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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
325
LXVII
Shed no tears o'er that tomb,
For there are angels weeping;
Mourn not him whose doom
Heaven itself is mourning.
Look how in sable gloom
The clouds are earthward yearning;
And earth receives them home,
Even darker clouds returning.
Is it when good men die
That sorrow wakes above?
Grieve Saints when other spirits fly
To swell their choir of love?
Ah! no: with louder sound
The golden harp strings quiver
When good men gain the happy ground
Where they must dwell for ever.
But he who slumbers there
His bark will strive no more
Across the waters of despair
To reach that glorious shore.
The time of grace is past,
And mercy, scorned and tried,
Forsakes to utter wrath at last
The soul so steeled by pride.
