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A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep
Anne Brontë
librivox; audiobooks;philosophy; despair
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- 01 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by AFT
A prisoner in a dungeon deep by Anne Bronte Read for Librivox.org by Adam Thompson A prisoner in a dungeon deep sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast? For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past?
No, he has lived so long enthralled, alone in dungeon gloom, That he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to wrack his burning brow. Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there.
That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not for ever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, it was not madness quite, It was a fitful flickering fire, a strange uncertain light.
And sooth to say these latter years strange fancies now and then Had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair. Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes, so feverish dreams display.
What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But Hark! what sounds have struck his ear? Voices of men, they seem, and two have entered now his cell. Can this, too, be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty!
Your foes are dead and we are come at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two, and in the captive's eyes He looked for gleaming ecstasy, but only found surprise. My foes are dead, it must be then that all mankind are gone, For they were all my deadly foes, and friends I had not won.
- 02 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by ALP
A prisoner in a dungeon deep Sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, His elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, Or are they backward cast? For freedom is he pining now, Or mourning for the past. No, he has lived so long enthralled alone in dungeon gloom,
That he has lost regret and hope, Has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, Nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length To wrack his burning brow. Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, He sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim The stupor of despair.
Yet not for ever did that mood Of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye That told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, It was not madness quite, It was a fitful flickering fire, A strange uncertain light. And sooth to say, these latter years, Strange fancies, now and then,
Had filled his cell with scenes of life And forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, Why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain And madness to despair. Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes As feverish dreams display, What if those fancies still increase And reason quite decay?
But hark! what sounds have struck his ear, Voices of men, they seem, And two have entered now his cell. Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, Revenge and liberty! Your foes are dead, And we are come at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two, And in the captive's eyes he looked
for gleaming ecstasy, But only found surprise. My foes are dead, It must be then that all mankind are gone, For they were all my deadly foes, And friends I had not won.
- 03 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by APS
A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep by Anne Bronte. Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens. A prisoner in a dungeon deep sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past? No, he has lived so long enthralled, alone in dungeon gloom, that he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to rack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not forever did that mood of sullum calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, it was not madness quite.
It was a fitful flickering fire, a strange uncertain light. It can soothe to say these latter years, strange fancies now and then, had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes, as feverish dreams display. But if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay. But Hark! what sounds have struck his ear, voices of men they seem. And two have entered now his cell. Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty.
Your foes are dead and we are come at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two and in the captive's eyes he looked for gleaming ecstasy. But only found surprise. My foes are dead, it must be then that all mankind are gone. For they were all my deadly foes and friends I had not one.
End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
- 04 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by ARB
A prisoner in a dungeon deep by Anne Bronte. Read for LibriVox.org by Agnes Robert-Behr. A prisoner in a dungeon deep, sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times? Or are they backwards cast? For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past? No, he has lived so long enthralled, alone in dungeon gloom, that he has lost regret and hope, he has ceased more in his doom.
He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to wrack his burning brow. Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not forever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone. It was not madness quite. It was a fitful,
flickering fire, a strange, uncertain light. And sooth the say these latter years, strange fancies now and then, had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there? Tupor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair. Such wilding scenes, such flitting shapes, as feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase, and reason quite decay?
But hark what sound have struck his ear, voices of men they seem, and to have entered now his cell. Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news. Revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead, and we are come. At last, to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two, and in the captive's eyes, he looked for gleaming ecstasy, but only found surprise. My foes are dead. It must be them that all mankind are gone, for they were all my deadly foes, and friends I had not won.
- 05 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by AS48
A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep by Anne Bronte Read for LibraryFox.org by AmazingSpace48 A prisoner in a dungeon deep sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Send he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward casts?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past? No, he has lived so long enthralled alone in dungeon gloom, that he has lost regret and hope has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to wrack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there, that posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not for ever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone.
It was not madness quite. It was a fitful flickering fire, a strange uncertain light. And soothed to see these latter years, strange fancies now and then, had filled his cell of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there?
Torpor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair. Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes, as feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But hark! what sounds have struck his ear! Voices of men they seem!
And two have entered now his cell. Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news! Revenge and liberty! Your foes are dead, and we are come at last to set you free.
So spoke the elder of the two, and in the captive's eyes, he looked for gleaming ecstasy, but only found surprise. My foes are dead. It must be then that all mankind are gone. For there were all my deadly foes, and friends I had not won.
End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
- 06 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by BK
A prisoner in a dungeon deep, by Anne Bronte. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuck. A prisoner in a dungeon deep, sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past. No he has lived so long enthralled, alone in dungeon gloom. That he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length, to rack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wondering thoughts, he sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not forever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye, that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, it was not madness quite.
It was a fitful flickering fire, a strange uncertain light. And sooth to say these latter years strange fancies now and then. Had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there? Fear may bring relief to pain and madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes, as feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But hark what sounds have struck his ear. Voices of men they seem. And too have entered now his cell.
Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead and we are come at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two and in the captive's eyes. He looked for gleaming ecstasy but only found surprise.
My foes are dead. It must be then that all mankind are gone. For they were all my deadly foes and friends I had not won.
- 07 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by CLP
A prisoner in a dungeon deep by Anne Bronte. Read for LibriVox.org by Chris Pyle. A prisoner in a dungeon deep sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past. Know he has lived so long enthralled alone in dungeon gloom, that he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to wrack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wondering thoughts he sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not for ever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone.
It was not madness quite. It was fitful flickering fire. A strange, uncertain light. And soothed to say these latter years strange fancies now and then, had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men.
A mind that cannot cease to think why needs he cherish there. Torpor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair. Such wildering scenes, such fitting shapes as feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But hark what sounds have struck his ear.
Voices of men, they seem. And two have entered now his cell. Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead and we are come at last to set you free.
So spoke the elder of the two. And in the captor's eyes he looked for gleaming ecstasy, but only found surprise. My foes are dead. It must be then that all mankind are gone. For they were all my deadly foes and friends I had not one.
- 08 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by DAM
A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep by Anne Bronte. Read for LibriVox by Daria A. M. A prisoner in a dungeon deep, sat musing silently, his head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past. No, he has lived so long enthralled, alone in dungeon gloom, that he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to wrack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not forever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, it was not madness quite, it was a fitful flickering
fire, a strange uncertain light. And soothed to say these latter years, strange fancies now and then, had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think why needs he cherish there. Torpor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such floating shapes, as feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? What hark, what sounds have struck his ear, voices of men they seem, and two have entered now his cell. Can this to be a dream?
Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty, your foes are dead and we are come at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two and in the captive's eyes he looked for gleaming ecstasy but only found surprise. My foes are dead, it must be then that all mankind are gone, for they were all my deadly
foes and friends I had not one.
- 09 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by DL
A prisoner in a dungeon deep, by Anne Bronte. A prisoner in a dungeon deep, sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast? For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past?
No, he has lived so long enthralled alone in dungeon gloom, that he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to wrack his burning brow. Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there.
That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not for ever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone. It was not madness quite.
It was a fitful, flickering fire, a strange, uncertain light. And sooth to say, these latter years, strange fancies now and then had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think why needs he cherished there. Topor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes, as feverish dreams display. What of those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But Hark! what sounds have struck his ear? Voices of men, they seem. And to have entered now his cell.
Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead, and we are come at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two, and in the captive's eyes he looked for gleaming ecstasy. But only found surprise.
My foes are dead. It must be, then, that all mankind are gone. For they were all my deadly foes, and friends I had not won.
- 10 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by EC
A prisoner in a dungeon deep Sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, His elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, Or are they backward cast? For freedom is he pining now, Or mourning for the past? No, he has lived so long enthralled, Alone in dungeon gloom,
That he has lost regret and hope, Has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, Nor sighs for freedom now, Such weary thoughts have ceased at length To rack his burning brow. Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, He sits on moving there. That posture and that look proclaim The stupor of despair.
Yet not forever did that mood Of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye That told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, It was not madness quite. It was a fitful flickering fire, A strange, uncertain light. And soothed to say these latter years, Strange fancies now and then,
Had filled his cell with scenes of life And forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think Why needs he cherish there. Torpor may bring relief to pain And madness to despair. Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes, As feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase And reason quite decay?
But hark, what sounds have struck his ear, Voices of men they seem, And too have entered now his cell. Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, Revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead, and we are come, At last to set you free.
So spoke the elder of the two, And in the captive's eyes He looked for gleaming ecstasy, But only found surprise. My foes are dead. It must be then that all mankind are gone, For they were all my deadly foes, And friends I had not won.
End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
- 11 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by EL0
A prisoner in a dungeon deep, by Anne Brontë Read for LibriVox.org, by Newgate Novelist A prisoner in a dungeon deep, sat musing silently His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past? No, he has lived so long enthralled alone in dungeon gloom That he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to rack his burning brow
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair Yet not forever did that mood of sullen calm prevail There was a something in his eye that told another tale It did not speak of reason gone, it was not madness quite
It was a fitful flickering fire, a strange uncertain light And sooth to say, these latter years, strange fancies now and then Had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain, and madness to despair
Such wildering scenes, such fitting shapes as feverish dreams display What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But Hark! what sounds have struck his ear? Voices of men, they seem And too have entered now his cell, can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty
Your foes are dead and we are come at last to set you free So spoke the elder of the two, and in the captive's eyes he looked for gleaming ecstasy But only found surprise, my foes are dead It must be then that all mankind are gone, for they were all my deadly foes And friends I had not won
- 12 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by GLN
A prisoner in a dungeon deep Sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, His elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, Or are they backward cast? For freedom is he pining now, Or mourning for the past. No, he has lived so long enthralled alone in dungeon bloom,
That he has lost regret and hope, Has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, Nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length To rack his burning brow. Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, He sits unmoving there. That posture and that look Proclaim the stupor of despair.
Yet not for ever did that mood Of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye That told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, It was not madness quite. It was a fitful flickering fire, A strange uncertain light. And sooth to say, these latter years Strange fancies now and then
Had filled his cell with scenes of life And forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think Why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain And madness to despair. Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes As feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase And reason quite decay?
But Hark! what sounds have struck his ear? Voices of men, they seem, And two have entered now his cell. Can this, too, be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, Revenge and liberty! Your foes are dead, And we are come at last to set you free.
So spoke the elder of the two, And in the captive's eyes he looked for gleaming ecstasy, But only found surprise. My foes are dead! It must be, then, that all mankind are gone, For they were all my deadly foes, And friends I had not won.
End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
- 13 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by IKL
A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep by Anne Bronte Read for Leibrocks.org by Inkel A prisoner in a dungeon deep, sat musing silently, His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for his past? No, he's lived so long enthralled, alone in dungeon gloom, That he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to wrack his burning growl.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there, That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not for ever did that mood of sullen calm prevail, There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, it was not madness quite,
There was a fitful flickering fire, a strange uncertain light. And soothed to say, these latter years, strange fancies now and then, Had failed to sell scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there? So poor may bring relief to pain, and madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes, as feverish dreams display, What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But Hark! what sounds have struck his ear, voices of men they seem, And two have entered now his cell, can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty,
Your foes are dead and we are come, at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two, and in the captive's eyes, He looked for gleaming ecstasy, but only found surprise. My foes are dead, it must be then, that all mankind are gone, For they were all my deadly foes, and friends I had not won.
End of poem, this recording is in the public domain.
- 14 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by JBW
A prisoner in a dungeon deep by Anne Bronte read for LibriVox.org by Jennifer Beckett Wood. A prisoner in a dungeon deep sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times or are they backward cast? For freedom is he pining now or mourning for the past? No, he has lived so long enthralled alone in dungeon gloom that he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to wrack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not for ever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, it was not madness quite. It was a fitful flickering fire, a strange uncertain light. And soothed to say these latter years strange fancies now and then had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes as feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But Hark! What sounds have struck his ear? Voices of men they seem, and two have entered now his cell. Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead and we are come at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two, and in the captive's eyes he looked for gleaming ecstasy, but only found surprise. My foes are dead. It must be then that all mankind are gone, for they were all my deadly foes, and friends I had not won.
- 15 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by LS
A prisoner in a dungeon deep, Set musing silently, His head was rested on his hand, His elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, Or are they backward cast? For freedom is he pining now, Or mourning for the past. No, he has lived so long enthralled, Alone in dungeon gloom,
That he has lost regret and hope, Has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, Nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length To rack his burning brow. Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, He sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim The stupor of despair.
Yet not forever did that mood Of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye That told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, It was not madness quite. It was a fitful flickering fire, A strange, uncertain light. And soothed to say these latter years, Strange fancies now and then,
Had filled his cell with scenes of life And forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, Why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain, And madness to despair. Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes, As feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase, And reason quite decay?
At Hark! what sounds have struck his ear, Voices of men, they seem, And two have entered now his cell. Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, Revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead, and we are come At last to set you free.
So spoke the elder of the two, And in the captive's eyes, He looked for gleaming ecstasy, But only found surprise. My foes are dead, it must be then That all mankind are gone, For they were all my deadly foes, And friends I had not won.
- 16 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by RR
A prisoner in a dungeon deep by Anne Bronte. Read for Librivox.org by Red Run. A prisoner in a dungeon deep sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past? Though he has lived so long enthralled alone in dungeon gloom, that he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to wrack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not forever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, it was not madness quite.
It was a fitful flickering fire, a strange uncertain light. And sooth to say these latter years, strange fancies now and then, has filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes as feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But Hark, what sounds have struck his ear? Voices of men, they seem. And two have entered now his cell.
Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead and we are come at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two. And in the captive's eyes, he looked for gleaming ecstasy,
but only found surprise. My foes are dead. It must be then that all mankind are gone. For they were all my deadly foes and friends I had not won. End of poem.
This recording is in the public domain.
- 17 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by SWS
A prisoner in a dungeon deep by Anne Bronte. Read for Librivox.org by Scotty Smith. A prisoner in a dungeon deep sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past. Now he has lived so long enthralled, alone in a dungeon gloom, that he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to rack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not forever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. He did not speak of reason gone.
It was not madness quite. It was a fitful flickering fire, a strange, uncertain light. And sooth the say, these latter years, strange fancies now and then, had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there?
Torpor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair. Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes as feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But Hark! what sounds have struck his ear? Voices of men, they seem, and two have entered now his cell.
Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news. Revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead, and we are come at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two, and in the captive's eyes he looked for gleaming ecstasy,
but only found surprise. My foes are dead. It must be then that all mankind are gone. They were all my deadly foes, and friends I had not won. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
- 18 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by WA
A prisoner in a dungeon deep by Anne Bronte. Read for LibriVox.org by Will Anthony. A prisoner in a dungeon deep sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past. Know he has lived so long enthralled, alone in dungeon gloom, that he has lost regret and hope has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to rack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there, that posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet forever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, it was not madness quite.
It was a fitful flickering fire, a strange uncertain light. And soothed to say these latter years, strange fancies now and then, had filled his cell with scenes of life, and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain, and madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes, as feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase, and reason quite decay? But hark, what sounds have struck his ear, voices of men they seem, and two have entered now his cell. Can this too be a dream?
Orlando hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead and we are come, at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two, and in the captive's eye, he looked for gleaming ecstasy, but only found surprise. My foes are dead, it must be then, that all mankind are gone, for they were all my deadly
foes, and friends I had not won. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
- 19 - A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep - read by WJA
A prisoner in a dungeon deep by Anne Bronte. Read for LibriVox.org by Winifred Asman. A prisoner in a dungeon deep sat musing silently. His head was rested on his hand, his elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times, or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now, or mourning for the past? No, he has lived so long and thrall'd, alone in dungeon gloom, that he has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day, nor sighs for freedom now. Such weary thoughts have ceased at length to rack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts, he sits unmoving there. That posture and that look proclaim the stupor of despair. Yet not forever did that mood of sullen calm prevail. There was a something in his eye that told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, it was not madness quite.
It was a fitful, flickering fire, a strange, uncertain light. And sooth to say, these latter years, strange fancies now and then, had filled his cell with scenes of life and forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think, why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain and madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes, as feverish dreams display. What if those fancies still increase and reason quite decay? But hark, what sounds have struck his ear. Voices of men, they seem. And two have entered now his cell.
Can this too be a dream? Orlando, hear our joyful news, revenge and liberty. Your foes are dead, and we are come at last to set you free. So spoke the elder of the two, and in the captive's eyes he looked for gleaming ecstasy, but only found surprise.
My foes are dead, it must be then that all mankind are gone. For they were all my deadly foes, and friends I had not won. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
