Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

 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.