The Outcast Mother.
I’ve seen this dell in July’s shine,
As lovely as an angel’s dream;
Above—Heaven’s depth of blue divine,
Around—the evening’s golden beam.
I’ve seen the purple heather-bell
Look out by many a storm-worn stone;
And, oh! I’ve known such music swell,—
Such wild notes wake these passes lone—
So soft, yet so intensely felt;
So low, yet so distinctly heard;
My breath would pause, my eyes would melt,
And tears would dew the green heath-sward.
I’d linger here a summer day,
Nor care how fast the hours flew by;
Nor mark the sun’s departing ray
Smile sadly from the dark’ning sky.
Then, then, I might have laid me down,
And dreamed my sleep would gentle be;
I might have left thee, darling one,
And thought thy God was guarding thee!
But now there is no wand’ring glow,
No gleam to say that God is nigh;
And coldly spreads the couch of snow,
And harshly sounds thy lullaby.
Forests of heather, dark and long,
Wave their brown branching arms above;
And they must soothe thee with their song,
And they must shield my child of love.
Alas! the flakes are heavily falling,
They cover fast each guardian crest;
And chilly white their shroud is palling
Thy frozen limbs and freezing breast.
Wakes up the storm more madly wild,
The mountain drifts are tossed on high;
Farewell, unbless’d, unfriended child,
I cannot bear to watch thee die!
E. J. Brontë.
Haworth, July 12th, 1839.