Introduction to the complete poems of Anne Bronte. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Introduction by Charlotte Bronte In looking over my sister Anne's papers, I find mournful evidence that religious feeling had been for her, but too much like what it was to Kauper. I mean, of course, in a far milder form. Without rendering her a prey to those horrors that defy concealment, it subdued her mood and bearing to a perpetual pensive -ness. The pillar of a cloud glided constantly before her eyes. She ever waited at the foot of a secret sineye, listening in her heart to the voice of a trumpet, sounding long and waxing louder. Some, perhaps, would rejoice over these tokens of sincere, though sorrowing, piety in a deceased relative. I own, to me, they seem sad, as if her whole innocent life had been passed under the martyrdom of an unconfessed physical pain. Their effect, indeed, would be too distressing were it not combated by the certain knowledge that in her last moments this tyranny of a too tender conscience was overcome. This pomp of terrors broke up, and, passing away, left her dying hour unclouded. Her belief in God did not then bring to her dread, as of a stern judge, but hope as in a Creator and Saviour. And no faltering hope was it, but a sure and steadfast conviction, on which, in the rude passage from time to eternity, she threw the weight of her human weakness, and by which she was enabled to bear what was to be borne, patiently, serenely, victoriously. End of Introduction Read by Alan Mapstone The Captain's Dream by Anne Bronte Read for LibriVox .org by Alan Mapstone Me thought I saw him, but I knew him not. He was so changed from what he used to be. There was no redness in his woe -worn cheeks, no sunny smile upon his ashy lips. His hollow wandering eyes look wild and fierce, and grief was printed on his marble brow. And, oh, I thought he clasped his wasted hands, and raised his haggard eyes to heaven, and prayed that he might die. I had no power to speak. I thought I was allowed to see him thus, and yet I might not speak one single word. I might not even tell him that I lived, and that it might be possible, if search were made, to find out where I was, and set me free. Oh, how I long to clasp him to my heart, or but to hold his trembling hand in mine, and speak one word of comfort to his mind. I struggled wildly, but it was in vain. I could not rise from my dark dungeon floor, and the dear name I vainly strove to speak died in a voiceless whisper on my tongue. Then I awoke, and lo, it was a dream. A dream? Alas, it was reality. For, well, I know, wherever he may be, he mourns