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Mementos.

by Charlotte Bronte

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 shells, from Indian seas,

These tiny portraits, set in rings,

Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things;

Keepsakes 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 unused, and dim, and damp;

Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover,

Bereft for years of fire and lamp.

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 daw 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 ill elsewhere, will pass by me.

I fear to see the very faces,

Familiar thirty years ago,

Even in the old accustomed 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 who once was mistress here;

Lest doubtful shade, or moonbeam trembling,

Might take her aspect, once 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 blest,

Blest in her youth, blest in her worth;

Her mind was calm, its sunny rest

Shone in her eyes more clear than mirth.

And when attired in rich array,

Light, lustrous hair about her brow,

She yonder sat, a kind of day

Lit up what seems so gloomy now.

These grim oak walls even then were grim;

That old carved chair was then antique;

But what around looked 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,

Ofttimes 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 lustre fitfully,

As their boughs parted momently,

To the soft, languid, summer breeze.

Alas! that she should e'er 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 brilliants have not lost a ray

Of lustre, since her wedding day.

But see, upon that pearly 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 that ne'er its mother knew,

That lone, and almost friendless grew;

For, ever, when its step drew nigh,

Averted 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, learnt untaught;

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 plaint she never made.

The book-shelves 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 hill would hie,

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 sombre 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 mien.

But bloom or lustre was there none,

Only at moments, fitful shone

An ardour in her eye,

That kindled on her cheek a flush,

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 strength unused,

Yet in gay crowd or festal glare,

Grave and retiring was her air;

'Twas seldom, save with me alone,

That fire of feeling freely shone;

She loved not awe's nor wonder's gaze,

Nor even exaggerated praise,

Nor even notice, if too keen

The curious gazer searched her mien.

Nature's own green expanse revealed

The world, the pleasures, she could prize;

On free hill-side, 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;

Shrined in her heart and hid from day,

They burned unseen with silent flame.

In youth's first search for mental light,

She lived but to reflect and learn,

But soon her mind's maturer might

For stronger task did pant and yearn;

And stronger task did fate assign,

Task that a giant's strength might strain;

To suffer long and ne'er repine,

Be calm in 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 lone she wanders

By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow;

Fain would I know if distance renders

Relief or comfort to her woe.

Fain 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, unsheltered,

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,

'Twill be with tired 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 grey 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; 'twas his, the sire

Of that forsaken child;

And nought his relics can inspire

Save memories, sin-defiled.

I, who sat by his wife's death-bed,

I, who his daughter loved,

Could almost curse the guilty dead,

For woes the guiltless proved.

And heaven did curse, they found him laid,

When crime for wrath was rife,

Cold, with the suicidal blade

Clutched in his desperate gripe.

'Twas 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 holier ashes 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 mirth

Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth

In some more cheerful room.