“The Wife’s Will” by Charlotte Bronte

SIT still–a word–a breath may break 
(As light airs stir a sleeping lake,) 
The glassy calm that soothes my woes, 
The sweet, the deep, the full repose.

O leave me not ! for ever be 
Thus, more than life itself to me !

Yes, close beside thee, let me kneel– 
Give me thy hand that I may feel 
The friend so true–so tried–so dear, 
My heart’s own chosen–indeed is near; 
And check me not–this hour divine 
Belongs to me–is fully mine.

‘Tis thy own hearth thou sitt’st beside, 
After long absence–wandering wide; 
‘Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes, 
A promise clear of stormless skies, 
For faith and true love light the rays, 
Which shine responsive to her gaze.

Aye,–well that single tear may fall; 
Ten thousand might mine eyes recall, 
Which from their lids, ran blinding fast, 
In hours of grief, yet scarcely past, 
Well may’st thou speak of love to me;
For, oh ! most truly–I love thee !

Yet smile–for we are happy now. 
Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow ? 
What say’st thou ? ” We must once again, 
Ere long, be severed by the main ? ” 
I knew not this–I deemed no more, 
Thy step would err from Britain’s shore.

” Duty commands ?” ‘Tis true–’tis just; 
Thy slightest word I wholly trust, 
Nor by request, nor faintest sigh 
Would I, to turn thy purpose, try; 
But, William–hear my solemn vow– 
Hear and confirm !–with thee I go.

” Distance and suffering,” did’st thou say ? 
” Danger by night, and toil by day ?” 
Oh, idle words, and vain are these; 
Hear me ! I cross with thee the seas. 
Such risk as thou must meet and dare, 
I–thy true wife–will duly share.

Passive, at home, I will not pine; 
Thy toils–thy perils, shall be mine; 
Grant this–and be hereafter paid 
By a warm heart’s devoted aid:
‘Tis granted–with that yielding kiss, 
Entered my soul unmingled bliss.

Thanks, William–thanks ! thy love has joy, 
Pure–undefiled with base alloy; 
‘Tis not a passion, false and blind, 
Inspires, enchains, absorbs my mind; 
Worthy, I feel, art thou to be 
Loved with my perfect energy.

This evening, now, shall sweetly flow, 
Lit by our clear fire’s happy glow;

And parting’s peace-embittering fear, 
Is warned, our hearts to come not near; 
For fate admits my soul’s decree, 
In bliss or bale–to go with thee !

CURRER.