Bronte The Bronte Sisters All Seven Novels

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-4553-9186-8
Verlag: Seltzer Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 3832 Seiten

This book-collection file includes: Cottage Poems by Patrick Bronte (father of the Bronte sisters), 1811; Poems by Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Bronte, 1846; Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, 1847; Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, 1847; Agnes Grey by Anne Bronte, 1847; The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte, 1848; Shirley by Charlotte Bronte, 1849; Biographical Notice of Ellis and Acton Bell, 1850; Villette by Charlotte Bronte, 1853; The Professor by Charlotte Bronte, 1857; The Life of Charlotte Bronte by Elizabeth Gaskell, 1857; and Charlotte Bronte and Her Circle by Clement K. Shorter, 1896.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Bronte, Charlotte

Leseproben

REMEMBRANCE.
  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 for ever, ever more?   Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers, 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 morn 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 with thee.   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 memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?   A DEATH-SCENE.   "O day! he cannot die When thou so fair art shining! O Sun, in such a glorious sky, So tranquilly declining;   He 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-- Arouse 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 blest 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-- Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again; I cannot let thee rest!"   One long look, that sore reproved me For the woe I could not bear-- One mute 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.   Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting; Sunk to peace the twilight breeze: Summer dews 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.   SONG.
  The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair:   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 ween, that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er 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 honour's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue-- The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.   And, if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh!   Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer-streams-- There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.   ANTICIPATION.
  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 summer win thee to forget December's sullen time! Why dost thou hold the treasure fast, Of youth's delight, when youth is past, And thou art near thy prime?   When those who were thy own compeers, Equals in fortune and in years, Have seen their morning melt in tears, To clouded, smileless day; Blest, had they died untried and young, Before their hearts went wandering wrong,-- Poor slaves, subdued by passions 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 phase of earthly joy Must always fade, and always cloy:   'This I foresaw--and would not chase The fleeting treacheries; But, with firm foot and tranquil face, Held backward from that tempting race, Gazed o'er 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 maturer eyes, 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.   Glad comforter! will I not brave, Unawed, 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 thy strength, to anticipate Rewarding destiny!   THE PRISONER. A FRAGMENT.
  In the dungeon-crypts idly did I stray, Reckless of the lives wasting there away; "Draw the ponderous bars! open, Warder stern!" He dared not say me nay--the hinges harshly turn.   "Our guests are darkly lodged," I whisper'd, gazing through The vault, whose grated eye showed heaven more gray than blue; (This was when glad Spring laughed in awaking pride;) "Ay, darkly lodged enough!" returned my sullen guide.   Then, God forgive my youth; forgive my careless tongue; I scoffed, as the chill chains on the damp flagstones rung: "Confined in triple walls, art thou so much to fear, That we must bind thee down and clench thy fetters here?"   The captive raised her face; it was as soft and mild As sculptured marble saint, or slumbering unwean'd child; It was so soft and mild, it was so sweet and fair, Pain could not trace a line, nor grief a shadow there!   The captive raised her hand and pressed it to her brow; "I have been struck," she said, "and I am suffering now; Yet these are little worth, your bolts and irons strong; And, were they forged in steel, they could not hold me long."   Hoarse laughed the jailor grim:  "Shall I be won to hear; Dost think, fond, dreaming wretch, that I shall grant thy prayer? Or, better still, wilt melt my master's heart with groans? Ah! sooner might the sun thaw down these granite stones.   "My master's voice is low, his aspect bland and kind, But hard as hardest flint the soul that lurks behind; And I am rough and rude, yet not more rough to see Than is the hidden ghost that has its home in me."   About her lips there played a smile of almost scorn, "My friend," she gently said, "you have not heard me mourn; When you my kindred's lives, MY lost life, can restore, Then may I weep and sue,--but never, friend, before!   "Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair; A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, And...