, Soft its waters cease their dancing, As the hush of eve advancing Tells our toils that rest is near.

'Why is such a silence given To this summer day's decay? Does our earth feel aught of Heaven? Can the voice of Nature pray? And when daylight's toils are done, Beneath its mighty Maker's throne. Can it, for noontide sunshine gone, Its debt with smiles repay?

'Quiet airs of sacred gladness Breathing through these woodlands wild, O'er the whirl of mortal madness Spread the slumbers of a child: These surrounding sweeps of trees Swaying to the evening breeze, With a voice like distant seas, Making music mild.

'Woodchurch Hall above them lowering Dark against the pearly sky, With its clustered chimneys towering, Wakes the wind while passing by: And in old ancestral glory, Round that scene of ancient story, All its oak-trees, huge and hoary, Wave their boughs on high.

''Mid those gables there is one-- The soonest dark when day is gone-- Which, when autumn winds are strongest, Moans the most and echoes longest. There--with her curls like sunset air, Like it all balmy, bright, and fair-- Sits Harriet, with her cheek reclined On arm as white as mountain snow; While, with a bursting swell, her mind Fills with thoughts of "Long Ago."

'As from yon spire a funeral bell, Wafting through heaven its mourning knell, Warns man that life's uncertain day Like lifeless Nature's must decay; And tells her that the warning deep Speaks where her own forefathers sleep, And where destruction makes a prey Of what was once this world to her, But which--like other gods of clay-- Has cheated its blind worshipper: With swelling breast and shining eyes That seem to chide the thoughtless skies, She strives in words to find relief For long-pent thoughts of mellowed grief.

'"Time's clouds roll back, and memory's light Bursts suddenly upon my sight; For thoughts, which words could never tell, Find utterance in that funeral bell. My heart, this eve, seemed full of feeling, Yet nothing clear to me revealing; Sounding in breathings undefined Æolian music to my mind: Then strikes that bell, and all subsides Into a harmony, which glides As sweet and solemn as the dream Of a remembered funeral hymn. This scene seemed like the magic glass, Which bore upon its clouded face Strange shadows that deceived the eye With forms defined uncertainly; That Bell is old Agrippa's wand, Which parts the clouds on either hand, And shows the pictured forms of doom Momently brightening through the gloom: Yes--shows a scene of bygone years-- Opens a fount of sealed-up tears-- And wakens memory's pensive thought To visions sleeping--not forgot. It brings me back a summer's day, Shedding like this its parting ray, With skies as shining and serene, And hills as blue, and groves as green.

'"Ah, well I recollect that hour, When I sat, gazing, just as now, Toward that ivy-mantled tower Among these flowers which wave below! No--not these flowers--they're long since dead, And flowers have budded, bloomed, and gone, Since those were plucked which gird the head Laid underneath yon churchyard stone! I stooped to pluck a rose that grew Beside this window, waving then; But back my little hand withdrew, From some reproof of inward pain; For _she who loved it_ was not there To check me with her dove-like eye, And something bid my heart forbear _Her_ favourite rosebud to destroy. Was it that bell--that funeral bell, Sullenly sounding on the wind? Was it that melancholy knell Which first to sorrow woke my mind? I looked upon my mourning dress Till my heart beat with childish fear, And--frightened at my loneliness-- I watched, some well-known sound to hear. But all without lay silent in The sunny hush of afternoon, And only muffled steps within Passed slowly and sedately on. I well can recollect the awe With which I hastened to depart; And, as I ran, the instinctive start With which my mother's form I saw, Arrayed in black, with pallid face, And cheeks and 'kerchief wet with tears, As down she stooped to kiss my face And quiet my uncertain fears.

'"She led me, in her mourning hood, Through voiceless galleries, to a room, 'Neath whose black hangings crowded stood, With downcast eyes and brows of gloom, My known relations; while--with head Declining o'er my sister's bed-- My father's stern eye dropt a tear Upon the coffin resting there. My mother lifted me to see What might within that coffin be; And, to this moment, I can feel The voiceless gasp--the sickening chill-- With which I hid my whitened face In the dear folds of her embrace; For hardly dared I turn my head Lest its wet eyes should view that bed. 'But, Harriet,' said my mother mild, 'Look at _your_ sister and my child One moment, ere her form be hid For ever 'neath its coffin lid!' I heard the appeal, and answered too; For down I bent to bid adieu. But, as I looked, forgot affright In mild and magical delight.

'"There lay she then, as now she lies-- For not a limb has moved since then-- In dreamless slumber closed, those eyes That never more might wake again. She lay, as I had seen her lie On many a happy night before, When I was humbly kneeling by-- Whom she was teaching to adore: Oh, just as when by her I prayed, And she to heaven sent up my prayer, She lay with flowers about her head-- Though formal grave-clothes hid her hair! Still did her lips the smile retain Which parted them when hope was high, Still seemed her brow as smoothed from pain As when all thought she could not die. And, though her bed looked cramped and strange, Her _too_ bright cheek all faded now, My young eyes scarcely saw a change From hours when moonlight paled her brow. And yet I felt--and scarce could speak-- A chilly face, a faltering breath, When my hand touched the marble cheek Which lay so passively beneath. In fright I gasped, 'Speak, Caroline!' And bade my sister to arise; But answered not her voice to mine, Nor ope'd her sleeping eyes. I turned toward my mother then And prayed on her to call; But, though she strove to hide her pain, It forced her tears to fall. She pressed me to her aching breast As if her heart would break, And bent in silence o'er the rest Of one she could not wake: The rest of one, whose vanished years Her soul had watched in vain; The end of mother's hopes and fears, And happiness and pain.

'"They came--they pressed the coffin lid Above my Caroline, And then, I felt, for ever hid My sister's face from mine! There was one moment's wildered start-- One pang remembered well-- When first from my unhardened heart The tears of anguish fell: That swell of thought which seemed to fill The bursting heart, the gushing eye, While fades all _present_ good or ill Before the shades of things gone by. All else seems blank--the mourning march, The proud parade of woe, The passage 'neath the churchyard arch, The crowd that met the show. My place or thoughts amid the train I strive to recollect, in vain-- I could not think or see: I cared not whither I was borne: And only felt that death had torn My Caroline from me.

'"Slowly and sadly, o'er her grave, The organ peals its passing stave, And, to its last dark dwelling-place, The corpse attending mourners bear, While, o'er it bending, many a face 'Mongst young companions shows a tear. I think I glanced toward the crowd That stood in musing silence by, And even now I hear the sound Of some one's voice amongst them cry-- 'I am the Resurrection and the Life-- He who believes in me shall never die!'

'"Long years have never worn away The unnatural strangeness of that day, When I beheld--upon the plate Of grim death's mockery of state-- That well-known word, that long-loved name, Now but remembered like the dream Of half-forgotten hymns divine, My sister's name--my Caroline! Down, down, they lowered her, sad and slow, Into her narrow house below: And deep, indeed, appeared to be That one glimpse of eternity, Where, cut from life, corruption lay, Where beauty soon should turn to clay! Though scarcely conscious, hotly fell The drops that spoke my last farewell; And wild my sob, when hollow rung The first cold clod above her flung, When glitter was to turn to rust, 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!'

'"How bitter seemed that moment when, Earth's ceremonies o'er, We from the filled grave turned again To leave her evermore; And, when emerging from the cold Of damp, sepulchral air, As I turned, listless to behold The evening fresh and fair, How sadly seemed to smile the face Of the descending sun! How seemed as if his latest race Were with that evening run! There sank his orb behind the grove Of my ancestral home, With heaven's unbounded vault above To canopy his tomb. Yet lingering sadly and serene, As for his last farewell, To shine upon those wild woods green O'er which he'd loved to dwell.

'"I lost him, and the silent room, Where soon at rest I lay, Began to darken, 'neath the gloom Of twilight's dull decay; So, sobbing as my heart would break, And blind with gushing eyes, Hours seemed whole nights to me awake, And day as 'twould not rise. I almost prayed that I might die-- But then the thought would come That, if I did, my corpse must lie In yonder dismal tomb; Until, methought, I saw its stone, By moonshine glistening clear, While Caroline's bright form alone Kept silent watching there: All white with angel's wings she seemed, And indistinct to see; But when the unclouded moonlight beamed I saw her beckon me, And fade, thus beckoning, while the wind Around that midnight wall, To me--now lingering years behind-- Seemed then my sister's call!

'"And thus it brought me back the hours When we, at rest together, Used to lie listening to the showers Of wild December weather; Which, when, as oft, they woke in her The chords of inward thought, Would fill with pictures that wild air, From far off memories brought; So, while I lay, I heard again Her silver-sounding tongue, Rehearsing some remembered strain Of old times long agone! And, flashed across my spirit's sight, What she had often told me-- When, laid awake on Christmas night, Her sheltering arms would fold me-- About that midnight-seeming day, Whose gloom o'er Calvary thrown, Showed trembling Nature's deep dismay At what her sons had done: When sacred Salem's murky air Was riven with the cry, Which told the world how mortals dare The Immortal crucify; When those who, sorrowing, sat afar, With aching heart and eye, Beheld their great Redeemer there, 'Mid sneers and scoffings die; When all His earthly vigour fled, When thirsty faintness bowed His head, When His pale limbs were moistened o'er With deathly dews and dripping gore, When quivered all His worn-out frame, As Death, triumphant, quenched life's flame, When upward gazed His glazing eyes To those tremendous-seeming skies, When burst His cry of agony-- 'My God!--my God!--hast Thou forsaken me!' My youthful feelings startled then, As if the temple, rent in twain, Horribly pealing on my ear With its deep thunder note of fear, Wrapping the world in general gloom, As if her God's were Nature's tomb; While sheeted ghosts before my gaze Passed, flitting 'mid the dreary maze, As if rejoicing at the day When death--their king--o'er Heaven had sway. In glistening charnel damps arrayed, They seemed to gibber round my head, Through night's drear void directing me Toward still and solemn Calvary, Where gleamed that cross with steady shine Around the thorn-crowned head divine-- A flaming cross--a beacon light To this world's universal night! It seemed to shine with such a glow, And through my spirit piercing so, That, pantingly, I strove to cry For her, whom I thought slumbered by, And hide me from that awful shine In the embrace of Caroline! I wakened in the attempt--'twas day; The troubled dream had fled away; 'Twas day--and I, alone, was laid In that great room and stately bed; No Caroline beside me! Wide And unrelenting swept the tide Of death 'twixt her and me!" There paused Sweet Harriet's voice, for such thoughts caused--'

* * * * *

This poem springs from the deepest feelings, and from sorrows the most poignant. The respective images, tinctured with grief and despondency, pass before us with weird and vivid reality; and many of the passages are imbued with great tenderness, beauty, and pathos. The painful, and, perhaps, too morbid intensity of some of the pictures, whether of dreams or realities, is painted here with the skill of no common artist, whatever youthful defects may be observed in the composition. The poem is one more notable for tender sweetness than any other that remains from Branwell; but it lacks in places the vigour and power of his later compositions, and is, in several parts, of unequal merit. In the earlier portion of it, where he assumes the iambic measure, it is not difficult to perceive the influence of Byron on his diction. In this work Branwell again recurs to the time when tears of anguish flowed from his yet 'unhardened heart,' whose present woes are forgotten in the swelling thoughts of 'things gone by.' We recognize with what pathetic feeling he paints in Caroline all the qualities of instructress, guardian, and friend, which had characterized his sister Maria. Long afterwards Charlotte Brontë, inspired by similar feelings, devoted the first chapters of 'Jane Eyre' to a delineation, in the character of Helen Burns, of the disposition of her dead sister, whose death, a few days after her return from Cowan Bridge, she could scarcely ever either forget or forgive.