sheer disgust and desperation. Why could they not give me some credit when I was trying to be good?"'[25] [25] 'The Mirror,' 1872. At the beginning of March, Charlotte returned from a visit to a friend, and we hear that she found it very forced work to address her brother when she went into the room where he was; but he took no notice, and made no reply; he was stupefied; she had heard that he had got a sovereign while she was away, on pretence of paying a pressing debt, and had changed it, at a public-house, with the expected result. Again Charlotte says, on March 31st, 1846: 'I am thankful papa continues pretty well, though often made very miserable by Branwell's wretched conduct. _There_--there is no change but for the worse.' At this time Branwell wrote the following beautiful ode, somewhat incomplete in its expression, yet characteristic of his genius, which seems to have been inspired by the outcast feelings of which he spoke to Mr. Phillips, and to contain some reproach to those who thought him deficient in natural affection. It bears date April 3rd, 1846: EPISTLE FROM A FATHER TO A CHILD IN HER GRAVE. 'From Earth,--whose life-reviving April showers Hide withered grass 'neath Springtide's herald flowers, And give, in each soft wind that drives her rain, Promise of fields and forests rich again,-- I write to thee, the aspect of whose face Can never change with altered time or place; Whose eyes could look on India's fiercest wars Less shrinking than the boldest son of Mars; Whose lips, more firm that Stoic's long ago, Would neither smile with joy nor blanch with woe; Whose limbs could sufferings far more firmly bear Than mightiest heroes in the storms of war; Whose frame, nor wishes good, nor shrinks from ill, Nor feels distraction's throb, nor pleasure's thrill. 'I write to thee what thou wilt never read, For heed me thou _wilt not_, howe'er may bleed The heart that many think a worthless stone, But which oft aches for some belovéd one; Nor, if that life, mysterious, from on high, Once more gave feeling to thy stony eye, Could'st thou thy father know, or feel that he Gave life and lineaments and thoughts to thee; For when thou died'st, thy day was in its dawn, And night still struggled with Life's opening morn; The twilight star of childhood, thy young days Alone illumined, with its twinkling rays, So sweet, yet feeble, given from those dusk skies, Whose kindling, coming noontide prophesies, But tells us not that Summer's noon can shroud Our sunshine with a veil of thunder-cloud. 'If, when thou freely gave the life, that ne'er To thee had given either hope or fear, But quietly had shone; nor asked if joy Thy future course should cheer, or grief annoy;