Cette fois, pour donner une idée du caractère collaboratif des œuvres de jeunesse de la fratrie Brontë, voici deux poèmes d’Emily et Anne Brontë composés pour leur univers de Gondal (en grande partie disparu pour rappel). S'ils ne semblent pas liés par les mêmes évènements, ces deux poèmes possèdent en commun de voir d'une part (chez Emily) Julius Brenzaida, le héros principal de la saga, d'autre part (chez Anne) Alexander Hiberbia, exprimer leurs plaintes d'avoir été condamnés à croupir dans les sombres cachots du Palais de l'Instruction sur l'île de Gaaldine, le premier pour des motifs politiques, le second pour des causes inconnues. On pourra s'amuser à comparer le style des auteurs, déclamatoire quant à Emily, recueilli quant à Anne.
I
From a dungeon wall
in the southern college
in the southern college
(Emily Brontë)
Listen! when your hair like mine
Takes a tint of silver grey,
When your eyes, with dimmer shine,
Watch life’s bubble float away,
When you, young man, have borne like me
The weary weight of sixty three
Then shall penance sore be paid
For these hours so wildly squandered
And the words that now fall dead
On your ears be deeply pondered
Pondered and approved at last
But their virtue will be past!
Glorious is the prize of Duty
Though she be a serious power
Treacherous all the lures of Beauty
Thorny bud and poisonous flower!
Mirth is but a mad beguiling
Of the golden gifted Time –
Love – a demon meteor wiling
Heedless feet to gulfs of crime.
Those who follow earthly pleasure
Heavenly knowledge will not lead
Wisdom hides from them her treasure,
Virtues bids them evil speed!
Vainly may their hearts, repenting,
Seek for aid in future years –
Wisdom scorned knows no relenting –
Virtue is not won by tears
Fain would we your steps reclaim
Waken fear and holy shame
And to this end, our council well
And kindly doomed you to a cell
Whose darkness, may perchance, disclose
A beacon-guide from sterner woes –
So spake my Judge – then seized his lamp
And left me in the dungeon damp,
A vault-like place whose stagnant air
Suggests and nourishes dispair!
Rosina, this had never been
Except for you, my despot queen!
Except for you the billowy sea
Would now be tossing under me
The wind’s wild voice my bosom thrill
And my glad heart bound wilder still
Flying before the rapid gale
Those wondrous southern isles to hail
Which wait for my companions free
But thank your passion – not for me!
You know too well – and so do I
Your haughty beauty’s sovereignty
Yet have I read those falcon eyes –
Have dived into their mysteries –
Have studied long their glance and feel
It is not love those eyes reveal –
They Flash – they burn with lightening shine
But not with such fond fire as mine;
The tender star fades faint and wan
Before Ambition’s scorching sun –
So deem I now – And Time will prove
If I have wronged Rosina’s love –
L’Homme au masque de fer – Célestin François Nanteuil
II
Lines inscribed on
the wall of a dungeon
in the southern P of I. by A.H
(Anne Brontë)
Though not a breath can enter here,
I know the wind blows fresh and free,
I know the sun is shining clear,
Though not a gleam visit me.
They thought while I in darkness lay,
‘Twere pity that I should not know,
How all the earth is smiling gay,
How fresh the vernal breezes blow.
They knew, such tidings to impart,
Would pierce my weary spirit through
And could they better read my heart,
They’d tell me, she was smiling too.
They need not, for I know it well;
Methinks I see her even know;
No sigh disturbs her bosome’s swell,
No shade o’vercasts her angel brow.
Unmarred by grief her matchless voice,
Whence sparkling wit, and wisdom flow:
And others in its sound rejoice,
And taste the joys, I must not know.
Drink rapture from her soft dark eye,
And sunshine from her heavenly smile,
On wings of bliss their moments fly
And I am pining here the while!
Oh! tell me does she never give –
To my distress a single sigh?
She smiles on them, but does she grieve
One moment, when they are not bye?
When she beholds the sunny skies,
And feels the wind of heaven blow;
Has she no tear of him that lies
In dungeon gloom, so far below?
While others gladly round her press
And at her side their hours beguile,
Has she no sigh for his distress
Who can not see a single smile
Not hear one word nor read a line
That her beloved hand might write
Who banished from her face must pine
Each day a long, a lonely night?
Alexander Hibernia
29 janvier 2014
