Gilbert

I. THE GARDEN.

ABOVE the city hung the moon,
  Right o'er a plot of ground
Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced
  With lofty walls around:
'Twas Gilbert's garden­there, to-night
  Awhile he walked alone;
And, tired with sedentary toil,
  Mused where the moonlight shone.

This garden, in a city-heart,
  Lay still as houseless wild,
Though many-windowed mansion fronts
  Were round it closely piled;
But thick their walls, and those within
  Lived lives by noise unstirred;
Like wafting of an angel's wing,
  Time's flight by them was heard.

Some soft piano-notes alone
  Were sweet as faintly given,
Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearth
  With song, that winter-even.
The city's many-mingled sounds
  Rose like the hum of ocean;
They rather lulled the heart than roused
  Its pulse to faster motion.

Gilbert has paced the single walk
  An hour, yet is not weary;
And, though it be a winter night,
  He feels nor cold nor dreary.
The prime of life is in his veins,
  And sends his blood fast flowing,
And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts
  Now in his bosom glowing.

Those thoughts recur to early love,
  Or what he love would name,
Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds
  Might other title claim.
Such theme not oft his mind absorbs,
  He to the world clings fast,
And too much for the present lives,
  To linger o'er the past.

But now the evening's deep repose
  Has glided to his soul;
That moonlight falls on Memory,
  And shows her fading scroll.
One name appears in every line
  The gentle rays shine o'er,
And still he smiles and still repeats
  That one name­Elinor.

There is no sorrow in his smile,
  No kindness in his tone;
The triumph of a selfish heart
  Speaks coldly there alone;
He says: ' She loved me more than life;
  And truly it was sweet
To see so fair a woman kneel,
  In bondage, at my feet.

There was a sort of quiet bliss
  To be so deeply loved,
To gaze on trembling eagerness
  And sit myself unmoved.
And when it pleased my pride to grant,
  At last some rare caress,
To feel the fever of that hand
  My fingers deigned to press.

'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide
  What every glance revealed;
Endowed, the while, with despot-might
  Her destiny to wield.
I knew myself no perfect man,
  Nor, as she deemed, divine;
I knew that I was glorious­but
  By her reflected shine;

Her youth, her native energy,
  Her powers new-born and fresh,
'Twas these with Godhead sanctified
  My sensual frame of flesh.
Yet, like a god did I descend
  At last, to meet her love;
And, like a god, I then withdrew
  To my own heaven above.

And never more could she invoke
  My presence to her sphere;
No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers
  Could win my awful ear.
I knew her blinded constancy
  Would ne'er my deeds betray,
And, calm in conscience, whole in heart,
  I went my tranquil way.

Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish,
  The fond and flattering pain
Of passion's anguish to create,
  In her young breast again.
Bright was the lustre of her eyes,
  When they caught fire from mine;
If I had power­this very hour,
  Again I 'd light their shine.

But where she is, or how she lives,
  I have no clue to know;
I 've heard she long my absence pined,
  And left her home in woe.
But busied, then, in gathering gold,
  As I am busied now,
I could not turn from such pursuit,
  To weep a broken vow.

Nor could I give to fatal risk
  The fame I ever prized;
Even now, I fear, that precious fame
  Is too much compromised.'
An inward trouble dims his eye,
  Some riddle he would solve;
Some method to unloose a knot,
  His anxious thoughts revolve.

He, pensive, leans against a tree,
  A leafy evergreen,
The boughs, the moonlight, intercept,
  And hide him like a screen;
He starts­the tree shakes with his tremor,
  Yet nothing near him pass'd,
He hurries up the garden alley,
  In strangely sudden haste.

With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet,
  Steps o'er the threshold stone;
The heavy door slips from his fingers,
  It shuts, and he is gone.
What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul ?
  A nervous thought, no more;
'Twill sink like stone in placid pool,
  And calm close smoothly o'er.

II. THE PARLOUR.

WARM is the parlour atmosphere,
  Serene the lamp's sof
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Charlotte Brontë

Charlotte Brontë was an English novelist and poet, the eldest of the three Brontë sisters who survived into adulthood and whose novels are English literature standards. more…

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"Gilbert" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 16 Sep. 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/5515/gilbert>.

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