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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
At last the sunshine left the ground,
The laden bee flew home,
The deep-down sea with sudden sound
Impelled its waves to foam.
The corse grew heavy on his arm,
The starry heaven grew dim,
The summer night so mild and warm
Felt wintry chill to him.
A troubled shadow o'er his eye
Came down, and rested there;
The moors and sky went swimming by,
Confused and strange and drear.
He faintly prayed, 'O Death, delay
Thy last fell dart to throw,
Till I can hear my sovereign say
The traitors' heads are low!
'God! guard her life, since not to me
That dearest boon was given;
God! bless her sun with victory,
Or bless not me with heaven!'
Then came the cry of agony,
The pang of parting pain;
And he had overpassed the sea,
That none can pass again.
