Forests of heather, dark and long, Wave their brown branching arms above; And they must soothe thee with their song, And they must shield my child of love. * * * * * Wakes up the storm more madly wild, The mountain drifts are tossed on high; Farewell, unblessed, unfriended child, I cannot bear to watch thee die. In an unmistakable Gondal song Geraldine's lover calls her to the tryst on the moor. In the Gondal poem "Geraldine", she has her child with her in a woodland cavern, and she prays over it wildly: "Bless it! My Gracious God!" I cried, "Preserve Thy mortal shrine, For Thine own sake, be Thou its guide, And keep it still divine-- "Say, sin shall never blanch that cheek, Nor suffering change that brow. Speak, in Thy mercy, Maker, speak, And seal it safe from woe." * * * * * The revellers in the city slept, My lady in her woodland bed; I watching o'er her slumber wept, As one who mourns the dead. Geraldine therefore is the Outcast Mother. In "The Two Children" the doom gathers round the child. Heavy hangs the raindrop From the burdened spray; Heavy broods the damp mist On uplands far away. Heavy looms the dull sky, Heavy rolls the sea; And heavy throbs the young heart Beneath that lonely tree. Never has a blue streak Cleft the clouds since morn Never has his grim fate Smiled since he was born. Frowning on the infant, Shadowing childhood's joy. Guardian-angel knows not That melancholy boy. * * * * * Blossom--that the west wind Has never wooed to blow, Scentless are thy petals, Thy dew is cold as snow! Soul--where kindred kindness No early promise woke, Barren is thy beauty, As weed upon a rock. Wither--soul and blossom! You both were vainly given: Earth reserves no blessing For the unblest of Heaven. The doomed child of the outcast mother is the doomed man, and, by the doom, himself an outcast. The other child, the "Child of delight, with sun-bright hair", has vowed herself to be his guardian angel. Their drama is obscure; but you make out that it is the doomed child, and not Branwell Brontë, who is "The Wanderer from the Fold". How few, of all the hearts that loved, Are grieving for thee now; And why should mine to-night be moved With such a sense of woe? Too often thus, when left alone, Where none my thoughts can see, Comes back a word, a passing tone From thy strange history. * * * * * An anxious gazer from the shore-- I marked the whitening wave, And wept above thy fate the more Because--I could not save. It recks not now, when all is over; But yet my heart will be A mourner still, though friend and lover Have both forgotten thee.