19th century book club - Poetry of the Brontes
I read *The Brontes: Selected Poems*, edited by Juliet R.V. Barker (1985). I was given it as a teen and I still really appreciate the work in it, especially Emily Bronte's. (In some ways I think her over the top romanticism works best in the form of poetry rather than the novel).
For the benefit of those who have not had time to find the poetical works of the Brontes, here are some examples:
Charlotte Bronte likes the big, over the top declarations of painful love... Not surprising.
‘He saw my heart’s woe, discovered my soul’s anguish
How in fever, in thirst, in atrophy it pined;
Knew he could heal, yet looked and let it languish
To its moans spirit-deaf, to its pangs spirit-blind.’
Poor old Branwell Bronte wrote works which showed off his erudition in the form of classical allusions and which have dated terribly. See if you can read this without snoring...
‘Maecenas, sprung from kingly line,
My guardian and my guide divine;
Many there are whose pleasure lies
In striving for the victor’s prize,
Whom dust clouds, drifting o’er the throng
As whirls the Olympic car along,
And kindling wheels, and close shunned goal
Amid the highest gods enrole.’
Emily Bronte is my favourite. I would probably find her works too over the top if I had come to them as an adult, but I first read them in adolescence so they seem moving to me.
Riches I hold in light esteem
And Love I laugh to scorn
And lust of Fame was but a dream
That vanished with the morn-
And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is-
"Leave the heart that now I bear And give me liberty."
Yes, as my swift days near their goal
'Tis all that I implore Through life and death,
a chainless soul With courage to endure!
And this one which came from her imaginary world which she shared with Anne.
R. Alcona to J. Brenzaida (March 3, 1845)
Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee!
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my Only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-wearing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains on Angora's shore;
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
That noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring--
Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee
While the World's tide is bearing me along:
Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure but cannot do thee wrong.
No other Sun has lightened up my heaven;
No other Star has ever shone for me:
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But when the days of golden dreams had perished
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy;
Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine!
And even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
Anne Bronte wrote on a much quieter but still fine scale.
‘If Life must be so full of care -
Then call me soon to Thee;
Or give me strength enough to bear
My load of misery.’
Some questions to aid discussion.
* What was with the obsession with death? A result of their upbringing or a general nineteenth-century preoccupation? Or a general poetic obssession?
* Does the use of rhyme lead you through the poetry?
* Compare and contrast the siblings.
Our first read of 2011!
For the benefit of those who have not had time to find the poetical works of the Brontes, here are some examples:
Charlotte Bronte likes the big, over the top declarations of painful love... Not surprising.
‘He saw my heart’s woe, discovered my soul’s anguish
How in fever, in thirst, in atrophy it pined;
Knew he could heal, yet looked and let it languish
To its moans spirit-deaf, to its pangs spirit-blind.’
Poor old Branwell Bronte wrote works which showed off his erudition in the form of classical allusions and which have dated terribly. See if you can read this without snoring...
‘Maecenas, sprung from kingly line,
My guardian and my guide divine;
Many there are whose pleasure lies
In striving for the victor’s prize,
Whom dust clouds, drifting o’er the throng
As whirls the Olympic car along,
And kindling wheels, and close shunned goal
Amid the highest gods enrole.’
Emily Bronte is my favourite. I would probably find her works too over the top if I had come to them as an adult, but I first read them in adolescence so they seem moving to me.
Riches I hold in light esteem
And Love I laugh to scorn
And lust of Fame was but a dream
That vanished with the morn-
And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is-
"Leave the heart that now I bear And give me liberty."
Yes, as my swift days near their goal
'Tis all that I implore Through life and death,
a chainless soul With courage to endure!
And this one which came from her imaginary world which she shared with Anne.
R. Alcona to J. Brenzaida (March 3, 1845)
Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee!
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my Only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-wearing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains on Angora's shore;
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
That noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring--
Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee
While the World's tide is bearing me along:
Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure but cannot do thee wrong.
No other Sun has lightened up my heaven;
No other Star has ever shone for me:
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But when the days of golden dreams had perished
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy;
Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine!
And even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
Anne Bronte wrote on a much quieter but still fine scale.
‘If Life must be so full of care -
Then call me soon to Thee;
Or give me strength enough to bear
My load of misery.’
Some questions to aid discussion.
* What was with the obsession with death? A result of their upbringing or a general nineteenth-century preoccupation? Or a general poetic obssession?
* Does the use of rhyme lead you through the poetry?
* Compare and contrast the siblings.
Our first read of 2011!