The Twelve Days Of Bronte Christmas: Two

Readers of yesterday’s blog post will know that in the twelve days leading up to Christmas I will be posting not only every Sunday but every single day! I will be using the famous ‘Twelve Days Of Christmas’ song as my guide, and giving each day a Brontë twist.

Did the Brontës sing the song? Quite possibly, in fact quite probably I would say as we know that Emily Brontë loved to play the piano whilst Anne Brontë sang quietly but sweetly (as Ellen Nussey described) along. What could be more natural than these two deeply devoted sisters singing about pipers, gold rings, partridges et al during the Advent and Christmas seasons? The song itself is certainly an ancient one, but it was first set down in print in 1780 in a book called Mirth Without Mischief. The version that we all know today was published in 1909 by Frederic Austin.

I will have to use a little artistic license on some of the days. Yesterday we substituted a merlin in a bare tree, courtesy of Emily Brontë’s superb drawing of her hawk Nero, for a partridge in a pear tree. Today we should have two turtle doves, but instead I give you Anne Brontë’s poem ‘The Captive Dove.’
Read this through twice and then we have: ‘On the second day of Christmas the Brontës gave to me, two captive doves, and a merlin in a bare tree.’

“Poor restless dove, I pity thee;
And when I hear thy plaintive moan,
I mourn for thy captivity,
And in thy woes forget mine own.
To see thee stand prepared to fly,
And flap those useless wings of thine,
And gaze into the distant sky,
Would melt a harder heart than mine.
In vain – in vain! Thou canst not rise
Thy prison roof confines thee there;
Its slender wires delude thine eyes,
And quench thy longings with despair.
Oh, thou wert made to wander free
In sunny mead and shady grove,
And far beyond the rolling sea,
In distant climes, at will to rove!
Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate
Thy little drooping heart to cheer,
And share with thee thy captive state,
Thou couldst be happy even there.
Yes, even there, if, listening by,
One faithful dear companion stood,
While gazing on her full bright eye,
Thou might’st forget thy native wood.
But thou, poor solitary dove,
Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan;
The heart that Nature formed to love
Must pine, neglected, and alone.”

I hope these festive micro-blogs captivate you in a good way, and I hope to see you tomorrow for day three in our Brontë Christmas countdown.