by: Emily Brontë (1818-1848)
POEMS BY EMILY BRONTË
evening passes fast away.
'Tis almost time to rest;
What thoughts has left the vanished day,
What feelings in thy breast?
- "The vanished day? It leaves a sense
Of labour hardly done;
Of little gained with vast expense--
A sense of grief alone?
- "Time stands before the door of Death,
And Conscience, with exhaustless breath,
Pours black reproach on me:
- "And though I've said that Conscience lies
And Time should Fate condemn;
Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes,
And makes me yield to them!
- "Then art thou glad to seek repose?
Art glad to leave the sea,
And anchor all thy weary woes
In calm Eternity?
- "Nothing regrets to see thee go--
Not one voice sobs' farewell;'
And where thy heart has suffered so,
Canst thou desire to dwell?"
- "Alas! the countless links are strong
That bind us to our clay;
The loving spirit lingers long,
And would not pass away!
- "And rest is sweet, when laurelled fame
Will crown the soldier's crest;
But a brave heart, with a tarnished name,
Would rather fight than rest.
- "Well, thou hast fought for many a year,
Hast fought thy whole life through,
Hast humbled Falsehood, trampled Fear;
What is there left to do?
- "'Tis true, this arm has hotly striven,
Has dared what few would dare;
Much have I done, and freely given,
But little learnt to bear!
- "Look on the grave where thou must sleep
Thy last, and strongest foe;
It is endurance not to weep,
If that repose seem woe.
- "The long war closing in defeat--
Defeat serenely borne,--
Thy midnight rest may still be sweet,
And break in glorious morn!"