Her reply was, that she
had never seen him before, nor any one like him. Though I am fully
persuaded that he was some fanatical enthusiast, well meaning perhaps,
but utterly ignorant of true piety; yet I could not forbear weeping at
his words, spoken so unexpectedly at that particular period."
Though the date of the following poem is a little uncertain, it may be
most convenient to introduce it here. It must have been written before
1833, but how much earlier there are no means of determining. I give it
as a specimen of the remarkable poetical talent shown in the various
diminutive writings of this time; at least, in all of them which I have
been able to read.
THE WOUNDED STAG.
Passing amid the deepest shade
Of the wood's sombre heart,
Last night I saw a wounded deer
Laid lonely and apart.
Such light as pierced the crowded boughs
(Light scattered, scant and dim,)
Passed through the fern that formed his couch
And centred full on him.
Pain trembled in his weary limbs,
Pain filled his patient eye,
Pain-crushed amid the shadowy fern
His branchy crown did lie.
Where were his comrades? where his mate?
All from his death-bed gone!
And he, thus struck and desolate,
Suffered and bled alone.
Did he feel what a man might feel,
Friend-left, and sore distrest?
Did Pain's keen dart, and Grief's sharp sting
Strive in his mangled breast?
Did longing for affection lost
Barb every deadly dart;
Love unrepaid, and Faith betrayed,
Did these torment his heart?
No! leave to man his proper doom!
These are the pangs that rise
Around the bed of state and gloom,
Where Adam's offspring dies!
CHAPTER VI
This is perhaps a fitting time to give some personal description of Miss
Bronte.
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