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Bronte

Apostasy - Poem by Charlotte Bronte

This last denial of my faith,
Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;
And, though upon my bed of death,
I call not back a word.
Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,--
Thy sightless saint of stone;
She cannot, from this burning breast,
Wring one repentant moan.

Thou say'st, that when a sinless child,
I duly bent the knee,
And prayed to what in marble smiled
Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.
I did. But listen! Children spring
Full soon to riper youth;
And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring,
I sold my early truth.

'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine,
Bent o'er me, when I said,
"That land and God and Faith are mine,
For which thy fathers bled."
I see thee not, my eyes are dim;
But well I hear thee say,
"O daughter cease to think of him
Who led thy soul astray.

"Between you lies both space and time;
Let leagues and years prevail
To turn thee from the path of crime,
Back to the Church's pale."
And, did I need that, thou shouldst tell
What mighty barriers rise
To part me from that dungeon-cell,
Where my loved Walter lies?

And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt
My dying hour at last,
By bidding this worn spirit pant
No more for what is past?
Priest--MUST I cease to think of him?
How hollow rings that word!
Can time, can tears, can distance dim
The memory of my lord?

I said before, I saw not thee,
Because, an hour agone,
Over my eyeballs, heavily,
The lids fell down like stone.
But still my spirit's inward sight
Beholds his image beam
As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,
As some red planet's gleam.

Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,
Tell not thy beads for me;
Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,
As dews upon the sea.
Speak not one word of Heaven above,
Rave not of Hell's alarms;
Give me but back my Walter's love,
Restore me to his arms!

Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;
Then will Hell shrink away,
As I have seen night's terrors shun
The conquering steps of day.
'Tis my religion thus to love,
My creed thus fixed to be;
Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break
My rock-like constancy!

Now go; for at the door there waits
Another stranger guest;
He calls--I come--my pulse scarce beats,
My heart fails in my breast.
Again that voice--how far away,
How dreary sounds that tone!
And I, methinks, am gone astray
In trackless wastes and lone.

I fain would rest a little while:
Where can I find a stay,
Till dawn upon the hills shall smile,
And show some trodden way?
"I come! I come!" in haste she said,
"'Twas Walter's voice I heard!"
Then up she sprang--but fell back, dead,
His name her latest word.




About the Brontes
Emily
Anne
Charlotte
Branwell
Patrick


Charlotte Bronte Poetry
Winter Stores
Pilate's Wife's Dream
Mementos
The Wife's Will
The Wood
Frances
Gilbert I. The Garden
Gilbert II. The Parlour
Gilbert III. The Welcome Home
Life
The Letter
Regret
Presentiment
The Teacher's Monologue
Passion
Preference
Evening Solace
Stanzas
Parting
Apostasy
The Missionary


Emily Bronte Poetry
Faith and Despondency
Stars
The Philosopher
Remembrance
A Death-Scene
Song
Anticipation
The Prisoner - A Fragment
Hope
A Day Dream
To Imagination
How Clear She Shines
Sympathy
Plead for me
Self-Interogation
Death
Stanzas To --
Honour
Stanzas
My Comforter
The Old Stoic


Anne Bronte Poetry
A Reminiscence
The Arbour
Home
Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas
The Penitent
Music On Christmas Morning
Stanzas
If This Be All
Memory
To Cowper
The Doubter's Prayer
A Word To The "Elect"
Past Days
The Consolation
Lines Composed In A Wood On A Windy Day
Views Of Life
Appeal
The Student's Serenade
The Captive Dove
Self-Congratulation
Fluctuations




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