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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
143
Who bore the brunt of battle's fray,
The first to fight, the last to fall,
Whose mighty minds with kindred lay,
Still led the van in glory's way
The idol chiefs of all.
They, they are gone! Not for a while,
As golden suns at night decline,
And e'en in death our grief beguile,
Foretelling with a rose-red smile
How bright the morn will shine.
No; these dark towers are lone and lorn;
This very crowd is vacancy;
And we must watch and wait and mourn
And half look out for their return;
And think their forms we see.
And fancy music in our ear,
Such as their lips could only pour,
And think we feel their presence near,
And start to find they are not here;
And never shall be more!
June 14, 1839.
