The following was intended as the first canto of a long poem. It also is entitled, 'Caroline;' and is the soliloquy of one 'Harriet,' who mourns for her sister, the subject of the poem, calling to mind her early recollection of the death and funeral of the departed one. It is extremely probable that Branwell made 'Harriet' a vehicle of expression for Charlotte or Emily, as he had adopted the name of 'Caroline' for Maria. CAROLINE. 'Calm and clear the day declining, Lends its brightness to the air, With a slanted sunlight shining, Mixed with shadows stretching far: Slow the river pales its glancing, Soft its waters cease their dancing, As the hush of eve advancing Tells our toils that rest is near. 'Why is such a silence given To this summer day's decay? Does our earth feel aught of Heaven? Can the voice of Nature pray? And when daylight's toils are done, Beneath its mighty Maker's throne. Can it, for noontide sunshine gone, Its debt with smiles repay? 'Quiet airs of sacred gladness Breathing through these woodlands wild, O'er the whirl of mortal madness Spread the slumbers of a child: These surrounding sweeps of trees Swaying to the evening breeze, With a voice like distant seas, Making music mild. 'Woodchurch Hall above them lowering Dark against the pearly sky, With its clustered chimneys towering, Wakes the wind while passing by: And in old ancestral glory, Round that scene of ancient story, All its oak-trees, huge and hoary, Wave their boughs on high. ''Mid those gables there is one-- The soonest dark when day is gone-- Which, when autumn winds are strongest, Moans the most and echoes longest. There--with her curls like sunset air, Like it all balmy, bright, and fair-- Sits Harriet, with her cheek reclined On arm as white as mountain snow; While, with a bursting swell, her mind Fills with thoughts of "Long Ago." 'As from yon spire a funeral bell, Wafting through heaven its mourning knell, Warns man that life's uncertain day Like lifeless Nature's must decay; And tells her that the warning deep Speaks where her own forefathers sleep, And where destruction makes a prey Of what was once this world to her, But which--like other gods of clay-- Has cheated its blind worshipper: With swelling breast and shining eyes That seem to chide the thoughtless skies, She strives in words to find relief For long-pent thoughts of mellowed grief.