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    "Those who welcome death have only tried it from the ears up."

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    by Charlotte Bronte
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    Published under Charlotte's nom de plume 'Currer Bell' in 1846.


    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.

    If you're writing a Apostasy essay and need some advice, post your Charlotte Bronte essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

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