LAMENT BEFITTING THESE ‘TIMES OF NIGHT.’
Reading edition
BY CHARLOTTE BRONTË.
This Lament for martyr, soldier, and sage,
‘Him who had walked through the times of night,’
so apposite to these present times, is from verses in the MSS. of the British Museum, signed in her handwriting, ‘Unfinished. C. Brontë. 70 lines, Novbr. 28th, 1834.’ The lines bear no title. They were preserved by her in a collection of her writings for which she made a title-page, ‘The Scrap Book. A Mingling of Many Things, compiled by Lord C. A. F. Wellesley. C. Brontë, March 17th, 1835.’ The book contains ‘chips from her workshop’ during her nineteenth year, one of her happiest years at home. She was still using the pseudonym of her childhood days, associated with her idol, the Duke of Wellington. In this period she was celebrating heroes; compare her poems ‘Richard Cœur de Lion and Blondel’ and ‘Saul.’
The obvious allusion in the first twelve lines is to the protomartyr of Christianity. The stanza upon the ‘son of wisdom’ refers to Socrates, the protomartyr of Paganism. The lament for the soldier, ‘laid on the battle-plain,’ is set like a gem between these stanzas, and flashes out her conception of the true patriot and hero. She ranks the dying common soldier,
‘His thoughts all for his fatherland,’
with St. Stephen and Socrates, a trinity of martyrs of faith, of patriotism, and of philosophy.
I trust lovers of Charlotte Brontë will welcome, in this centennial year of her birth, the first publication of this poem.
George E. MacLean.
Lament for the Martyr who dies for his faith, Who prays for his foes with his failing breath, Who sees, as he looks to the kindling sky, God and his captain, the Saviour, nigh; Who sees the mighty recompense, When soul is conquering flesh and sense; Sees heaven and all its angels bright, At the very end of his mortal fight, At the black close of that agony Which sets the impatient spirit free; Then, as in Christ he sinks to sleep, Weep for the Dying Martyr, weep. And the soldier, laid on the battle-plain Alone at the close of night, alone, The passing off of some warlike-strain Blent with his latest moan; His thoughts all for his fatherland, His feeble heart, his unnerved hand Still quiveringly upraised to wield Once more his bright sword on the field, While wakes his fainting energy To gain her yet one victory; As he lies bleeding, cold and low, As life’s red tide is ebbing slow, Lament for fallen bravery. For the son of wisdom, the holy sage, Full of knowledge and hoar with age, Him who had walked through the times of night, As if on his path a secret light Lustrous and pure and silent fell; To all, save himself, invisible, A secret ray from Heaven’s own shrine Poured on that spirit half divine, And making a single Isle of light In the wide blank ocean of Pagan night; Lament for him as you see him laid Waiting for Death on the Dungeon bed, The sickly lamp beside him burning, Its dim ray falling on sorrow and gloom; Around him his sad disciples mourning, As they watch for the hour of awful doom; And he, by coming death unshaken, As if that slumber would soon be o’er, As if all freshened he should waken And see the light of morn once more. Ay, on the sage’s, the soldier’s bier I could drop many a pitying tear, And as the martyr sinks to sleep I could in love, in sorrow weep. ...